Captured(60)

I’m still gasping for breath and sweating, but the attack has passed. “Yeah. I just need a second.”

She wipes at her face, rests her cheek on my knee. “You scared me, Derek.”

“Scared myself. It just…hit. No warning.”

“The photo triggered the panic attack?”

I deliberately stare down at her, anywhere other than the photograph. “Yeah.”

She reaches up for it, takes it off the wall. Holds it. Stares at it. Another tear. She wipes them away.

No. That’s hers. Her family. Her memory. I have no right to let my weakness force her take it down. I tug the photograph free from her hand, make myself look at it. I see her, see him. Remember him as he was, in the good times. Easy smile, bawdy jokes. Constantly talking about Reagan, how he can’t wait to get home and see her. I see him lying on his bunk, writing her a letter. I block the wave of flashbacks that threaten and hang up the photo where it belongs, nestled among the others.

“Derek, it’s fine. You don’t need to—”

“No. If you take it down, do it for you. Not me. This is your home. Your place. It’s…Tom’s place. His photo belongs here. You deserve better than to let me—my moments of weakness like that force you to…to change things.”

“Wait just a damn minute, Derek.” Her voice is strong now, and she takes my face in both hands, forcing me to look at her. “That wasn’t a moment of weakness. It was a panic attack. And, yeah, this is where Tom grew up. But—goddamn it. I didn’t want to think about this. Fuck, this is hard. Tom is dead, Derek. He’s gone. I miss him. You miss him. But…we lost him. That stupid f*cking war took him from us. And we just…we have to keep living without him. You lived and he didn’t, and don’t you dare feel guilty about that. There was nothing you could do. And…I don’t know how to even put this. He’s gone and I loved him, and I’ll always miss him. There will always be a part of me that belongs to him. But I’m glad you lived. I’m—I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you came and gave me the dog tags and the letter, and I’m glad you stayed. You’ve made my life better since you’ve been here, Derek. I’ve mourned him. I’ve grieved him. But until you arrived, I wasn’t healing. I wasn’t even trying to. I was stuck. I don’t know what’s happening. Here, between us, I mean. It scares me, I don’t mind admitting. But it is happening, and I can’t deny it. And—I want to know more. I want to see what it is. I don’t want to be lonely anymore. I don’t want to feel…trapped. Stuck. Lost in between what was and what is, maybe.”

What am I supposed to say to all that? “I’m not sure what to do about the guilt. Telling me not to feel it doesn’t make it go away. But…for the first time since the Raiders snatched me out of that village, I feel…alive. Like I’m someone. Like life can mean something to me. For my entire adult life, all I knew was combat. The Corps. And then I was the POW, and since then I haven’t known…I don’t know—who I am? What I am? Being here, working on your farm. Spending time with you…it’s given me something.” I duck my head, gather up the courage to speak the deepest truth I can muster into words. “It’s not the farm, really. It’s you. You’ve given me that. But even that comes with guilt. Because it still should be—should be him.”

“But it’s not, Derek. It’s not him. It’s you.” She’s crying openly.

I’m close to it myself.

“What the f*ck do you do to me, Reagan? My whole f*cking life, I’m a typical dude. Heavy shit happens, you feel it, but that’s it. You don’t cry. I don’t cry. But since I’ve known you, I’ve spent more time crying like a f*cking sissy than in the whole rest of my life.” I sniff and breathe and blink hard. It doesn’t work. “Shit.”

She scrambles to her feet, climbs onto my lap, and buries her face against my chest. She wraps her arms around my neck and clings so tight it hurts, but it’s comforting, having her close, having her crush me, feeling her weight on my lap and her tears staining my shirt. I don’t feel judged.

“You know what I think?” she murmurs into my cotton shirt. “I think it makes you stronger, that you’re able to cry. I think it makes you more of a man. Feelings are human, and you have them. You’re allowed them.”

“Even the guilt?”

“How are you not supposed to feel that?”

“It sucks, though.” Something wet trickles down my cheek, dripping into her hair.

She twists, looks up at me with her cheek on my heartbeat, and wipes her palm across my face. Does it again and again, and not once does she look at me as if she thinks less of me for crying like a damn girl. She just keeps wiping each droplet away, her own tears sliding down and mixing with mine.

I don’t know exactly what I’m crying about. Everything. Combat. Losing buddies. Losing Tom. Being a prisoner. Survivor’s guilt. Guilt that I’m glad I’m alive, even though Tom isn’t, and Abraham isn’t, and Okuzawa isn’t, and neither are Lewis or McConnell or Nielsen or Martinez or Silva or Blast or Allen.

And I’m crying, too, I think, because I’m relieved. I’ve been holding all this in, letting it out unwillingly, usually ripped out of me by Reagan and the things that pass between us.