"Hey." Cara tilts her head and slides into my line of sight. "You okay?"
I shake my mind clear of Piper and Justin, Bear, Gavin Lawless and Asil Marik long enough to say, "I've got things in my head, Cara."
She studies me for a long moment, hands stiff by her sides and then antsy and loose before she crosses them against her chest. "Want to talk about the things?"
"Nah. All I need is some time to figure it out."
"Figure what out?"
I sigh and take her by the shoulder, drawing her in for a hug. Seems like she can use it or maybe I just can't take the way she's looking at me. "The universe. Photosynthesis. Fortune cookies."
"Why fortune cookies?"
"Exactly. There are so many unanswered questions." We got Chinese twice a week in high school when Mom worked evenings at a shop in town. That led to a lot of rice and too much time to taunt each other with kismet from a vanilla-laced cardboard cracker.
She pushes away from my chest and then pats it, her eyes narrowing in on the scar slicing down my neck, and back up to take in my gaze. "And these questions are easier to decipher here, with Piper?"
I grab my mouth and then tug, as if I can pull out the truth at the same time, but it eludes even me. "I don't know. I honestly don't know, Cara. Maybe. I just think I'm supposed to be here."
Nodding faster than necessary, she says, "Okay. I get it. I think I do. And you know I really like Piper, and I really like you, so maybe this is good. Right?"
I drape my arm around her shoulder, drawing her toward the door. "The fortune you seek is in another cookie."
Cara hooks out an elbow into my kidney, but laughs and comes up with her own proverb. "Make love, not bugs."
"Marriage lets you annoy one special person for the rest of your life."
"You made that up," she says as we enter the cottage. "Oh, how about this one: It's okay to look at your past and future. Just don't stare."
I close my eyes against the bright kitchen light. That's it. That's exactly what's happening. My past and future are on a collision course, and I have nowhere to look but at the impending explosion.
Dear Justin.
I'm afraid, smothered in fear called motherhood. It's easy to talk a big game when you have images on a sonogram screen and snapshots in black and white squiggly lines that are barely recognizable. But then the day happens. The birth day comes and shit gets real. I'm afraid I can't do this. How can I do this? How can I take care of this sleeping, needy, squirming baby when all I want to do is cry with him?
I'm afraid.
x Piper
CHAPTER SIX
Starting Over
Caden
THREE VEHICLES MOVE across Afghanistan. I'm in the third. Justin sits next to me. Number one is struck by an IED. My pulse skyrockets. Sulfur, diesel fuel, a plume of smoke.
A second explosion. Thirteen casualties. Thirteen soldiers. Restore breathing, stop the bleeding, pack the wound, treat for shock. One, two, three to thirteen. Chaos. Shots fired. Pop, pop, pop, back and forth. Where the fuck is the UH-60? Where the fuck is the UH-60? Where the fuck . . .
I gasp through a blast in my chest and my eyes pop open to find the cottage ceiling fading from white to yellow. Anger fuels my racing pulse. That's the third morning in a row the nightmare claimed my mind. Weak. With deep breaths my thoughts move from the mission to Lillyfalls and the rotten coil in the cushion digging into my kidney. Fucking couch.
Gus's head surfaces from the spot next to me. Just as my hand connects with his fur a dish clatters in the empty sink, dragging my gaze to Piper. Hair piled in a loose bun, she bops around the kitchen in short shorts and a tank, the swell of her full breasts overflowing the top because Justin Taylor Jr. is strapped in some fabric hammock like contraption against her tits. God damn my twitching dick and the permanent scent of vanilla I drag deep in my lungs.
I blame my reaction on restlessness, not Piper and her flushed cheeks or her smooth skin marred only by the half-moon bruises underneath her lids. Hell week is easier than a newborn baby, and you get about as much sleep. In five days, a SEAL trainee manages about four hours total to go along with running two hundred miles. Dealing with a kid is about the same level of stress. I'm not feeling the effects this go 'round so much as Piper. And she looks fuck hot while doing it. Christ. I grind the heels of my hands against my closed lids to wipe away her image burned in my retinas. Resignation sets in when it doesn't work.
"Need some help, sunshine?" Eyes as dark as night meet mine as a cloudy morning struggles to light the room.