Captured(39)

I sob, choke it down.

“He was taken from me,” I say again. “And I mourned him. For three years I grieved. I kept going, and I raised his son. Ran his family’s farm by myself. Did everything I was supposed to, and more.”

“Reagan—” he begins.

I talk right over him. “When do I get something for me? When do I get happiness? When do I get to be selfish? I’m angry, Derek. I’m angry at Tom for dying. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t felt angry at you, too, for living instead of him. But I can’t change what happened. You lived, and he died, and I’m left to pick up the pieces. And I’m lonely. I’m horny. I’m scared. I’m tired. I feel old and frumpy and ugly. I’m sweaty all the time. I haven’t put on makeup in months. I barely ever even shave my legs because there’s been no reason. There’s no one to see, no one to care. The only TV I watch are kids’ shows. And I’m usually too tired at night to even masturbate. Until you came along, I felt dried up. Empty. Alone.” I swallow hard, blink. I let go of his wrists and sink to my butt in the damp grass.

“And then you—you started making me feel like a woman again. And I—I like it. Even if it is a betrayal of Tom, and that just makes me feel worse. Because I just keep asking myself, ‘Why can’t I have something for myself, just this once?’ And you—you make me feel so good. You look at me like I’m beautiful, and I really like feeling beautiful again. I like it,” I whisper, struggling for control now myself, “and I don’t want to give it up.”

“You are beautiful, and you don’t have to give it up. You aren’t alone.” It’s his turn to take my hands in his, pull at them. Pulls me toward him, lifts, and I’m on his lap, cradled against his chest as dawn begins to touch the night sky with gray. “I like the way you make me feel, too. Like I’m a real man again. Like I’m more than just the soldier with scars and PTSD and a sackload of psychological damage. Like I’m more than just the f*cked-up ex-P-O-W. Like I’m someone who can do something right. Like I can make you feel good, like I have something to give. Like maybe I can overcome my issues and be normal someday. Like—shit. Like I could be someone somebody could—could care about.”

My heart breaks for him.

“Someone already does care, Derek.” I say it through sniffles.

As fraught and tense as things are between us, I find myself drowsing. His skin is warm, and his arms make me feel protected. I nod off, then jerk awake when I hear the screen door creak. Somehow, while I was sleeping, Derek carried me to the house.

“Derek?” I mumble.

“Sshh. Sleep.”

“Tommy—”

“I’ll take care of everything. I want you to rest.”

He carries me upstairs, nudges my door open. Sets me in my bed and covers me with the blankets. I feel his breath on my cheek, and I blink my eyes open, grab at him. “I care. I’m the someone.”

He smiles. “I know.”

“And you’re beautiful, too.”

I can’t stay awake anymore. I should. He doesn’t know anything about kids, and Tommy will need breakfast and the tractor is hard to start and….

Sleep claims me. I surrender.





CHAPTER 11





DEREK





I set her down and cover her with the blankets. Watch her fall into slumber. Watch her features relax. She curls her hand by her cheek, mouth slack, knees drawn up beneath the blanket. I should go. Leave the room. Leave Hempstead. Leave Texas. But I don’t. Instead, I take a seat on the floor in the doorway, one foot propped up against the opposite post, watching Reagan sleep.

I’m woken up by a finger tapping my shoulder. I start, jerk awake. Tommy. “Hey, buddy. What’s up?”

“Mama?”

I stand up. “Mama is sleeping, bud.”

He glances past me, at Reagan. God, I shouldn’t have followed his gaze. Her T-shirt is hiked up; she’s twisted in the bed with the blankets shoved down around her knees. I’m afforded a delicious glimpse of underboob, waist, the angular beauty of her hipbone. God, so f*cking beautiful. I turn away, back to Tommy.

“I hungry,” he says.

I nod. “You’re hungry, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Me, too. Let’s eat, then.” I head down the stairs, but he doesn’t follow, so I stop and look back at him. “You comin’?”

“Uppy.” He extends his arms.

I hesitate, then pick him up like last time. He clings to me with his legs, one arm on my shoulder. So weird, me holding a kid. I don’t know jack shit about kids or this little guy in particular. Nonetheless, I told Reagan I’d take care of it, so I will. I mean, it’s one three-year-old for a couple of hours. How hard can it be?

“So,” I ask him, “what do little snots like you eat for breakfast, huh? Cheerios?”

“Can-cakes.”

I just stare at him. “Can-cakes? What the hell does that mean?”

“Can-cakes. See-up.”

I take a guess. “Pancakes and syrup?”

He grins. “Can-cakes! See-up!”

I frown. “Dude, I ain’t made pancakes in fifteen years.” He seems to be catching my drift, because his face screws up like he’s gonna cry. I hold up my hands. “All right, all right. I’ll do my best. Hang on, give me a minute.”