Really, he didn’t care if it was only Sundays for a long time. He found himself looking forward to them. And he kept it his secret that he was growing more attracted to her. She was so vulnerable, he decided right away that he’d give her any opportunity to move closer, but he wouldn’t rush her at all. There was no question, she’d run for her life.
There was something about a Friday-night dinner at the bar that called to Dan, even though he was on the job bright and early every Saturday morning. Paul had deadlines and Dan was giving his best effort to helping meet them.
Maybe it was memories of his younger years when he’d either meet with the crews he worked construction with or maybe the Marines he’d served with, but he rarely missed a Friday night at Jack’s. He’d have a cold one before dinner, often with Jack and Paul at the bar. Hope almost always made an appearance, looking pretty ratty and cranky. After a whole five days of physical therapy and counseling, Rick Sudder had a real need for that Friday-night wind-down. And Jack let him have a beer. One.
And there was another development in the bar.
Every Friday night since the unfortunate fleeing incident, Liz would come in by herself, right around five o’clock. She’d ask Jack for a giant cola to go. Dan had learned that Liz came to Virgin River every Friday after school, stayed the weekend to help her aunt out in the store and went home to Eureka Sunday evening.
And Rick was always there. It wasn’t like Liz wouldn’t know that.
Liz always stared straight ahead while she waited for her cola; Rick glanced at her without saying hello, without acknowledging her. She never looked at him either, but when her cola was delivered, she flashed that beautiful smile of hers right at Jack, put her money down and left the bar, ignoring Rick.
Dan didn’t have to wonder long if that was eating at Rick. He was sitting two stools down from the kid. Paul stood at the bar beside Dan and they were talking about one of the houses under construction. Dan saw the whole routine go down. And he knew that just that smile alone, let alone that face that could stop traffic, must have been driving Rick crazy. He had to be one messed-up dude to let her go. To her back as she was leaving, Rick said, “Can’t you even say hello?”
She slowly turned, regarded him coldly and said, “To you? Not till you grow up.” And then she left.
Dead silence hung over the bar as Rick returned to his beer. He stared into it for a while, then he pushed it back and stood up. He used a cane, but didn’t really need it. He had a very slight limp, but it was getting better.
“I’ll walk you home,” Jack said.
“Jack—I got it! I’m fine!” Rick barked.
Jack stopped. He stayed behind the bar. “Great,” he said to Rick’s back.
It was a long moment before Dan said, “That’s a powder keg.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You see any improvement in his attitude? He getting along any better at all?”
“Not one drop,” Jack said. “He’s got the good prosthesis now—no more preparatory limb. He could be doing a lot better than he is. Attitude is holding him up. He’s just plain pissed off.”
“Obviously,” Dan said. “And the girl—”
“He decided she could do better and broke it off with her. For a while there I was more worried about her. I thought it would half kill her. But now what we got is a different situation. She’s obviously done taking his shit. He dumped her when, not only does he need her, she needs him. And now what we have are two pissed-off, hurting kids who have been through way too much.”
“You know, I’ve been looking for just the right moment,” Dan began. “I could maybe talk to him. I took a bad load of shrapnel in the leg and got medically retired from the Corps. I went through a lot of painful PT and can’t ever trust the leg again.”
Jack frowned. “I thought maybe I saw a limp sometimes….”
“Now and then,” Dan said. “And I don’t do rooftops or ladders, as I informed the boss here,” he said, lifting an eyebrow to Paul. “One minute I’m upright, the next I can be on my ass. You learn to live with it. But I remember having a very bad time getting there.”
“What do you think turned you around? If you don’t mind my asking,” Jack said.
“I don’t know, man. I had about twenty things that were no good going on all at once,” he replied, shaking his head. “I had a young wife. She left me while I was in country. There was illness in the family. I was screwed up on so many levels. And it didn’t help that my leg hurt all the time. I think after a while I got tired of being on a constant downward spiral.”
“I got a question. It’s real personal, but there’s a reason I have to know the answer.”
“Go.”
“Were you suicidal?”
“As far as I can tell you, no. I whimpered for a long time, then I got fighting mad. But then, I didn’t exactly take the most law-abiding route to fighting back. Not a good choice for me, but there you have it. You worried he’s suicidal?”
“I don’t even know when to worry about something like that,” Jack said. “He hasn’t said anything to me that makes me think that. But Jesus, he hasn’t said much of anything at all. The kid’s just tough as hell to read.”
“You can always ask him,” Dan said.
“How do you ask that question?”
“You say, ‘Hey, Rick, I can’t help but notice you’re in terrible shape. Are you having any suicidal thoughts? I have to know.’ About half the time if you ask the straight question, you get the straight answer.”
Jack pondered this for a long moment. “You know, Brady, you ended up surprising me. I gotta say, I never thought I’d be having a conversation like this with you. All touchy-feely and honest.”
