“What? A brother can’t talk to his brother to see if he’s okay?”

With a sigh, I reply, “I’m fine, Eric.”

“Cut the shit, okay? None of us are fine. You, me, Dad—we’ve all been there, but you’re the only one who’s come back with a scar to remind us of it. If ‘fine’ is the story you want to spread for everyone else, then good for you. But don’t use it on us. We’re your goddamn family, Dylan.”

I turn away because if I look at him any longer I’ll probably punch him. “You’re right. It happened to me. Not you. And if I say I’m fine, I’m fucking fine. Leave it alone.” I walk to my truck and pop the hood, then spend the next few minutes ignoring his presence, pretending to fix something that isn’t broken. Which, I guess, is exactly what he’s doing… trying to fix me. I’m not broken. Or at least I wasn’t. Not until I decided to take advantage of the drunk and damaged girl next door.

“You want to know why I came home?”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”

My truck sways when he leans against it. “For Dad.”

My hands freeze mid-movement. “He asked you to come home?”

“No. You know Dad, he’d never ask. But think about it… the man lost his wife, raised two boys on his own. Then I go and enlist, deploy, and eight years later you do the same and he has no one. We’re all he has—just us and the constant thoughts of where we are and what we’re doing and if we’re even fucking alive.”

I drop my gaze, my grip loosening around the wrench in my hand.

He adds, “So if I ask you if you’re okay or if you want to talk about shit, I’m not doing it to set you off or because I feel like I need to. I’m doing it because I fucking love you. And I love Dad. And if me coming home and giving up on early retirement means Dad will at least have one of his family members alive and standing next to him until the day he dies then that’s what I’ll do.”

I release my anger with a shaky breath and blink. Once. Twice. Then over and over until the dryness returns. Then I swallow loudly, pushing down the lump in my throat.

“Dylan?” he asks, his voice softer, and I’d give just about anything to be in Riley’s room again. Away from everything… away from what he’s making me feel and making me think and making me remember.

“Look at me, Dylan.”

I inhale deeply and prepare myself. Then lift my head from under the hood.

He asks, “Are you okay?”

With my eyes on his, I slowly shake my head. “Not yet,” I tell him, my voice strained.

He nods in understanding. “But you will be?”

I raise my chin. “Yes.”

“You want to go back?”

I don’t hesitate. Not for a second. “Yes.”

He motions to my shoulder. “When’s your next checkup?”

“Tomorrow.”

“VA?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to go with you?”

“No, Eric. I’m good.”

He takes a step back, his features relaxing a little. “So,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Who’s the girl?”

I shift my gaze. “What girl?”

“You’re such a shitty liar.”

“Am not.”

“Okay Mr. I wasn’t playing basketball in the house, Grandma’s spirit broke her own urn!”

A chuckle bubbles out of me. “Shut up. Totally happened.”

“Sure.” He starts to leave, but stops just beside me. “Call your friend… the one who was over a lot when we first moved here.”

“Why?”

“To thank him for dropping by and visiting with Dad whenever he was in town.”

“He did?”

Eric shrugs. “People do that, you know? Join forces when they miss or worry about the same person. Makes it easier to deal with, I guess.”

Riley

I can’t tell if it’s the tears building or the water I’m drowning in causing the sharp ache pricking my eyes.

I welcome the pain—the burn in my lungs, my throat, my lips as I press them tight—holding my breath… keeping the bubbles from forming.

There’s pressure forcing its way into my eardrums…

…the water’s winning.

For now.

But in the end, my body will give in.

It always does.

It’s just a matter of time.

Tick. Tock.

My mouth fills with water first, then my throat, then my lungs. And finally my eyes as they snap open—my surroundings a blur. My fingers dig into my palms when my hands form fists. My legs kick. My body shakes. A single muffled sound escapes me.

One bubble. Two. Then many more.

I choke on a gasp when I quickly sit up, the water cascading down my naked body. It’s cold—the water, the air, it’s so cold.

And so damn perfect.

Bringing my knees to my chest, I breathe through my nose. A regular routine I use to keep my desperation for air almost silent. My gaze shifts to the floor of the bathroom where water’s spilled over the edge of the tub. At least it’s just water, I tell myself. The pain, physical and emotional, now all-consuming.

Because I don’t want to forget…

…and he’s making me forget you, Jeremy.

Nine

Dylan