The panic in her eyes escalates when we hear the front door open. “Dylan, please,” she cries.

I roll my eyes and start for her window. I lift the damn thing, then climb through it, wondering how it’s possible for a twenty-year-old to be constantly drunk but not allowed boys in her room.

She follows after me, sticking her head out when I land on my feet and start to walk away. “Dylan!” she whispers.

I stop and turn to her. “What?”

“Good luck tomorrow. I’ll be thinking of you.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m always thinking of you.”

Fifteen

Riley

I think I lose my ability to breathe on the third knock. It started the second I stepped foot out of my house and got worse with every step. I have no idea how I manage to keep it together long enough for someone to actually open the door, but as soon as it does, I instantly regret every single step that got me here. She’s stunning—blond hair, big brown eyes and legs for days. She’s wearing a blue flannel shirt—exactly like the ones Dylan wears—and not much else. If you take away the instant jealousy, I’m pretty sure I have no justified reason to hate her as much as I hate her at the moment. Then she smiles, and I hate her even more. But then she says, “Are you here for Dylan?” and when I nod, her smile gets wider. “I’m a friend of his brother’s. We’re just having breakfast,” she says, opening the door wider. Her smile begins to fade the longer I stand there, completely unsure of what to do next. I want to see him, but I want more to run back to my house, close the doors, drink the wine I hadn’t touched since last night and remember all the reasons I’d told him I couldn’t even though, clearly, I can. I just really, really didn’t want to.

“Are you coming in?” she asks.

I nod again, though my reluctance is clear. “Maybe I should—”

“He’ll be happy to see you, Riley,” she says, and my breath catches.

She opens the door wider and it’s enough for me to take a step forward, literally and metaphorically.

I mumble an apology for interrupting when I enter the kitchen—feeling the heat of three pairs of eyes on me. I look at everyone in the room, saving Dylan’s for last. His dad and his brother are almost identical in their features, minus a beard. Their eyes are brown, though. Dylan’s are blue. I’d remember the shade of blue even if I wasn’t looking at them right now.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, coming to stand.

I use my skirt to wipe the sweat off my palms. God, I wish I were drunk. Or at least buzzed. It would make this so much easier. But I made my choice, and for the first time since I can remember, I chose someone other than myself. “Your appointment—it’s this morning, right?”

He nods. “I thought you said you couldn’t—”

My shrug cuts him off.

“Why don’t you join us?” his dad says, finally breaking our stare.

“Do you want me to?” I ask, my eyes back on Dylan.

There is no second’s pause.

No moment’s hesitation.

Just his all-consuming smile. “We have bacon.”

Dylan

It doesn’t take long for us to finish our meals and drive to the VA hospital. She didn’t speak much at the table. In fact, she didn’t speak at all. Neither did I. Same goes for the car ride here.

I watched her though. I watched her eyes, clearer than I’d ever seen them, shifting constantly from one spot to another while her hands rested on her lap, her thumbs circling each other. I watched the rise and fall of her chest caused by her uneven breaths… and I watched her. Just her. And I tried to reason with myself as to why it made me so damn happy that she showed up at my door.

I guess, if you take away my pride, I really just wanted her. How ever she’d have me.

Now, we’re sitting in the waiting room at the hospital, her hands still on her lap and mine on top of my knees, stopping them from bouncing. Somewhere, there’s a clock ticking, soft footsteps as they move from one area to another, and gentle voices filtering from down the hall where the examination rooms are.

The guy sitting across us clears his throat and I look up at him. He’s looking at Riley. Maybe this should piss me off—but the fact he’s missing an arm kind of deflates my annoyance. His gaze moves from her to me and he nods once as if we share some kind of unspoken bond.

We don’t.

I feel like an imposter.

He’s missing an arm. The older guy on my right has scars covering half his face and then there’s me. I’m young, I’m fit—and give it a couple months—I’ll be back to a hundred percent. I glance at Riley, searching for her reaction. Her gaze is lowered, focused on her moving thumbs. I nudge her with my elbow. “You okay?”

Before she has a chance to respond, the same doctor from my first visit calls my name. I stand up, taking Riley with me. She keeps her hand in mine, her grip tight as we walk down the narrow hallway toward his examination room. We walk in silence, the same silence that seems to have surrounded me all day. Silent on the outside, roaring thoughts on the inside.

A woman stands when we enter the room. She’s in her mid-forties, dressed in standard hospital gear. She introduces herself as Tracey, my physical therapist, all while clutching a folder to her chest with LCpl. Banks, D. printed on the front. I sit on the bed while Riley takes a seat against the wall next to the door. Her knees are bouncing now, just like mine wanted to out in the waiting room. She looks out of place and I’m sure she feels it.