Until his dad showed up . . .
“It was such a good night, up until a point.”
“Uh oh, what happened?” Ryan takes a sip of her iced tea and leans forward, stirring her straw around.
“His dad was there.”
“Oh shit, really?”
“Yup.” I shake my head recalling the moment I felt Stryder turn into someone else. “He was such an asshole, Ryan. Cutting Stryder down every chance he got, and his mom was no help whatsoever. She just stood there, looking around the room, taking sips of her wine.”
“What did his dad say to him?”
I fidget with the spoon in front of me. “Made a jab at him for not being in flight school, and when I introduced myself, he recognized me from when I used to hang out with Colby in their pool house.”
“Oh hell, I’m sure that didn’t go over well.”
“Not in the slightest. Of course his dad used that against him. I’m not sure exactly what his dad said to him because he spoke quietly into his ear, but when he was done, Stryder was completely different. It reminded me of the Stryder we saw drunk off his ass at the bar. A shield over his eyes, protecting his soul from anyone who comes near it, and he’s . . . he’s been drinking more again.”
“No, really?”
I nod. “He comes home, barely says anything to me, and opens up a bottle of Scotch. I’ve been too nervous to say anything, because I know he’s pretty upset over what his dad said to him, but he won’t even look at me, Ryan. He won’t touch me. He barely even comes near me, and when we go to sleep, he turns away from me.” I bite my bottom lip, trying to stop it from trembling. “I don’t know what to do. I can see him spiraling again, and I have no clue how to catch him.” I don’t even know if he loves me anymore.
“Have you tried talking to him?”
I shake my head. “Every time I try to say something, he shuts me down, says he’s too tired or goes on a walk. I know where he’s walking to. He comes home smelling like alcohol. I’m scared, Ryan. I’m afraid—” My throat chokes up on me as I try to voice my ever-present fear. She reaches out her hand and squeezes mine. “I’m afraid he’s going to break up with me, that whatever his dad said to him is spinning around and taking root in his mind. I can see it. Every time he looks at me, he’s convincing himself of something, like we shouldn’t be together.”
“You need to talk to him, Rory. After spending a lot of time with Stryder, I think we both recognize that behind the façade of a strong man is a broken and shattered boy, unsure of himself and desperate to be a part of something. He needs you to help him through this.”
But how can I help him when he keeps turning away from me?
“I know. I just wish I knew how to get to him.”
“Just be honest with him. Tell him your fears and knock a little sense into him. Be tough but understanding, like you always are.”
I take a sip of my water, trying to determine what I’m going to say to him as fear prickles the back of my neck. “Do you . . . do you think we’re going to be okay?”
Without skipping a beat, Ryan says, “I know you will.”
If only I could feel that confident. My heart is breaking.
It’s eight-thirty, and I’ve yet to hear from Stryder. I made some mac and cheese for us both, ate alone, and put the leftovers in the fridge. I’ve sent him three texts, asking when he’ll be home, and I’m now pacing back and forth in our apartment, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to say to him when he does get home.
And the worst part about all of this is that his car is parked on the street. I saw him park, but instead of coming upstairs to me, he walked in the opposite direction.
I can see it in his eyes, his self-worth diminishing with each passing day, and I don’t know how to stop it.
Where the hell is he?
I reach for my phone to text him when I hear someone walking up the apartment stairs.
Finally.
I quickly go to the bed where I sit cross-legged and wait for him.
The door handle twists slowly and he walks in, head down, hand gripping his cap, his boots scuffing the floor.
He looks up and starts shedding his uniform, his movements rigid but not sloppy. Makes me think that maybe he isn’t drunk. Hopefully.
My throat feels dry, when I say, “Hey.”
He presses his hand against the wall, balancing himself as he takes his boots off by the heel. “Hey baby,” he answers, keeping his eyes focused on his shoes. Once his shoes are discarded, he walks toward the bathroom without sparing me a glance. I listen intently as he goes to the toilet, washes his hands, and brushes his teeth. Going to bed already? Did he even eat dinner?
My stomach turns and twists into knots as I wait for him to emerge, my mind running rampant as I try to figure out what to say. I want to be sensitive, because I know he’s probably beating himself up mentally to be in such a state, but I’m also mad at him. This is us. Without even talking to me, he’s throwing it away because of something his dad said.
I want him to talk to me rather than run away, and I think that’s what I’m going to try to convey to him.
Hands resting in my lap, I wait impatiently for him to wrap up.
The light switches off.
The door opens.
Stryder walks into the living room wearing nothing but boxer briefs, his muscular body rippling as he comes toward me. I miss him so much. I miss touching him and kissing him and making love with him. I miss his sexy laugh in my ear when we’re intimate. I miss his commanding voice, telling me how he wants me. I miss the graze of his five o’clock shadow against my inner thighs. And I miss him, my best friend, the guy I can talk to about anything, the guy who loves nothing more than to turn off the TV and play a card game with me.
