The Hard Truth About Sunshine

  Without warning, preamble, or a head's-up, Jillian quietly slips her hand into mine. I'm completely shocked and nearly stumble. Because she's walking on my right, she has to take my deformed hand and I fucking hate it.

  Hate it because I don't want to gross her out, and hate it because half the remaining skin around the area where I lost my fingers is numb and I can't really feel her skin against mine.

  But mostly I'm embarrassed and ashamed, and I actually pull my hand back a little with the intention of moving around her so she can hold my left hand.

  I'm thwarted rewarded when Jillian's hand tightens around the half that's left of mine, and she murmurs one word. "Don't."

  Don't pull away.

  Don't be scared.

  Don't be ashamed.

  Just don't.

  I try to calm my stammering heart, try to push down all my self-conscious thoughts, and try like hell to just be in the moment. It's hard because I've not let myself be in a moment in a long time. I've kept myself so sheltered from the real world that human touch feels foreign to me.

  I'm not sure if I like it or not, but I don't pull my hand away.

  When we reach Keith's house, he says, "Come on inside. I'll introduce you to Cammie."

  We follow him in, and I wonder just how pissed Cammie is going to be at us. She's waiting for us in the living room as we enter, taking in the entire group with an eyebrow cocked high and her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Whereas Keith is built like a mountain, Cammie is the opposite. Small, petite, and delicate looking.

  "Caught them," Keith says as he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at us. "They're going to clean up the mess. After that, we're going to have a beer."

  Cammie's eyebrow cocks higher. "I already cleaned it up. Got the garden hose out and sprayed it off before it could dry."

  "Huh?" Keith says, scratching his head. "Well... what should we do with them? Can't have my beer without penance."

  Connor snickers, causing Cammie's eyes to drift over to him. They immediately fill with sympathy as she takes him in, meaning she recognizes he's sick.

  "Well," she says with a mischievous smile at Connor as she uncrosses her arms. Pointing to the kitchen, she says, "You can finish cleaning up my kitchen. Then we'll be square."

  "Deal," Connor says, accepting quickly, and Cammie's expression warms even further.

  Okay, so I am going to have to admit it... Keith and Cammie may be two of the coolest weirdest people I've ever met.

  "So egging houses was seriously on your bucket list?" Cammie asks Connor as we sit outside on their deck. It's small, and there's only a table with four chairs around it. Cammie, Connor, Jillian, and Barb are at the table, while Keith and I lean back against the deck railing.

  Connor shrugs. "I've been sick for such a long time, so there was a lot of fun growing-up stuff I missed out on."

  "Well, we're honored you chose our house," Cammie says jokingly and holds her beer up to Connor.

  He taps his can to hers with a sheepish grin. "I won't ever forget this."

  "We want to thank you for how cool you and Keith have been about this," Jillian says. Her back is to me, but I can imagine the apologetic expression on her face. We had dropped hands as we walked into Keith's house. Since then, she's barely looked at me.

  "How long ago did that happen?" Keith asks quietly from beside me, and this does not offend me the way the "thank you for your sacrifice" does.

  I turn my head, and his head nods down to my leg. "Little over a year and a half ago."

  Keith turns around and rests his elbows on the edge of the deck rail, holding his beer can in one hand. It's a move that says, "Let's talk a bit more privately," so I turn to face the railing and mimic the way he leans over it. I'd already finished my beer and declined a second one offered by Keith since I'm driving. While I'm sure I'd be fine driving with two beers, I don't want to worry Jillian the others about whether I'm impaired.

  I'm vaguely aware of Jillian telling Cammie more about our group and how we came to be on this trip together, but I tune it out when Keith says, "Lost my best friend over there."

  "Sorry, man," I mumble, because really... what else can I say?

  Hey, your best friend is lucky compared to me.

  "Yeah, I've been diagnosed with that PTSD shit," Keith continues as he stares out into the darkened backyard, and now I feel awkward. This is some personal shit, and I get enough of that from my cronies sitting at the table behind me. "They say I have survivor's guilt."

