Chapter 9

9

LINCOLN

S eeing Aly at the salon had been a bonus. I was starting to get the idea that she might not be out of my league. She was clearly interested. Her lack of grace had told me that much.

My next step would be to ask her out on a formal date. Monday, I would find a reason to go to the main house. Hell, I didn't need a reason if I was there to ask her on a date. I would stop by over my lunch break and ask if she wanted to grab a burger. Not having a car was definitely a handicap. I decided to use some of my savings to buy a cheap ride. Afterward, I could continue to save up money to leave town.

I got my regular hair back. Just like sleeping with my boots on, I wasn't sure if I was ready for a civilian haircut.

I took an Uber home and lay down on the couch. It was Friday night, so I grabbed myself a beer. I didn't want to drink too much because I was worried about it becoming a crutch. My mom had been an addict, and my older brother, George, had followed in her footsteps. Gina seemed to have escaped, and Dad never touched the stuff. I had to admit that I probably had addictive tendencies, so I kept my drinking to a minimum.

I had purchased a six pack of expensive, dark beer and so far, I had drank two bottles. It was an indulgence that I couldn't have gotten in the desert or in the hospital. It tasted so good, I immediately wanted another, but I cut myself off. Two was more than enough.

Around midnight, I decided to go for another walk. The last few times I had been out at night had been successful. The calm of Singer's Ridge was soothing to my soul. There weren't any Army tents or flashes of red on the horizon. There weren't people running around, shouting orders. There wasn't any death or destruction, only quiet houses full of sleeping townsfolk.

I felt like I was the only one awake, except for the occasional pickup full of drunk teenagers. I was allowed to explore the neighborhoods, staring up at some of the richer houses in awe. Singer's Ridge had really come up in the time I had been gone. There were three-story homes with manicured lawns and two-car garages. I wondered where people found the money for those mini mansions. Maybe they were commuting to Nashville. I knew there wasn't enough work in town to support that kind of lifestyle.

That night, my wanderings took me to the park behind the high school. It was about a mile's walk from my basement apartment, a testament to the strength that had returned to my leg. I had brought my cane, just in case the path took me farther than I was prepared to go.

When we had been kids, people used to sneak into the park to make out, to cut class, or to drink. There was a tiny trail that led through a break in the fence and into the bushes at the edge of the park. Once you maneuvered the path successfully, you were rewarded with a leisurely jogging path, a playground, and a series of strategically placed benches. When the dogwoods were in bloom, pink petals dripped from the canopy of trees, making the walk romantic. It wasn't the right time of year for that, and despite the floodlights, it was still hard to make out color in the middle of the night.

As I was walking, I caught sight of a figure up ahead. This person was alone and in no hurry. The short stature and soft movements told me it was a woman, unafraid to be caught without an escort. I marveled at her bravery and then stopped myself. This wasn't Afghanistan. It was Singer's Ridge. It was perfectly safe for a woman, for anyone, to walk alone at night.

Not wanting to startle her, I kept my distance, moving to the outer edge of the track to pass her. When I got close enough, familiar features solidified. The hair that cascaded gently past her shoulders appeared black in the lamplight, but I recognized it even so.

"Aly," I said.

She turned, not at all concerned. If it had been me and someone had spoken my name in the middle of the night, I would have leapt ten feet in the air.

She smiled. "Linc, what are you doing here?"

"I don't sleep," I answered.

We fell into step together, walking slower than we had to.

"I don't sleep either," she admitted, hands in her pockets.

"Why not?"

"It's a long story." She shook her head.

I grinned. "I'm here, and I've got time."

She sighed, and I could tell she didn't want to open up just yet. "I was under a lot of stress some time ago, and the doctor says that my system is still working it out."

I nodded. "That's pretty much my situation."

"I'm sure you've got me beat." She glanced my way, concern in her eyes.

"It's not a competition," I said, parroting the counselors at the VA. "You weren't attacked or anything, were you?"

