Take Me All the Way (22 page)

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

It made Jeremy give his head a brisk, short shake to correct her. “Like I said before, don't feel bad for me. I don't deserve any sympathy. It was my fucking fault.”

Shit, he'd really just said that.

The air around them felt thicker than it had a moment before, seeming to stand still. No breeze, no palm fronds swaying overhead, no nothing.

His heart suddenly beat too hard, and his stomach sank like a stone.

And a veil of silence dropped over the garden—until she said ever-so-gently, “How? How could it have been your fault?”

When he didn't answer, his throat threatening to close up, she said, “I'm sure that's survivor's guilt speaking, Jeremy.”

The words made him dart his gaze from the fire to Tamra's face. “No, it's way worse than survivor's guilt. Don't worry, I have that, too—I lost more friends than just Chuck and there's no understanding why them and not me. But . . .” It was hard to keep talking around the thickness in his throat now, almost even hard to breathe. “What happened with Chuck was different.”

“Different how?” asked the woman in his lap.

Different how? Simple question. Fucking complicated answer.

Or . . . then . . . maybe it wasn't complicated at all. Maybe it was only complicated and muddled in his head. Maybe the real answer was way simpler than he wanted it to be.

And he knew he didn't have to reply. He knew she probably wouldn't push him if he shut her down, like before. But for some reason, more words—the honest, simple truth of the matter—went spilling from his lips. “I'm pretty sure I did it. I shot him.”

“When I lie by myself and remember, I begin to have pains everywhere and I think of things that make me begin to scream because I hate them so.”

Frances Hodgson Burnett,
The Secret Garden

H
ER GASP
was quick but audible. Followed by one word. “No.”

He'd looked away from her again, letting his eyes get lost in blue flames a few feet away. But now he peered back at her. Met her gaze head on. Even if it was harder this time. “Yeah,” he corrected her. Only then he began to tremble, just slightly. “I didn't mean to.”

“Of course not.” Horror filled her eyes now and he was sorry as hell he'd told her.

How the fuck had that even happened? Since when did he go spilling his guts to
anyone
, and spilling his worst, deepest, ugliest secret at that?

He felt like . . . a monster. Someone who hurts people.

Was that how she'd see him now?

“I'm not—it was just—” Shit. He stopped talking, tried to catch his breath.

Beneath the cover, she was touching his chest now, then running one hand up over his shoulder, neck, trying to soothe him. “It's okay, Jeremy—it's okay.”

But no amount of comfort could make this better. “It's not okay. It'll never be okay.”

“You—you didn't do it on purpose. And . . . you said ‘pretty sure.' What does that even mean? Why do you even think . . . ?” She trailed off and he knew she didn't want to push him any deeper into the memory, but at the same time she wanted to understand.

And hell—now that he'd dropped this shit on her,
he
wanted her to understand, too. As much as possible anyway. Although, even now, there really wasn't any understanding it. He gave his head a quick shake, trying to clear it, trying not to get too mired in the ugliness.

“There . . . there was gunfire all around us,” he told her. “My buddy Marco was with me, but we were separated from the rest of my guys.” His heart boomed so hard against his chest it hurt, but he tried to keep talking, tried to stay as calm as he could. “We took cover.”
Breathe in to four, breathe out.
“In an abandoned stone hut.”
Breathe in to four, breathe out.
“But we knew the bad guys were coming. Saw them headed our way before we ducked inside.”

Shadows. Images of them filled his head. Dark shadows moving through the dark night. Shadows with guns. Same as he'd been a shadow with a gun.

“Three, four, five Taliban came in bullets flying,” he said, “and we returned fire.”

War games. He'd always been so good at them. Praised. Promoted. Trusted.

He'd trusted
himself
, too.

He never fucked up. Never.

Until . . .

“And then a sixth man came in . . .” His chest went hollow. “And I thought he was one of them.” Stomach, too. “But when it was all over . . .” More thickness filled his throat. “Chuck lay there dead.”

He let out a sigh. “He'd been coming for us, coming for me and Marco. I don't even know where from—like I said, I'd lost the rest of my squadron. Somehow Chuck had been more plugged in on my locale than I was myself.”
Breathe in to four, breathe out.
Hell, was there irony in using breathing techniques learned in the military for combat situations to get him through talking about killing his best friend in one?

It had been a long time since Tamra had spoken—and when she did, damn, the sound of her sweet voice reminded him he was in a safer place now. No more Helmand. No more shadows. At least not the kind with guns.