  Now, I'd been thinking Keith was a pretty cool guy up until now. He gave us a pass for egging his house and invited us in with amazing hospitality. But fuck if I want him to ruin all that goodwill he'd built up by telling me he's got fucking survivor's guilt. He has no goddamn clue how lucky he is.

  Still, I manage to keep my voice level when I ask, "How can you feel guilty about being alive and uninjured?"

  Keith turns to look at me. "I'm thinking you and I went into the military for different reasons. I was a third-generation Army man. It was ingrained in me from the day I was born that it was my duty to die for my country if I was called to war."

  "You're fucking kidding me," is all I can respond with, because no one should have that death wish over them.

  "Well, that might be a bit dramatic, but it's still true. I've never wanted anything else than to go into the Army and serve my country. It was an honor when I got deployed. It was an honor to serve with the men and women who sacrificed their lives or their limbs."

  "Yeah, well, it wasn't a sacrifice I signed up for," I mutter as I grip my hands into fists, the urge to smoke hitting me with a painful, addictive crush for the first time since I told Jillian I wouldn't.

  Keith doesn't try to argue with me, but instead asks, "Why did you join?"

  I shrug. "I thought it would be a better life than working in the coal mines like everyone else in my family."

  "Regretting that now, aren't you?" he asks.

  I want to tell him "fuck yes." If I'd just stayed home and worked in the mines like everyone else, I'd still be alive, and whole, and married to Maria by now. But something holds me back from answering so quickly with that sentiment.

  In fact, I can't answer at all, and I don't know why.

  "Maybe you're right where you're supposed to be," Keith says softly as he gives a slight nod over his shoulder. "I saw you and your girl together. Wouldn't have met her unless you went to group therapy, and you wouldn't have gone to group therapy if you hadn't got your leg blown off, right?"

  Well, yeah... of course. But I'm not sure meeting Jillian is ultimately a good thing. While I'm intrigued and fascinated by her, I can't tell if she's really what I need or want. And she is in no way "my girl."

  Because if she is, then I'll have to have a serious attitude adjustment and I'm not sure I'm ready for the type of work that would take. There's something easy in my solitary, angry world, and fuck if it makes me a loser in every way, but I'm a bit afraid to give that up.

  I don't want to talk about Jillian with this stranger. We may have just shared a beer together, but I don't know him. Despite the fact he served, he doesn't know me. Not about to spill any fantasies I may or may not have about Jillian, especially because I don't know if it's right to have them.

  But I am curious about one thing, and Keith is just the guy to ask, "The army being your life and all... I suppose you like it when people thank you for your service?"

  Keith shrugs. "Well, yeah... I mean, it's nice for the recognition, but it's not why I joined."

  My head drops, and I look down to the mangled remnant of my right hand. It's my dominant hand still, even though it's half a hand. Lifting my head, I turn to look at him. "I fucking hate it. I hate strangers giving me that look of sympathy, coming up to me wanting to shake hands. They reach their right hand out, showing how brave and unafraid they are of my deformities, as if they're doing me a favor by trying to normalize me. And Christ... when they say how sorry they are for my losses, and
that they feel safer at night because of my sacrifice, I want to knock their heads clean off their shoulders. Their words do nothing but rub my nose in this shithole of a life I've fallen into."

  Staring at me with raised eyebrows, Keith says, "Dude, that's a lot of anger right there."

  "It's why I'm in group therapy," I say dryly, turning to look back out into the dark.

  "You should be thanked," Keith says, and I whip my head back to frown at him.

  "What?"

  "You should be thanked," Keith repeats. "It was a sacrifice."

  "Bullshit," I growl at him, and then lean in a little closer. "Losing my leg and my hand didn't do one damn thing to help a single individual American."