"No," she said quickly.

"A bad relationship?" I guessed.

"No, nothing like that." She seemed to think for a moment and then qualified her response. "Actually, maybe it was like that. I had a job that was really stressful and much more intrusive than it should have been."

"Not with Porter?" I demanded, feeling anger rise in my chest.

"No, no!" She saw where I was going and threw up a hand to stop me. "Porter's great. Your dad is great. This was way before the lumberyard."

I relaxed. "It must have been bad."

"It was," she admitted. "I hung on for years. It was my first real job, and I didn't realize how toxic it was until it became too much and I had to quit."

"Well I'm glad you're out of that situation now," I told her.

"Me too."

We walked in silence for a few beats. "What's it like being home?" she asked.

I inhaled. It was a good question, one that most people didn't have the sense to ask. I had spent eight years in the desert, fighting for my life. It had become normal, and as friendly as Singer's Ridge was, I still hadn't found my equilibrium.

"It's different," I said honestly.

She laughed. "I bet. What was the one thing you missed the most from home, when you were overseas?"

"Apple pie," I replied.

She laughed. "Really?"

"Yeah. You could get decent coffee, beer, even Italian food, but nobody made apple pie the way moms in Singer's Ridge make it."

"I'll have to remember that," she mused.

"Why?" I teased. "What are you going to do with that information?"

"I could make an apple pie," she suggested.

"Have you ever made one before?" I asked.

"No," she admitted.

"Me neither," I said. "Mrs. Washington makes a mean one."

"The diner pie is good," she added.

"I used to dream of that diner pie."

"Did you sleep over there?" she asked, turning the conversation abruptly back to serious matters.

"No," I answered. "I haven't slept well in almost a decade."

I was thinking about my experience, and realized that for the first time, I was sharing parts of my life that I usually kept bottled up. It had been true that I fantasized about pie while eating powdered eggs and MREs overseas. I had never told anyone that before. It had been more than the sweet taste and crunchy texture that caused the yearning. It was everything the pie represented, the quiet streets and full pews at church, the short shorts and long hair that girls wore. Apple pie was America personified, and even though I had delayed my return, I still missed it.

Now, in the dead of night, I had found someone who understood.

"Do you miss it?" I asked. "Sleep, I mean."

She laughed. "Of course. It's a pain in the butt not to be able to sleep."

"I don't like being tired all the time, but I also don't like being unaware of what's going on around me," I said.

She let that go without comment. It felt good to talk to someone who wasn't a counselor and who wasn't a soldier. It reminded me that there were people in the world untouched by violence. We walked around the jogging path three or four times. An hour had passed, and the sky went from jet black to inky blue. I caught Aly yawning and decided to put an end to our magical promenade.

"Go home," I said.

She didn't argue.

"Maybe you can get some sleep."

She pulled out a set of car keys. "Where's your car?"

"I don't live too far from here," I lied.

She blinked sleep from her eyes, her lids heavy. I had a sudden urge to kiss her, to press my lips against hers and feel the tender opening of her mouth. From the look in her eyes, I saw she was thinking the same thing. Following my instincts, I lowered my mouth to hers, tasting the cool night air that had settled against her skin.

She came alive, infused with an energy that had been missing only moments before. Our tongues met, primed for the task from all the playful banter. Her touch wasn't greedy or overwhelming but knowledgeable and sensual. She opened to my exploration like a treasure chest beneath the waves, as if she had been waiting for me all along.

The kiss lasted a full minute, gentle yet insistent. When I drew back, she licked her lips, tasting the remnants of the moment. Exhaustion returned to her gaze almost instantly.

"Good night," I said.

"Good night." She grinned, heading back toward the parking lot.

I watched her go, still marveling that in this world it was safe for an unarmed person to walk alone. Afghanistan seemed like a different reality—one that I was finally coming to realize was over for me.