“So you know how long it’s going to take to heal?” I ask Dr. Garvis—the doc assigned my case at the VA hospital. I could have easily opted to use someone in town and, honestly, I’d thought for a second about asking Dr. Matthews, Logan’s dad. But that would mean betraying Logan in a way. And betraying seemed a lot worse than just not telling him at all.

He looks up from his clipboard and taps the pen against it. “I’m going to be honest with you, Lance Corporal Banks. It’s different for everyone, but you’re doing everything you can. I know you want to get back, but doing more than you should and forcing it might make it worse. It’s still early. It’s been less than three weeks.”

“You can call me Dylan,” I tell him, rubbing my neck in frustration.

He runs his hand through his salt and pepper hair, then adjusts the glasses sitting on the edge of his nose. I kind of hoped for someone younger, maybe someone with a history of active duty so he’d understand me a little more. I’m not a hundred percent sure Doc hasn’t but if I had to put my money on it, I doubt he’d ever set foot in a warzone. “Are you okay, Dylan? I don’t just mean your shoulder. I mean mentally? Are you getting enough sleep?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, even though I hadn’t slept a wink the night before. I’ll give you two guesses why, even though you’d only need one. Her name rhymes with slimy and I’m pretty sure that’s the exact word she’d used to describe me.

Fuck, I need sleep.

He sighs at my response. “Dylan, I get it. Trust me. I see hundreds of guys just like you—frustrated that they’re here while their unit’s there but there’s nothing you can do. Take the time. Relax. Go spend it with your family, your friends, your girl. Whatever. Make it count, you know?”

Yeah.

He has no fucking clue.

*     *     *

I sit in my truck, banging my head against the steering wheel trying to calm down, but I’m angry. I’m frustrated. I’m everything I shouldn’t be and the fact that some doctor thinks his advice of “Relax and make it count” is somehow plausible in my situation or any other situation where a single gunshot keeps a man from doing his duty is bullshit. Sure, it was supposed to help me but it just made shit worse and now all I can think about is the comfortable fucked-up silence of Riley’s bedroom which I’m sure I’ll never get to experience again.

I decide it’s a bad idea to go there, where she’s more than likely drunk and angry and I’m whatever the hell I am. So, I dig deep, deeper than I want to. I pick up my phone and scroll through the few contacts I have and I send a text.

Dylan: You around?

I don’t bother waiting for a reply. I simply start my truck and begin the two-hour drive to UNC, my old college, and the place where I know I can find the only person I can stand to be around right now.

*     *     *

He shakes his head, his eyes as wide as his smile when he makes his way toward me. “Swear, I thought this was one of your fucked up Operation Mayhems.”

I push off my truck and glance behind him at Bryson Field. “No mayhem, Jake.” I look back at him and shrug. “I’m home.”

“It’s good to see you, man.”

He approaches and with each step closer, my anger and frustration begin to fade. “Likewise.”

He drops his gear and stops in front of me. “So are you back for good? What’s the deal? You were home a few months ago at Cam and Lucy’s wedding…”

Nodding slowly, I tear my gaze away from him. “Medical leave.”

“No shit?”

“Shit.”

“Bad?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how quickly a bullet through a shoulder heals.”

“Fuck.”

I throw my keys at him. “She missed you, man.”

His eyes light up. “Oh, Bessie.”

“Don’t call my truck Bessie,” I say over my shoulder, moving to the passenger seat.

He’s already seated when I get in the truck, his hands gliding across the dash. “Time hasn’t changed her. Your old man take care of her while you were gone?” He starts the engine, then rubs his hands together.

“About as much as you took care of him while I was gone.”

He shrugs. “I like your dad. It’s no big deal.”

It is a big deal. It’s a big deal to me and to my dad, but that’s just Jake. Senior year of college and the MLB chasing him and he hasn’t let any of that change him. He’s still the guy I met in high school with the weird accent who took in a kid who wasn’t really going out of his way to make friends. Up until Heidi came along, he was pretty much the only friend I had.

His phone sounds and he shifts to the side to pull it from his pocket. “It’s Kayla. We were supposed to be going to look at new bedspreads or some shit. I’ll just cancel.”

“Oh, man. It’s cool. You don’t—”

“Dude,” he says, raising his phone between us, his thumbs sliding across the screen. “I can go out with Kayla whenever. Bessie though….”

I can’t help but laugh. “Quit calling her Bessie.”

He kisses the steering wheel, his smirk in place and his eyes on mine. “She likes Bessie.” His smile falls when he goes back to his phone. “Yo. You don’t want people knowing you’re back, right?”