When he reaches the bed, he looks me up and down, eyeing my tank top with no bra, and licks his lips. Leaning forward, he grips my chin and places a soft kiss against my lips. It’s so sweet, so like the man he was a week ago, that the small amount of contact brings tears to my eyes.
Concern laces his brow when he pulls away and sees a tear drip down my cheek. Immediately his face falls and he scoops me into his arms, bringing me onto his lap as he rests against the headboard of the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, wiping away my tears.
“Where were you tonight?” Where have you been this last week?
He grips my hips and holds me in place tightly, his body heat putting me at ease. “I went for a walk.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to go with you?”
His thumbs rub over my skin. “Needed some alone time.”
“From me?”
“No, not from you, Rory.” His voice is so deflated; it’s killing me. “I just needed time to think.”
Time to think is never a good thing. Time to think means he’s considering leaving me. It happens any time someone in a relationship begins to “think.” I will not let his dad ruin us, ruin what we have, or ruin Stryder.
“To think about what?” I scoot in a little closer and place my hands on his shoulders. “Think about us?” He doesn’t answer, but tilts his head down instead, sending my heart into a plummeting spiral. “What is there to think about?” I ask in a panic. “There should be nothing to think about. I love you, Stryder. You love me. That is it.”
He leans his head against the headboard, the corded muscles in his neck flexing with his prominent Adam’s apple. Studying the ceiling, he sighs before he starts talking. “All my life I’ve never been good enough, Rory. I’ve never been the man my dad dreamed of me becoming. He’s vocalized his disappointment every chance he’s been given. All throughout high school, he berated and bullied me. When I was at the Academy, I finally had periods of time away from him, and I felt like I could breathe. But now”—he shakes his head—“he’ll do just about anything to crucify me.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He swallows hard. “But I’ve never been good enou
gh for him, never been good enough for myself. But then I met you.” He lifts his head and pins me with those blue eyes of his. “You came around and changed everything I thought of myself. I'd never believed anyone would want to know me for me. I'd felt as though I lived in my brothers' shadows, in my dad's shadow all my life. You offered such genuine friendship, which I still find hard to accept. Living with you, spending these last few months loving you side by side, had started to rebuild the darker parts of me. I started to believe I could be a man you deserve to hold on to.”
“You are.” I grip onto him tightly. “You are everything I could have ever hoped for in a best friend, a partner and a lover.”
“But. There is always a but.”
“There is no but here. What I said is true.”
“But,” he continues, “no matter how hard I try to block out my dad’s words, they still hit me hard, as if I’m a teenager looking for his approval. I can’t stand that I crave it, that I need his approval to be fucking happy.”
Gritting down and wanting to be honest, I say, “You know he’ll never give it to you, Stryder. Even if you did make flight school there would have been something you were doing wrong. He’s a pathetic man who preys on his family because he’s not a happy individual. He could have all the medals in the world decorating his chest, but what he doesn’t have is the respect of his family, and that right there defines him. Not the wings on his jacket, or his career. What defines him is his soul, and his soul is ugly.” I move my hands to his cheeks. “Don’t let an ugly soul define who you are, Stryder, because you are so much more of a man than him.”
He shakes his head, but I stop him and force him to look me in the eyes. “You are.” I press my hand against his heart. “This right here, this heart is so beautiful. It’s sweet and caring and thoughtful. I couldn’t care less if you’re working in the air or on the ground. It doesn’t matter. What impresses me is the way you treat people, the way you take care of me so effortlessly, as if you were built to do it. What matters to me are the kind words you speak, and your willingness to share your soul with me. Nothing more.” He moves his hands up my back, dragging my shirt with him, the feel of his palms against my skin sending chills up my spine. “I love you, Stryder, and that’s never going to change.”
His fingers dig into my back, bringing me only inches away from him where he places his forehead against mine. “I need you so goddamn bad, Rory. You breathe life into my lungs, but I’m terrified I’m going to lose you, that one day you’re going to wake up and realize you picked the wrong guy.”
My beautiful man. Up until now, I hadn’t realized how much it must have crushed him that I was attracted to Colby first. God, I hate that I hurt him. "Stryder, I can't take back choosing Colby that first night, but I have thought long and hard about that choice. About why it was him then. But I noticed you too, that night. In fact, I remember thinking that you were exciting, the life of the party, someone I could see myself with. But my heart reached out to Colby's discomfort. Did I love him? Yes, I did. He became precious to me. But I know now that a lot of that love was because I wanted to rescue him. To know that he'd lost so much so young spoke to the fixer in me. I sensed his reticence though. He never truly gave me everything, because his everything revolved around his dream of flying. And I didn't fit there. Did it hurt me to break up with him? Yes. But as the months went on, I knew I'd done the right thing. I felt free knowing I had let him go so he could fully focus on flying. It was the best decision. For him. For me. And then for us."
He looks deeply into my eyes, and I can see him wrestling with what I'm telling him. I need him to know that he wasn't the second-best choice for me. He is the choice. The best choice.
I kiss him gently on his forehead, knowing how much I love it when he does that to me. "Look at me, Stryder." He lifts his gaze. "You're not going to lose me. Even if you try to push me away. You are my right choice. You. It's me who doesn't feel enough at times, because just like you did that first night I met you, you impress me. Drive me to be the best version of myself."