  Reaching out, Keith puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It's a fatherly move, although he can't be more than ten years older than me at the most. "That's because it's not about you. It's about the collective whole. Your unit as a team. Your group effort in the war. Our military's effort to stabilize the region. You were just a single casualty, but it was a risk you were aware of and took when you joined up. When the risk got you, it became a sacrifice whether you want it or not."

  "I don't want it," I reply lamely.

  "Fuck, who would?" he returns as he pulls his hand from my shoulder. "Not going to ask if you want my advice because you'll say no, so I'm just going to give it. I suggest you get your head out of your ass and look at the good you've got around you. Otherwise, you are in for a long and miserable existence."

  He's right. I didn't want his advice, but I had no choice but to listen.

  And the pitiful thing is, I know he's right. I've told myself over and over again to just get over my issues. Be strong. Man up. Figure a way past this. I've known for months that if I don't get my shit together, then the rest of my life will indeed be miserable.

  And that's why I think about killing myself sometimes. Because I don't want to live in misery for the rest of my days. I don't have enough willpower to survive it despite the fact Jillian seems to think I'm brimming with it.

  Chapter 12

  Four weeks ago...

  "I'd like to propose an idea to the group," Jillian said as she sat up straighter in her chair, looking only at Mags. She did that because she already knew that Barb and I didn't care, and that whatever it was, Connor would already be on board.

  "What's that?" Mags asked with interest.

  "Last week, we talked a lot about Connor dying and how he started to prioritize what was important to him," she said carefully, turning to give a reassuring smile to Connor. He looked back at her with glowing affection. Those two had become very close, very fast. "And there are things he obviously wants to do before we lose him, so I thought maybe we could provide some of that for him."

  Interesting that she'd said "before we" lose him. As if this was a group of friends or family, and that his death would be a blow to us. Personally, I didn't care if, when, or where the kid died. It had nothing to do with me.

  Still, I watched Jillian carefully. The first two weeks, I'd kept my stare firmly planted on the industrial gray carpet of our meeting room, but during the last two sessions, I found myself unable to tear my gaze from her. While it was nice to just listen to her voice, when paired with her face and those eyes, well... it was just nicer to get the entire package.

  "What did you have in mind?" Mags asked, one thin leg crossed over the other, revealing white socks with Sylvester and Tweety on them.

  Jillian hesitated, and I knew in that moment that she was going to ask for something impossible. She took in a deep breath, let it out, and forged ahead. "Connor has never seen the West Coast. He wants to see the Pacific Ocean before he dies, and I know that's a huge and monumental trip, but maybe we could go as a group and do some other things along the way."

  She never even paused for a breath. It was as if her speech was rehearsed.

  "Mags, you're always saying that we need to interact more, and well... that's just not been happening very well here."

  At that point, she shot a look--and by that I meant turned her head slowly--toward Barb and me before she looked back to Mags. "I thought maybe a trip like that would... I don't know... bring us closer. It's a crazy idea, for sure, but I think we'd get a lot more out of that than just sitting in this room and talking about the same things over and over again."

  When she finished, she let out a sigh of relief, as if it had taken all her courage to throw that out there.

  "I'm not sure that's really doable," Mags said in a kind but firm tone. "Connor is a minor--"

  "His parents already said he could do it," Jillian butted in.

  Mags did nothing more than give a small smile and an understanding nod. I'd listened enough in group these last several weeks to know that Connor's parents pretty much indulged his every wish. Not in a spoil-the-kid kind of way, but so they could make his remaining life as wonderful as possible. I was slightly surprised they'd let him go on a trip that would take several days, as it would be that many days they wouldn't have to spend with him, but again... I'd gotten the impression he could do whatever he wanted.

  "What do you think, Christopher?" Mags asked me.

  "Not interested," I muttered as I looked back down at the floor.

  "Why not?" she pushed at me.

  Hmmm... why not?

  Because I wasn't sure I could be in close quarters with Jillian for several days. The hour and a half each week was brutal enough. I'd pretty much hated her that first week even though I thought she was hot, but the more I listened to her, the more intrigued I became.

