Chapter 4

LIAM

I don't miss the army. I miss the people. At least, I do until moments like this. Matt spots me exiting the alley from the driver's seat in my van, and by the time I'm halfway across the car park, his grin is feral.

This is the problem with sharing blood, sweat, and tears with someone I'd think was half wolf if I didn't know better. Not because Matt's hair is shaggy now that dress regulations don't apply to us. And not because he's got a nose for sniffing out all my secrets. After close to ten years of living and working with him, I can't keep anything from him. But surely Matt has to be partly feral to get out of the van, tip his head up at a nonexistent moon, and howl?

I'm expecting exactly what he shouts next; he's such a predictable tosspot.

"Sexy, you dirty, dirty dog."

I jog the rest of the distance and snatch the keys he dangles before he can howl again. He clambers in as I start the van and scan the rest of the car-park spaces. Part of me is glad that Rowan's car is already gone. Another sliver of me whispers that I should have driven him the rest of the way to his interview. He had to be in shock. I should have made sure he got there with no more disasters, but I've got a meeting of my own to get to and less time to prepare for it than I'd planned.

But Rowan was really frazzled, wasn't he?

He must have been to dart back like that and kiss a total stranger. And what does it say about me that I'd been fully on board with kissing him back, right where anyone could see us?

A final, unthinking part of me must be on autopilot. I touch my lips while Matt's watching, which is fatal.

"You dirty, dirty dog," he repeats, only this time with rough admiration. "Did you really bang that jumper?"

"Bang him? Fuck off. I took him back to where he was staying, that's all. To get cleaned up, like I need to right now. And he wasn't a jumper." Rowan might have zero survival instincts but he didn't do it on purpose. "He was trying to do the right thing. Bit off more than he could chew, that's all. We've all been there. Or do you need me to remind you about that time in Estonia? Seem to recall you throwing yourself into a fight you should have stayed out of."

I glance Matt's way, then pull out of the car park to take the steep hill out of this village. Bunting strung between fishermen's cottages flutters, waving us goodbye. I barely notice, too busy gripping the wheel because Matt isn't even close to distracted.

"That fight was for true love," he says as if he's affronted. "For one night with the hottest medic on the planet anyway. You can't compare that with you banging some civilian muppet in"—he checks his watch—"five minutes flat. What were you attempting? A sex-related land speed record?" He shakes his head. "You're letting down our half section's reputation."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not still in it."

My seat belt doesn't press me back into my seat when I brake at a junction.

It's Matt's forearm.

"Sexy." He keeps me pinned, and there haven't been many people who can do that or make me face what I always want to avoid. Matt's one of the few left, so I meet his bare gaze. "Your half section never leaves you."

He's evidence of that. "Yeah," I admit. "I know that."

"So come home for the next meetup. It's during the May half-term break. All the kids will be there."

I don't answer. Instead, I follow the same stretch of coast road I last took at high speed for Rowan. This time, I don't gun the engine, going hell for leather, sure I'd reach him too late to save him. I pass that lay-by where my tyre marks still gouge the gravel and keep going without answering until Matt says, "Liam?—"

That's when I do pull over, stopping in a different lay-by to stall him, because Matt using my real name instead of calling me Sexy is a signal that he's about to launch into a conversation we can't keep having.

"Hold that thought." I get out and cross to the other side of the coast road. That's where I flag down a farmer on a quad bike and tell him about the wire I twisted to close a gap in one of his fences. "Not sure it will hold for too long. You might want to check it if you don't want to lose another lamb."

"A lamb?"

"Yeah. A little one. Looked newborn. Went over the cliff, the daft beggar. It's back with its mum now."

"This one?" He fishes out a phone to show me a photo of a redheaded teen beaming with pride, his arms full of a familiar woolly menace.

"Could be."

"Got it." The farmer shoves away his phone and fishes a multi-tool from his pocket. "Thanks a lot."

"No problem." I almost leave it at that. Honesty makes me tag on, "It wasn't me who went over the cliff to save it."

"Who did?" The farmer leans around me, perhaps scanning the camper van, but it isn't Matt I mention.

"Someone a lot braver."

This is what Rowan didn't seem to have any idea of. I saw the edge he hurled himself over and I saw the rocks from close up that could have smashed his brains out. Him risking that outcome was stupid, but everything that came after? "He didn't let go of it for a second." That's courage, plain and simple. So was him heading off for a last-chance interview that must scare him shitless given how his chest kept hitching. I've seen men react like that in combat and watched them grind to a dead stop. He kept going, didn't he? And as for snatching a kiss from a bloke built like me?

Yeah, he's brave. And bravery?

That's what I've run out of.

It's also why I shut Matt down when I get back in the van and he says, "The next meetup?—"

"Leave it, yeah? At least until I get this business meeting squared away."

Five minutes later, I'm back at the campsite with Matt in step beside me. He matches my quick march to the shower block, the weirdo, but he also passes me a towel once I've washed away sand and sheep shit. He also tells me why he's my shadow. "You can't keep avoiding everyone."