"I just want you to be happy."
"Well, don't. Because being happy isn't enough. My life is magnificent because of you. I am more than happy. I'm content and full because you also breathe life into me. And that's the sort of life I want to live. And it's only possible with you."
Chapter Twenty-Five
STRYDER
It took a week for Rory and me to get back to better footing. I had to think hard and long about her words, about how her choice to love me was the most natural choice for her. How I wasn’t second best to Colby. “My life is magnificent because of you. I am more than happy. I'm content and full because you also breathe life into me. And that's the sort of life I want to live. And it's only possible with you."
I am determined to retrain my mind. To stop believing my dad’s opinion defines me. My dad is an asshole. To everyone, except those he likes. In contrast, I get on really well with Rory’s dad. In fact, he has called me on occasion to go have a beer with him or to watch baseball with him and Bryan.
But Rory and I are closer now than ever after several months of dating. She owns me. And my heart is hers forever.
And then came Hardie’s phone call. The devastating news of Colby’s grandpa’s passing. Hardie begged me to go to the funeral, to represent our group of friends, even though I haven’t talked to Colby in over a year. And I almost didn’t attend. I was very insistent about not going, but Rory told me I would regret it if I didn’t.
She was right.
I had to say my goodbyes to Gramps, and I had to come face to face with Colby.
And then he begged me to meet him afterwards. I should have said no.
I drum my fingers across the wooden bar, looking toward the front door, waiting.
Fucking waiting.
I down another shot and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
I should have called him when he first got to Colorado Springs. I should have texted him after his squadron touched down at Peterson. I watched him land, watched him maneuver his F-16 with such ease around the tarmac, and I heard him from down the hall, talking about how he was glad to get temporary duty in Colorado Springs.
I stayed away. I didn’t greet him, I didn’t text him, I didn’t want to go near him because I was fucking terrified as to what I would say to him, but then Gramps passed.
He deserves to know the truth after all this time. I’m just unsure of how the fuck I’m going to tell him. Especially on the night he buried his gramps. I feel like such a tool.
The door to the small bar opens, and I don’t even have to turn my head to know Colby just walked in. From the mirror behind the bar I can see his broad shoulders and sharp features.
His text was short, almost terse. Jack Quinn’s, nine o’clock.
I replied with an even shorter text. Okay.
Without saying a word, he takes the seat next to me. His body vibrates with tension. From the corner of my eye I can see the grinding of his jaw as he tosses two fingers in the air and orders a rum and Coke. Not his typical drink, one I’ve never seen him consume actually, but then again tastes and friendships can change over the span of a year.
We sit in silence, both our heads cast forward, our forearms propped on the polished wooden bar top. The bartender places Colby’s drink in front of him. With three fingers, he pinches the glass and brings it to his mouth where he takes a long swig.
When he sets it down, his voice is low, almost inaudible when he says, “How long?”
Dread washes over me like a cold shower.
He knows.
But how?
Does it really matter at this point? All that matters is how I handle myself in the next couple minutes.
I wet my lips, take a sip of my drink and say, “How long have I had feelings for her or how long have we been together?”
“Is there a fucking difference?” he grits out.
“Yeah,” I exhale, bowing my head. “There is.”
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Turning toward me, he props one arm on the bar and the other on the back of his chair. “How long have you had feelings for her?”
Letting out a long exhale, I rub my hand over my forehead and say, “Since the moment I first saw her, at the party, before I pointed her and Ryan out to you.”
I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction, unable to look him in the eyes like a real man. I’m so fucking pathetic.
“Since that first night? What the fuck?” He shoves my shoulder back, forcing me to look at him. “You had feelings for her from the very beginning?”
Finally looking up, I meet his angry gaze, dark eyes fixing on mine, sharp eyebrows tilted into the air, a pissed-off expression I’ve never seen from Colby.
He seems older. In just a year, the wealth of experience he’s gained has morphed him into a different, more mature person.
I swallow hard. “I did, but then I saw the way—”
Colby’s fist sends my head back, and I tumble off my stool to the floor. Pain ricochets through my head, my face on fire, throbbing.
Through the ringing in my head, I hear the bartender yell at Colby, telling us both to leave the establishment in the next five seconds. Scrambling to my feet, I follow Colby out the front door where he starts to pace the sidewalk, gripping his head, looking like he’s about to plow another fist into my face. Fuck, this hurts. I’ve been hit plenty of times, but he’s got a fucking hard punch.
I know I can take him, as I have about ten more pounds of muscle on him, but I won’t fight him. I have no excuse to fight. I actually welcome his angry fists, because if I were him, I’d feel the same damn way. Probably react the same way too.
My eye starts to swell, blocking out a part of my vision, but I keep my eyes trained on Colby, waiting for his next move, putting up no defense.
Finally he stops pacing and turns toward me, the sidewalk empty thankfully. “You fucking liked her and still shoved her on me. Why?”