Wings Over Poppies (Over #2) (27 page)

I’m not sure how much longer I can take this fucking place, a lawless land where faces are hidden, intentions are muddled, and pain is the driving force. I care for my fellow soldiers, bandage their wounds, and wait for my turn. The anticipation is so great, it drowns me, steals my breath. The need to know just how and when they will come for me is overwhelming. That knowledge may be the only thing to bring me comfort at this juncture. That knowledge and the faint glimpses of you I see in my dreams when I straddle the line between sleep and lucidity. The sweet sound of your laughter before I’m ripped back into reality—every soldier’s hell.

When I can no longer stand the sight of this place, the stinging sand and searing sun, I close my eyes and daydream of you. I see you strolling the sidewalks of New York, a flower in your hair, paint under your fingernails, and your face turned up to the sun. You smile softly, open those piercing blue eyes, and speak to me in the faintest whisper.

“Tell me something, West. Tell me something I don’t know.”

So here it is, Alex. Here’s what you don’t know. Every day, I’m clawing my way back home, back to you, but I feel this fucking place stealing parts of me as I go. I don’t know what will be left in the end.

I can only hope that I bare the faintest resemblance to the boy you remember.

I can only pray that it’s enough.

I love you,

West

So many emotions swirl inside me. His words are profound, systematically tearing my heart into pieces at the injustice of it all. I wish I could transport back through time and be what he needs. I’ve always wanted that more than anything. I sent him email after email begging him to respond to me, but received nothing in return. Years later, after I had given up all hope of him answering me, I still write to him in my journal. Can’t he see how his actions have crippled me? His silence left me powerless. I’m so fucking angry with him, but I can’t ignore the undercurrent of forgiveness I feel as I read his words.

I see the sun setting through the window, alerting me how much time has passed. Hours have flown by, and I’m more than halfway through reading his letters. As I flip through the pages, I realize there are a couple of months missing between the next two letters. Prior to this letter, he wrote twice a week, if not more, since the day he left me. Why the sudden change? That’s when it comes to me. He didn’t write to me because he couldn’t. I clutch my chest at the thought of what he didn’t write for those months. Tears seep from my eyes at the horror he must have endured.

My West.

The letters start back up once West gets to Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, where he recovered from his injury. It pains me to know he was one state away, and still I heard nothing from him. I had already graduated from NYU and moved home by that time. I could have driven to see him. I could have cheered him on through his recovery. I could have…

But he didn’t allow it.

There’s only one letter left in my hand, and it’s dated three days ago. The words blur before my eyes. I’m too afraid to know how this ends. What if he’s decided for me, yet again?

What if this is goodbye?

Alex,

The doctors say I’m healing nicely. The physical therapists are impressed with my progress, and feel my transition to civilian life is going smoothly.

What a crock of shit.

Here’s the truth. I’m killing it in physical therapy because I focus on the physical in an effort to drown out the shit storm that runs on repeat in my fucking head.

I have very few memories of my asshole of a father, but one in particular keeps running through my mind. Anytime I hurt myself as a kid, some version of this conversation would take place.

“Dad, I fell off my bike and scraped my elbow. It really hurts.”

“How about I kick you in the knee? I’ll bet you’ll forget all about that elbow.”

I always knew he was an idiot, because no matter how hard I push my body, no matter how loud my muscles scream for mercy, none of it can shut down my thoughts. I can bench press 250 pounds with no problem, but take me by surprise and slam a door, and I’m paralyzed with fear. Literally, fucking paralyzed.

As far as therapy goes, I’m going through the motions. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what I’m supposed to say, so I’m more than happy to oblige. She nods her head, so pleased with how well adjusted I am. If she only knew…

She tells me to focus on the positive. When I toss back the covers in the morning, I no longer feel nauseous at the sight of my leg, or the lack thereof. How’s that for positive?

I think I just need to get out of this place. It’s a constant reminder of what I’ve lost when I need to be focused on where I go from here. Maybe the nightmares will lessen once I leave here. Maybe the things I’ve seen will stop playing in my head like an outtake reel if I could find some sense of normalcy in my life. Maybe I can push through this ever-present resentment and anger to find some semblance of myself; the West you knew from all those years ago.

Maybe.

The bitch of it is there are no guarantees. This may be my new normal, and while I’m doing my best to come to terms with that fact, I can’t see you right now. There’s no way I’ll survive the pity in your eyes. I left you when I was a messed up kid, and now I’ve returned a truly fucked up man. I refuse to be a burden to you.

Until I can beat back the dreams, panic attacks, and ever present anger, I have to keep my distance. As always, I’m sorry for breaking my promise to come back to you. It kills me, because all I do is apologize these days. I’m forever letting you down.

And you deserve so much more than apologies.

Always,

West

Why does he get to decide for me over and over again? It’s obvious he needs me, but he continues to deny us both, all for stubborn pride.

I grip the letter in my hand, resisting the urge to rip it to pieces. I’ve spent our entire relationship with my hands tied behind my back, and I don’t think I can take it anymore. Wanting to touch him, while he pushes me aside. Pleading to help him, while he turns away. Screaming for him to see me, to know I’m strong enough for the both of us, while he plugs his ears.