“But you're not sure,” she said. “Not sure you did it.”

He swallowed past that damn lump in his throat—it was getting on his fucking nerves. Made him realize he hadn't felt that so much in a while. He used to feel it all the time. “Not a hundred percent, no,” he told her. “Too many bullets flying. But the way we were positioned . . .”
Breathe in, breathe out.
“It's unlikely the fire came from an enemy gun.”

“Don't they investigate stuff like that?”

Breathe in, breathe out.
“When they have reason to suspect friendly fire, sure—they investigate the hell out of it.”
Breathe
. “But not all friendly fire ever gets reported.”
Breathe
. “And it's not something the military likes hearing about—hell, nobody likes it. For obvious
reasons. But it happens.”
Breathe
. “Probably more than people want to believe.”
Breathe
. “In close combat, it's fucking hard to keep track of what's going on—I don't care what anybody says.”

“I can understand that,” she said. Her voice stayed sweet, calm. He'd never noticed that before, that sweet quality. He let himself focus on it—let it calm him, too.

Even as he let the rest out.

“And so, I'm pretty sure I killed my best friend. And I guess when you break it all down . . . that's why I have nightmares, that's why I hid at my brother-in-law's for so long, that's why I didn't give a shit about anything. Because . . . it was just hard to want to live after that. Hard to look in the goddamn mirror.” And it hit him for the first time.
Maybe that's why I quit taking care of myself. Easier to look in the mirror if I don't really see myself there.

He was done now, spent, ready to shut the hell up.

Maybe she sensed that because she lifted her hand to his face, cupped his jaw, gently kissed his lips. And it was perhaps the nicest kiss he'd ever received.

“I think,” she began gently, “that you should try to let this go.”

He flashed her a stunned look, but before he could say a word in protest, she pressed one art-roughened fingertip over his lips and went on. “Your heart is broken, I know. But you've done all you can.”

“I . . . I never . . . told anybody.” It came out sounding hoarse. “His wife. My commanding officers. The shrink I saw before discharge.”

“What good would that do? What good would it do
anyone
? It wouldn't, and you knew that. And you've tor
tured yourself enough. I'm sure your friend wouldn't want that. And I'm not suggesting that letting go of it is easy. And I'm not suggesting forgetting about it. I'm just saying you should . . . consider forgiving yourself. That's all.”

“But—”

She literally reached out and clamped his lips together between her fingers. “No
but
,” she said in that same gentle tone. “All I'm looking for here, all I'm wanting you to say is: ‘I'll try.'”

She pulled her hand away, and he instinctively began to say, “But I—”

This time her fingertips only pressed down on his mouth, effectively shutting him up again. “
I'll try
,” she said, enunciating very clearly, eyes wide on his. “That's all I want to hear, nothing else.”

“Or?” he challenged her.

She pressed her fingers back down over his mouth. “Or this. I can do this all night, you know. So you might as well just see things my way. Now—what do you have to say for yourself, Sheridan?”

She drew her fingertips away. Waited. Oddly, part of him wanted to laugh—it was funny, her physically shutting him up. And that made it easier. To think it over for a minute and to just give her what she wanted. “I'll try,” he said.

And he didn't think he meant it. Except when the words left him . . . well, sometimes it was hard to say something without feeling it. Especially given that he quit putting on acts a long time ago. So he was saying it only to appease her, but . . . at the same time, deep down inside, there was a tiny part of him that meant it.

And as they went quiet again, letting the crackle
and pops of the fire compete with the distant roar of the surf, Tamra snuggled more closely against him, resting her head on his shoulder. And it was nice. Nice to have . . . her forgiveness, even if he didn't have his own. Nice to let the crash of waves—rolling in, rolling out—soothe his soul.

Nice sound.
Worth coming to the beach alone just for that.
The slow rhythm of it was like . . . breathing. And that was when he realized his own had relaxed.
Everything
in him had relaxed.

He'd been wrong. About her comfort.

It worked.

A
LTHOUGH
he sometimes drove out to Route 19 to grab some fast food when the urge for something different struck, most nights Jeremy still got his dinner at the Hungry Fisherman or Gino's, and he'd also gotten in the habit of doing it while the Sunset Celebration took place. Because when people were at the beach, they weren't at the Hungry Fisherman or Gino's.