  For weeks, I'd listened to her soft voice with that very slight southern twang. Even though she was from North Carolina and further south than me, I had more of a redneck accent than she did. But her voice was light and melodic... almost musical. And then there was that fucking smile. She always had it. Coupled with the lazy eyes, it was sexy.

  But that smile made no sense to me.

  Jillian was a person who seemed to always be happy and content. She was maternally affectionate with Connor, joked around with Mags, and even tried a few times to stir some conversation with Barb and me. She was filled with optimism, which meant she really didn't belong in this group, and I thought everyone else in this room was a dumbass for not recognizing that.

  But more importantly, and what also boggled my mind, was that Jillian never talked about "her" fears. As far as I could tell, she wasn't afraid of dying. She'd accepted she was going blind and even joked about it. She'd even said one day that she was thankful for the twenty years of sight she'd had, because that made her far luckier than those who were born blind.

  I swear to God she was like fucking Snow White... all tra-lah-lah, skipping through the forest and singing to the birds. I hated it and because I'm a sick fuck, I wanted to see more of it at the same time.

  "Christopher," Mags said, and it broke me out of my thoughts. "Why aren't you interested? I'd make it worth your time by giving you credit for a few sessions if you went."

  Oh, I was interested all right. Too interested in Jillian's voice, her hair, her eyes, her smell, and her fucking outlook on life, but the problem was that I didn't want to be interested. There were too many dangers and pitfalls to let myself go down that path.

  "What's the point?" I asked snidely. "He's gonna die. Seeing the ocean ain't gonna help that."

  I expected someone to chastise me for my crudeness. To my surprise, Jillian leaned forward in her chair, tilted her chin up so she could see me a little better because of her droopy eyes, and said, "Come on, Christopher. Where's your sense of adventure?"

  A bolt of anger jolted through me, and I glared at her fiercely. "I lost it when I got my leg blown off."

  She wasn't repentant or put in her place. Merely giving me a look of disappointment, she said just one word to me. "Typical."

  "Typical?" I growled at her.

  "Typical," she said simply. "You hide away from everything. And it's okay... I get you feel safer that way. You haven't partic
ipated hardly at all, so I guess what I really mean is that your refusal to consider the trip is just typical of you."

  A genuine flush of embarrassment swept through me. At that, I was even more embarrassed because she probably saw my face go red. "You know nothing about me," I snarled.

  "Exactly," was all she said back.

  And then it hit me.

  Jillian wanted to know more about me.

  Me.

  Oh, I didn't think she designed the trip just for that. Her heart was always poking where it didn't belong in the right place and she was definitely doing this for Connor, but she was baiting me to go on this trip.

  She actually wanted me to go.

  Could I do it? Could I sit in the same car with her for hundreds of miles and smell her, listen to her... try to figure her out?

  I didn't want to look like a pussy who would easily give in, so I left myself an out to try to hold on to my man card. "Okay... fine. I'll go if Barb goes."

  Because no way in hell would she be interested in this type of thing.

  I turned to look at Barb, confident she'd save me from myself.

  She just shrugged with the same half-angry, half-bored expression she always wore and said, "Sure. I don't have anything better to do."

  Aww, Christ. I was screwed.

  Chapter 13

  Present day...

  It's almost midnight by the time we head back to the hotel from our evening's adventure. We left after Jillian and Connor gave Keith and Cammie hard hugs and promises to keep in touch. It seems new friendships were formed. I'd shaken Keith's hand, but I know we'll never talk again. Gave a polite nod to Cammie and thanked her for the beer, but never did apologize for egging her house.

  Barb had just muttered, "Later," as we walked out.

  The ride back to the motel is silent. There's no conversation because a worn-out Connor fell asleep with his head resting against the window, Barb doesn't talk much anyway, and things are still very awkward between Jillian and me. We haven't spoken or touched since we entered Keith's house. Of course, my first and most pitiful thought is that it was all a mistake.