Secret Lucidity(65)
Bracing his hands on the edge of the countertop, he looks over to me, and says, “I ran over an IED,” and then hangs his head. I get up, and as I’m walking over to him, he adds, “I was driving the Humvee. I hit the damn thing and everything blew the fuck up.”
The second I’m at his side, he grabs me, clinging his body to mine, and I hold on to him with all my strength, but it doesn’t compare to his. His muscles are bone crushing, and at this point, he doesn’t stop talking, explaining through words that splinter as they come out. “I had to use my hands to punch out the shattered windows. I did everything I could to get everyone out, but I couldn’t see anything through the smoke and dust. It was fucking chaos, and then everything went up in flames.”
When it becomes too much for him to bear, he lets go of me and walks back over to the couch while rubbing his palms over his eyes. Most likely an attempt to blur the visions from behind his lids. I know, because I find myself doing this often when the visions of my father become too painful.
I’m right behind him, following, and then take a seat on the coffee table, facing him as he sits on the sofa.
“They gave me a bronze star for saving four men, but it’s the fifth I’ll never forgive myself for. Those guys had to hold me back from going after him. He burned to death, and I can still hear his screams to this day. I’ll never be able to forget the horrific sounds of him dying.”
His muscles flex as he fights not to lose himself, but the misery tangled through him is evident. There’s no denying the severity of his agony, but I won’t force him to let it out either. I too know the fear of feeling too much. So I stay put and give him time to collect himself.
“Every year when the anniversary of his death comes around . . . I don’t know how to fucking deal with it. The responsibility I feel . . . for leaving his daughter without a dad, and his wife . . .” His composure falters, and then he takes my hand in his. “I’m sorry I shut you out—”
“It’s okay,” I respond with so much guilt as he pulls me in his arms and onto his lap. “I wasn’t mad; I was just worried. I didn’t know what to do.”
“This is exactly what I need you to do. This—right here,” he assures me. “I know I’m not perfect, but I’m also not used to having someone love me the way you do. My avoiding you wasn’t intentional.”
“Stop. You don’t have to apologize.”
His hands run up the length of my neck to my cheeks with an endearing look seeping through his bleary eyes. “God, I love you so much.”
And I love him too. Love him more than I could possibly explain. Love him so much that I often find myself biting my tongue and bleeding my cheeks in order to snuff out the urge to burst apart from loving him too much.
I fold my arms around his neck, press my lips to his tear-stained ones, and kiss him. I kiss him slowly and softly, licking the salts that makes him the man that he is, the man who has found a way to securely nestle himself right where he was always meant to be—tucked safely between my third and fourth rib.
WHEN “MERCY” COMES ON, I crank up the volume, pull myself up through the sunroof, and throw my arms into the air. The wind whips through my hair, swirling it in a nest of disarray as the bite of February frost licks my skin. I toss my head back into the obsidian night and smile. I smile so big it hurts, but I don’t care. With Forbidden Love in the driver’s seat, my soul consumes with delinquent passion as we speed across the state line.
“You’re fucking crazy,” My Everything shouts in elation from down below, and I laugh, because it’s the truth.
I am crazy.
Crazy in so many ways—so many beautiful, unexplainable ways.
His fingers crawl up my side until he’s able to grab on to the hem of my top. I give in when he tugs me down. Windblown and happy, I fall onto my bottom in a heap of breathlessness.
“It’s freezing out there,” he says, closing the sunroof, amused by the simple fact that I just don’t care.
I take the hair tie from around my wrist and wrap my locks in a messy bun on top of my head. David watches me from the corner of his eye with a smile so sexy I can’t help but return it right back to him.
“What is this song anyway?” he asks, turning the stereo down to a more tolerable level.
“It’s Duffy.”
“It’s you,” he quips, reaching over and playfully squeezing my knee, knowing how ticklish I am.
Shimmying my legs, I lose all composure to a fit of giggles until he relents. And when he does, I ride out the rest of the song, belting out the lyrics to him like it’s some sort of proclamation of my heart—maybe it is. I sing for his smile that is heartfelt and genuine, loving me for all that I am.
When the song fades out, I pick up my phone and click out of my playlist.
“How much longer?” I ask.
“About six more hours.”
David had told me about this cabin he once stayed in, tucked away in the little town of Ruidoso and the skiing on the slopes of Sierra Blanca.
“It’s nothing extravagant,” he said. “Just low-key and peaceful.”
“We should go.”
He suggested we wait until next winter for obvious reasons. But why wait?
We looked at the school calendar and saw there was a break for Presidents’ Day that lent itself to an extended weekend. With my mother living in her wasteland, David went ahead and booked a cabin for us. As soon as swim practice ended this afternoon, I dropped my car off in David’s garage, and we hit the road.