What use do I have?
“Too general?” James leaned back against his chair, one leg crossed over the other. He appeared utterly normal, comfortable almost, as though willing to sit there all day.
“Non-specific requirements lead to non-specific responses.”
“Fair enough. You were upset when you arrived, and you appeared relieved when the guys left. Why?”
Well, that was specific.
I had several orgasms, and Zach ran away. I guess being turned on by Frankenstein’s Marine isn’t as appealing in fact as it is in theory. “I’m just tired.”
“Gunny, do us both a favor. If you don’t want to answer, say so. Lying doesn’t help.”
Anger surged up to pound against the back of her eyes. She recognized the completely irrational response, but the torrent seized her like a ragdoll and carried away her reason. “Don’t call me a liar. I may not understand what the fuck my brain is doing or why my brain is doing it to me, but I am tired. Really fucking tired.”
“Because lying in a hospital bed is work and so is rolling around in that wheelchair.”
Was he for real? “I was injured.”
“You were injured. But that was weeks ago. What’s your excuse now?”
Fury ballooned in her chest, pinching her heart and squeezing her lungs. “My brain isn’t working. You think I want to be stuck in that bed? You think I want to be in this wheelchair?”
She tried to shove her right leg out, but it only twitched and slid off the foot rest. Pain dug hard fingers into her thigh, the muscle twisting brutally. “I’d walk the fuck out the door right now if I could.”
“And that pisses you off.” The mild understatement didn’t deflate her frustration.
“Of course it pisses me off. I forget things. They repeat information to me over and over. For a week they taped sticky notes to the tray in my room so I remembered where I was. Why I was here…what happened.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because some fucker planted an IED in a university and tried to blow me up.”
“Tried or succeeded?” The mild tone continued to hammer at her.
“Succeeded or I’d still be in theatre.” I wouldn’t be broken. I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have had Zach’s hands on me or Logan’s dog tags around my neck. Pain spasmed in her chest.
“But he didn’t succeed.” The doc’s voice dragged her back to the room.
“What?”
“The guy who planted the IED wanted to kill you. Presumably he wanted to kill a lot of someones—maybe even the little girl you saved. But he didn’t succeed. You’re alive.”
She snorted. “What kind of a life am I going to have? I’m like the walking dead. Scratch that, rolling dead.”
“Marine, you’ve had eight surgeries. You had shrapnel that impacted your skull and cracked your cranium, impacting the brain beneath. You nearly died on the table, but you didn’t. A lot of people would still be in the hospital, but you’ve left the room behind. You’ve got a long road in front of you, but don’t forget just how far you’ve traveled already.” James’ expression mirrored his words, equal parts stern reprimand and gentle sympathy. “You want a checklist for your recovery, make one. Set your goals. You have an entire company here to help you make it happen.”
“I can’t ask them to do it. It’s not fair.”
“I’m sorry. You can’t ask who to do what?” He zeroed in on her outburst.
“I can’t ask Zach and Logan to wait or to wonder, or to even be there when and if I can ever choose. And if I choose, how do I do that? How do I stick one of them with a cripple? Wouldn’t it just be easier to walk—well, when I can—walk away?” Her head hurt. Where the hell had that come from? “Sorry, this isn’t about my personal lack of morals. We were talking about the IED.”
“Jasmine, we’re here to discuss you. Everything is relevant. What choice are you sweating about?”
The interesting phrase touched a chord of awareness. Sweat slicked her arms and soaked through her shirt. Despite the icy chill in the room, droplets of perspiration rolled down her face. Her hands trembled. Hell, she didn’t even do therapy right. “It’s not important.”
“I think it’s important. It sounds like it’s troubling as much as what happened in Afghanistan….”
“I don’t want to talk about it…not with you. Not with them. I have to focus on getting back on my feet. I have to be me again.” He needed to let it go, let her have some shred of her dignity.