Dan grinned. “I love you, too, Jack,” he said.
Rick wouldn’t even admit to himself that the counseling appointments being crammed down his throat had a payoff. There wasn’t any sane reason for it, either. First of all, Jerry Powell was certifiable. Second, Rick didn’t feel like talking about his issues. Third, he dreaded every one and he left exhausted—wrung dry and shaky.
But, these hour-long sessions seemed to have a bizarre calming effect about two hours after they were over. Once he started opening up about his feelings a little bit, it came easier. Every time he walked in Jerry Powell’s door he’d say to himself, “I’m not telling him anything personal today.” And then that whack job would ask exactly the right question.
“How are you sleeping?” Jerry asked.
“I don’t know. Not so good.”
“What’s disturbing your sleep?” he asked.
“Lots of things,” Rick said. “Iraq. Leg pain. Stuff.”
“Okay, let’s start at the beginning. We’ve talked about Iraq—want to go over some of that for me again? As it pertains to sleep?”
“How do you mean?” Rick asked.
“Are you having nightmares? PTSD stuff—pictures in your head you can’t turn off? How’s it affecting you?”
“Sometimes I have nightmares, yeah. I guess I’m going to have them forever.”
“Tell me about the nightmares.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Well, that’s your prerogative, but here’s how counseling usually works. If you can bring it out in the light of day, take a good look at it, sometimes your mind helps you deal with it on a conscious, rational level as opposed to subconscious level, and the nightmares fade. So, my specific question is—what nightmares are you having? Iraq in general? A specific incident? Your injury?”
Rick shook his head to try to shake the question away, but it didn’t work. When he looked at Powell, the therapist was waiting. Expectant. “There was a thing that happened that I can’t get rid of. The squad in front of us blew up. Eleven of them died with one survivor. Sometimes I dream I’m the survivor. I’d rather blow up than be the survivor. You know?”
“You saw them die?”
“They were blown apart everywhere, right in front of us. It was a wide-awake nightmare.”
Rick saw Jerry wince and it gave him perverse pleasure. Yeah, it was about the ugliest sight a guy could witness.
“Is that what you see in your nightmares?” Jerry asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Other things?”
“Sometimes. I killed a guy in Iraq, and I saw his face. It was really too far away for this to be possible, but I swear I saw the expression on his face. It was like he saw me shoot him. Sometimes I dream about that.”
“Is that something you worry about? Regret or lose sleep over? How does it work on your head?”
Rick thought for a minute. “I don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not sorry. But I wonder how it wasn’t me who was shot. Killed. We were aiming at each other and I was the lucky one. We didn’t find his body—there’s a chance he lived through it. But I don’t see how.”
“How about the incident in which you were wounded?”
“I can’t remember that.”
“Maybe that’s lucky,” Jerry said. “Unless you’re kept awake by it, haunted by it, like it’s trying to surface….”
“Nothing like that. It’s a blank. One minute I was walking down a street, the next minute I was waking up in Germany.”
“How about the pain? Shouldn’t you be ahead of the pain now? It’s been a while. And you have medication.”
“Yeah. I’m getting there.”
“Okay, let’s jump right ahead to ‘stuff.’”
“Huh?”
“You said, Iraq, pain, stuff.”
Rick smiled. “For someone who doesn’t take notes, you have a dangerous memory.”
“What kind of stuff?” he asked again without missing a beat.
“Okay. I think about my old girlfriend a lot.”
“Think about her how?”
“It’s complicated….”
“I’m pretty smart, actually. I can probably get through this,” Jerry said.
“She’s giving me a hard time.”
“Oh?”
“She hates me.”
Jerry waited patiently, irritating Rick.
“I knew it was going to be hard on her, telling her we couldn’t be a couple anymore. I figured there’d be tears and stuff. But then she’d get over it. I knew it would take a while, but then some guy would ask her out or something. Eventually she’s going to be all right.”
“What about this is keeping you awake at night?” Jerry asked.
“You know, this isn’t easy on me, either,” Rick snapped. “Staying away from her isn’t exactly simple. But it’s better this way.”
Jerry leaned forward. “Listen, I think you’re going to have to try to be more specific. I’m not sure I’m following. We’ve talked about the girlfriend before and as I understand it, you explained to her that you couldn’t be her boyfriend anymore and that upset her. Correct?”
“Correct,” he answered tightly.
“And now she’s angry?”
“Whew,” Rick said, shaking his head. “I go to Jack’s every Friday afternoon for about an hour or so. After a week of PT and you, I’m wrecked, so Jack lets me have a beer and some dinner. She comes to the bar every week, knowing I’m going to be there, and she won’t look at me. I mean, she won’t even accidentally see me. Won’t speak to me. Smiles pretty at everyone else and it’s like I’m not there.”
Jerry tilted his head. “You don’t want to be her boyfriend anymore,” he pointed out.