Emotionally exhausted, I shove the letters aside, draw my legs into my chest, and let much needed sleep overtake me.

“So what does it all mean, Celia?” I ask, nipping at her heels. She turns to answer me, and we collide, heads knocking and arms flailing.

I’ve been following Celia around New Horizons for half an hour now, briefing her on West’s data dump of letters and their abrupt ending. No phone call. No visit. No explanation. What the hell?

Celia erupts into laughter and grabs my shoulders to steady me. “Alex, calm down, girl. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to assault me.”

I let out a deep sigh and lower my head. “I’m sorry, I just need some of your expert therapist insight. Why would he send me those letters?”

“I hate to break it to you, but being a therapist doesn’t give me an all-access pass into West’s head. I’m not sure what’s motivating him. What do you think?”

I shake my head furiously and cross my arms. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not turning this around on me. I’m asking the questions.”

“But I don’t have the answers.” Celia shrugs. “I’m sorry, girl. How did the last letter leave things? Maybe that can tell you something.”

I think back to the last letter, the despair bleeding from the words he wrote. “He sounded so … lost. He said he’d stay away from me until things were better for him. Truthfully, it didn’t sound very promising. That’s what I mean, Celia. What’s the point of it all? He can’t see me? Fine! I’ve come to terms with that—I mean, it’s a work in progress, but I’m trying to get there. Why open old wounds, just to leave things so unfinished?”

Celia stops walking and faces me, sympathy in her eyes. “Maybe he needs you to know where he’s been, so you can appreciate the struggle ahead of him. Recovery, whatever the cause, is a struggle. It’s an uphill climb, filled with pitfalls and setbacks.”

“But what does that mean for the future? Honestly, I don’t know if I can forgive him. And frankly, I don’t know that he’s capable of a relationship with anyone.”

It stings to say those words out loud, but it’s the only truth he’s shown me. Can the man who has shut me down time and again open his heart and let me in? I have my doubts.

“What does it mean? That’s the million-dollar question. What do I see?” Celia asks with a raise of her eyebrows and a hopeful glint in her eyes. “Possibility. Can he open up to you? I don’t know. Can you forgive him? I’m not sure. But I’ll tell you one thing, Alex: I can’t wait to find out.”

“Coming!” I yell down the hallway as I throw on a sweatshirt and yoga pants. I’d just hopped out of the shower when I heard the knock on my front door. Most people come to the back door where the driveway leads them, so I wonder who it could be.

I draw back the shade and tense when I see Mr. Burt standing on my porch with a smile. Lately, his deliveries throw my emotions into a tailspin, so I’m a bit apprehensive.

I open the door and give him a cautious smile. “Hey Mr. Burt. How’s your afternoon going?”

“I can’t complain, and it wouldn’t do any good if I did anyway. I’m just taking it as it comes.” Mr. Burt gives me a friendly smile and holds up a substantial pile of mail. “With all the magazines, and then this here package, I couldn’t fit everything into your mailbox. You earned yourself a personal visit, my girl.”

I smile back and lay my hand on my chest. “Well, I’m very honored.”

He bows dramatically, placing one hand behind his back while the other reaches out to hand me the mail. I collect it from him and curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”

Always bustling about, Mr. Burt wastes no time saluting me and bounding down the sidewalk, mailbag slung over his shoulder. “Until we meet again, m’lady.”

“I look forward to it,” I call out as I flip through the envelopes. Bill. Bill. Bill. Junk mail. Magazines.

Package. Wrapped in brown packing paper. His handwriting.

Here we go again.

I carry everything inside and take a seat at the kitchen table, the box sitting directly in front of me. I eye it suspiciously, biting my nails, my nerves getting the best of me. After many moments pass, I wipe my sweaty hands on my pants and straighten my back, preparing myself for whatever will greet me inside that package.

I carefully peel off the tape, refusing to give into the urge tear the paper. As I peel away the wrapping, a Nike shoebox is uncovered. I remove the lid and peer inside, trying my best to keep my nerves in check. I reach inside and find an envelope with my name scrolled across the front and a small white box underneath it.

I slide one finger through the sealed envelope, and pull out the contents. There’s only one sheet of paper this time—no large stack of explanations. Whatever words he’s penned on this one page could determine the future of us, or if there even is an us. I blow out a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever is to come.

Dear Alex,

I read every single one of those letters before sending them to you. I needed to go back in time and relive some of those moments to share some things with you today.

I’m going to tell you what you don’t know, Alex.

I still feel your touch and hear the soft sound of your laughter, even after all these years. There was a time in Iraq when I lost that, and I think I resented you for it, feeling as if you’d left me. Your presence has always been like a balm to my soul, and when it was gone, it served as a reminder of how far I’d fallen into the darkness. Because make no mistake, Alex, you are my light.

Watching you walk out on me was devastating. I pushed you to it every day, but watching you give up eviscerated me. It was the punch to the gut I needed to truly start tackling my demons. I’ve been meeting with Caroline every day, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I see improvement. I feel hopeful.