I wrap a clean piece of gauze around the wound, leaving crimson prints on the white fabric as my fingers tie it off, then position a log beneath his thigh to keep it elevated. My hands are stained scarlet. There’s a mosaic of blood spattered down the front of mydress.
“Violet…”
I glance up at Beck, where he sits by Ian’s shoulders. He looks pale and thoroughly shaken by what he’s just seen.By what I just did. He’s staring at me like he doesn’t even recognizeme.
Hell, I hardly recognizemyself.
I don’t speak to him as I stagger to my feet and flee from our small camp down the beach to the water’s edge. There, ankle-deep in the shallows, I bend at the waist and dry heave until every ounce of water and bile has vacated my stomach. Until my throat is burning, my eyes are streaming, and my head ispounding.
The physical pain I feel is a flicker next to what I’ve just put Ian through. And it’s nothing at all, compared to the ache in my heart as I stare at my bloody hands and wonder what the hell I’vedone.
Who the hell I’vebecome.
* * *
Beck givesme space for a fewhours.
I sit at the water’s edge, staring out at the waves, mind still ringing with the sound of Ian’s screams. The expanse of water seems to stretch out endlessly in all directions. I’m farther from home than I’ve ever been, not just in distance. I wonder, if a rescue boat appeared on that far-reaching horizon, plucked me from this nightmare, and landed me back in my childhood bedroom, whether I’d even fit thereanymore
I’ve always heard that phraseyou can’t go home againand dismissed it outright. But sitting here, I think I finally understand. The things I’ve lived through in the span of a few short days have changed me forever. The people I’ve lost have shaken my ever-optimistic view of the world around me. And… the man still with me, standing at my side through all of this, has left an impression I fear I’ll never be able to wipeclean.
Threedays.
What will happen in three weeks? Three months? Threeyears?
I press my palms to my eye sockets, wishing I could summon tears. Crying might release some of these emotions raging inside my head. Might make this burden of horror and heartache inside my chest slightly easier to carryaround.
It’s mid-afternoon and the shadows have begun to lengthen when I finally feel his presence at my back. I glance over my shoulder and find him sitting in the sand a few feet away, careful not to encroach on my personal space. His eyes scan myface.
He’s as guarded as he’s ever been, but I’ve learned to read him better — the tiny furrow of his brow when he’s concerned, the slight clenching of his jaw when he’s trying to keep himself in check, the infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes when he’s overcome with rage. The way his left brow quirks up when he’s surprised, and his lips twist at one side when he’s fighting backamusement.
Beck’s face speaks a whole language, if you take the time to learnit.
“You’re red as a beet,” he says finally, breaking thesilence.
I glance down at my arms. Sure enough, they’resunburned.
“I’lllive.”
His brows lift at the apathy in my tone. “What you didearlier…”
“I know.” I cut him off. “It was awful. Reckless. Bloody and messy and worse than I could’ve ever imagined.I know. You don’t have to lectureme.”
There’s a marked pause. “If you’re finished beating yourself up… that wasn’t what I was going to say atall.”
My heart skips. “It… itwasn’t?”
“No. I was going to tell you that, bloody and messy and awful as it was… it was also the bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do in the thirty years I’ve been on this planet. And I spent three years in the deserts of Afghanistan and Iraq, taking photos of warzones.”
Suddenly, there are tears in my eyes. I don’t fight them. I let them roll down my cheeks as his words roll around inside my aching chest cavity. There’s something almost unbearable about Beck — gruff, grumpy, curmudgeonly Beck — speaking to me with kindness that shatters the last shred of resolve I’ve been clinging to since I washed the worst of the blood stains from myskin.
This is a man who does not do false praise or fake ego-stroking. He doesn’t do flattery. He barely does basic humandecency.
The bravest thing I’ve everseen.
I recognize these words as a rare gift and feel some warmth creep back into mysoul.
Beck watches me weep from a careful distance, his discomfort evident. “I didn’t mean to upsetyou.”