Broken Hero

The silence spreads between us, but it’s comfortable now.

There-I’ve said it. The thought I hadn’t uttered in a long, long while. That maybe, just maybe, the months of adjustment haven’t been enough. That the PTSD is better, but not gone.

I need to ask for help.

I’ll conquer it like I’ve conquered so many other things before.

Logan takes a deep sip beside me, leaning against the wall. His strength and familiarity are comforting. “I need your help in a week or two,” I tell him.

“Whatever you need.”

“I’m going to build a sauna out by the spa. I’ve ordered the heating unit and the isolation material, so it should be here soon.”

“Expanding the spa section, are we?”

“Yes. But the girls don’t know yet, and they don’t need to.”

“Alright.” Logan’s smile is sly, and I shake my head at him.

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“Me? I won’t. Only, you look like you’ve gotten laid, man.”

I shove him, hard. He topples over but manages to save himself with a hand on the wall. His smile broadens and I can’t help but grin back at him.

“What, do you have a fucking radar or something?”

“Nah, I just know you well.”

We fall into a comfortable silence. I close my eyes and take another sip of the beer, reveling in the sunshine.

“There’s something else.””Oh?”

“You know how you said Gavin Whittaker was making it hard for you to get work? We’re going to take care of that.”

I can hear the satisfied hunger in Logan’s voice when he replies.

“Finally.”Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

“Did you fix my bike?”

“What?”I grin. “I know you heard me.”

Oliver throws two bags of popcorn into the microwave and sets the timer for three minutes. Austin is sitting patiently at his feet, hoping to catch any food that his owner might drop. Oliver looks down and shakes his head.

“You can’t eat corn kernels, and you can’t eat plastic.”

Austin’s tail wags hopefully.

“Idiot,” Oliver murmurs, but he bends down to scratch his pup behind his ear.

I don’t give up. “The rust is gone, the chain is newly oiled and the tires are pumped. Plus, I swear there are new lights fixed in the front.”

“It wasn’t safe before.”

“Mmm.” I reach up and run a hand over the back of his neck, sliding my fingers into his hair. “Thank you.”

He glances down at me, his dark blue eyes soft. A corresponding warmth blooms in my chest. It’s not often I’ve seen him like this. His strong features are completely relaxed. I wish he could be like this all the time. I wish I could heal his mind the way I could massage a sore shoulder, to remove whatever darkness or pain he is carrying. The most I could hope for was getting him to share.

Since the fair, I’d read up on PTSD. It’s an unpredictable diagnosis, it takes different shapes in different people, and it often made individuals withdraw from their loved ones and close friends. Quite against their needs and wants, it seemed.

I jump up on the stool by the kitchen counter. “There’s a basketball hoop behind the house. Do you play?”

“I used to, yes. I played a lot in high school.”

Sarah mentioned something about this-her star athlete of a brother-though I know Oliver would never describe himself such. “Not anymore?”

“There aren’t really enough guys around here to pull together a team for a scrimmage,” he says. His hands pause over the handle to the fridge as if he’s deliberating. “We played a lot when I served, too.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Most days, the Marines aren’t in active combat. We’re stationed in different locations to do reconnaissance, patrol, survey.” He shrugs. “A lot of afternoons were spent on the basketball court.”

I smile and grab the bottle of ice tea. “Logan too?”

“Yes, but he prefers soccer, the heathen.”

But Oliver had been in battle, at some point or another. I don’t ask the follow-up questions I want to. If he wanted to talk, he would.

We grab our snacks and head into his living room. Oliver’s couch is massive, but he lifts up an arm and I curl against his side. He’s big and warm, solid to the touch.

He turns on a movie. It’s what we planned for tonight, but I’m pretty sure neither of us is watching. How could I care about the fate of an alien planet when he’s this close? I have my hand on his chest and I can feel it rise and fall steadily with his slow breath.

His hand traces up and down my arm.

“You did physical therapy, right?”

He glances down at me. “Yes.”

“Remember that you asked me if I’d ever considered becoming a physical therapist?”

“Yes.”I take a deep breath. “Well, I’ve found some courses.””Really?”

“Yes,” I nod. “I feel like it would suit me perfectly. I could still massage, of course, but I’d be able to help with deeper issues too.”

“You should go for it,” he says and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “How long is the training?”

“About four years.” His hand stills on my arm. “I’ve found online courses. I mean, I know things are early with the spa, but I wouldn’t want to stop working.”