And since his talk with Tamra the other night, he'd connected with her most evenings
after
the Sunset Celebration, and he had plans with her tonight too, but was stopping into the Fisherman in the meantime.

After baring his soul to her, two things had happened.

He'd realized that maybe telling someone had actually been an okay thing to do. Giving it voice was hard—almost like . . . reliving it. But it had also shown him that maybe he
wasn't
a monster. He didn't want to be absolved—he still didn't think he
deserved
to be absolved—but it had shored up something inside him
to find out he could tell her something like that and not have it change how she saw him.

The other thing was that . . . well, he was a long way from forgiving himself, but . . . getting
her
forgiveness made him feel something new. That life was going to go on.
His
life. He'd put that on hold for a long time now. And even coming to Coral Cove had only been one tiny change, mainly driven by the desire not to burden his relatives. But something in that unexpected conversation had made him realize that if he was alive, existing, breathing, he needed to keep moving forward.

As he walked across the parking lot that led from the Happy Crab to the Hungry Fisherman, he found a certain cat underfoot. It was freaking uncanny sometimes how quick the cat appeared from nowhere the second Jeremy stepped outside. “Do you lie in wait for me or something?” he asked Captain as they crossed the asphalt.

“Meow,” Captain said.

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “I'll take that as a yes.” Then, nearly tripping over the damn cat as usual, he said, “Bud, couldn't you just hang back at the motel? The fish is coming. You know that. So be cool, huh?”

Of course, Captain didn't seem to take that to heart. A dog would. Even if a dog didn't exactly speak English, they still had a way of grasping what you wanted them to do and doing it—at least some of the time.
Which is why I'm a dog guy.

Fortunately, Jeremy got in the door of the restaurant without the cat getting in, too. He sat down in his usual booth and, fifteen minutes later, Polly had taken his order and brought him a fish sandwich, coleslaw, and fries.

He was halfway through the sandwich when Abner, wearing a Tampa Bay Buccaneers winter hat complete with a fuzzy ball on top, slid into the padded seat across from him. “How's your fish?” the older man asked.

“Good,” Jeremy said, a little taken aback as usual when Abner engaged with him.

Then Abner abruptly changed the subject. “You look serious tonight. Somethin' on your mind?”

Jeremy thought he probably looked serious
most
nights—but maybe the recent haircut revealed his expression more. And having the man offer to lend an ear caught him off guard just as much as everything else with Abner. So Jeremy said, “Guess I'm thinking about my future.”

“That's a mighty big subject, son.”

“Yep,” Jeremy agreed. “But the golf course will be done soon. I'm gonna need another job, and hopefully something not as temporary.”

Across from him, Abner nodded repeatedly, appearing to think this over. And finally he said, “Jobs are a dime a dozen. I could put you to work in the kitchen or you could get any of twenty different jobs if you headed out to all the retail on the highway. But seems to me it'd be a good time to start doin' somethin' you feel passionate about.”

“I've been thinking the same thing,” Jeremy confided.

“Then what do you feel passionate about?”

He'd been thinking that over, too, and kept coming back to one thing. “I like building.” He'd liked it more lately than he had anticipated. Maybe it was like . . . his own personal kind of art. Not the same thing as what
Tamra did, of course, but he'd discovered it felt good to create something that hadn't been there before.

“Well, that's handy, 'cause there's always construction goin' on up and down the coast.”

“Problem is,” Jeremy said, “I'm not skilled enough, haven't had much training. I know enough to put up a golf hut. And I can follow instructions and learn. But I probably couldn't handle a project much bigger than that on my own.”

Abner turned that over in his head for a minute before he said, “Seems to me like you need some sorta mentor, somebody to teach you those skills.”

Jeremy hadn't thought he'd want to be anybody's student at thirty-four, but damn, that suggestion sounded good. The idea lifted his heart unexpectedly.

Though he had no idea where a guy got such a mentor. And he was just about to say that when Abner read his mind. “Let me call up a friend of mine, a fella who owns a big construction outfit, see if he'd he willin' to hire you on, teach you some of what he knows.”

“You have a friend?” Jeremy asked without missing a beat.

And Abner laughed. “See why I like you? You aren't afraid to give me a hard time. Most people don't pay me much attention and I'm good with that. But . . . gotta admit I like you.”

“It may surprise you to hear this, Abner, but I've grown fond of you, too.”

When Abner stood to go a few minutes later, he said, “Have a nice evenin' and enjoy feedin' your cat the fish Polly slips you across the counter.”