"I'm not." I'm saving them from more pain. That's different.

He huffs. "You missed every meetup last year. Miss another and they'll send out a search party."

This campsite is almost on the beach. The roar of waves is loud, but it still doesn't drown out my guilt. "I know, I know." I can't help covering an ear as if that will muffle how weak that comes out sounding. Of course, Matt notices that move, the observant fucker.

"It's bad today?"

"The tinnitus?" Such a stupid reason to blow up more lives than my own. "It's the same as fucking ever."

"RadioNSFW still playing nonstop in your noggin?"

Nonstop fucking whistles is exactly what I can't tune out. Nonstop swooshing or whirring as well. Don't get me started on different kinds of humming static or bells that wake me from deep sleeps.

Matt won't quit either once I'm dressed for a business meeting. He keeps yapping all the way to the base of a different cliff, where a pair of boulders shield the foot of a stone staircase cut into its steep face. I climb while Matt lists people who've asked after me since my medical discharge. I'm almost at the top when he says, "And Twin Two asked?—"

I turn on my heel, and maybe that makes me as bad as Rowan—these steps are narrow and slippery, so I lurch, but Matt's got me.

When hasn't he?

He's tracked me down so often. Found me on so many worksites since my discharge. Stayed with me when I've made it clear that all I want is silence. He hasn't ever given up. Not even once. That means I have to listen, and not to what blast damage left me with as a permanent going-away gift.

In the background, surf crashes and seagulls swoop. These gulls don't play chase like those down at Porthperrin's harbour when Rowan surprised me into responding to a kiss, one I would have carried him back up those stairs to continue if a clock hadn't been ticking. These gulls shriek, and so do more sirens at Matt's suggestion.

"Come back to Devon with me after your meeting, yeah?"

I glance to the right as if I'll see the county line between Cornwall and Devon—between me and Matt's home turf. It's also where we used to be stationed together and spent every leave rebuilding a pair of cottages. I wonder if he's made much progress lately, but I still snap, "No."

Matt isn't done trying. "You can help me with the renovation."

"You don't need my help with that." He doesn't need me at all. These days, he's safe and sound where no one wants to shell him out of existence while his bestie ignores the warning that could save him. "You don't need me to watch your back." Anyone else would be better than me. "You could finish renovating the whole place yourself with your eyes closed."

The roar of the incoming tide almost washes away his answer. "I want you to do it with me. I miss your stupid face."

Now that I'm a civilian, I shouldn't still get knocked sideways by blasts, but each time Matt tells me I'm still needed fucks with my forward motion.

I can't go back.

I clear my throat. "I won't be in the West Country for long."

"You're definitely gonna take those demolition jobs up-country?"

"You say up-country like I'll be on the dark side of the moon."

"Might as well be," he grumbles. "Have you said yes to all of them?"

I should do. Demolition is my bread and butter these days, and the York job will pay top whack for my explosives licence. "I've agreed to one next week and to a couple of short gigs in Blackpool. And if I'm up there anyway, I might as well take the York job." And it will put hundreds of miles and a long drive between me and another looming meetup invite that I can't face yet.

Yet?

It's been almost two years. I'm no closer now than ever.

I still dredge up more excuses. "Plus, it's closer to my folks. Been a while since I saw them." I ignore that it's been even longer since I saw the rest of the crew I used to live and work with. And their families. Their wives and husbands. Their kids.

I get back to climbing, taking another gritty step without him.

Matt doesn't let up, following my every footstep and still peppering me with questions. "So why are you bothering to meet?—"

"Dominic Dymond? Because I already did a demo job for someone he used to work with. Jason asked me to take a look at this project for him, so I said I would. It looks…" Interesting might not sum up a partial demolition to most people. They only think my job means making tall factory chimneys fall down neatly, or they picture clouds of dust after I make high-rise buildings slump and crumple. This project means removing the side of an old building, stone by stone most likely, no explosives needed. "It looks a challenge."

I'd need to take my time, not hurry, and…

I'm so tired of all this running.

Matt hooks on to something different. "If this job keeps you down here in the West Country for a while, take it instead of the York job, yeah? At least think about it."

"I will."

I won't.

His footsteps stop as if he hears that, and here's the real kicker—even after almost two years?

I still hate moving on without him.

Dominic Dymond has a firm handshake."Good to meet you." He shows me through a renovated cottage. In contrast to the pair I've worked on with Matt, this one is finished and fucking gorgeous. It's also a family home rather than a showpiece—dollies having a tea party in the kitchen are evidence of that, and that's where he leads me. He moves one doll from a stool that he pushes out for me. "Please, make yourself at home. And thanks for coming here rather than to the Porthperrin office." He sets the dolly down with the others at a child-sized table. "My daughter is under the weather so I'm on Daddy duty."

"No problem. Can you tell me more about the project, Mr. Dymond? About why you said it was nonstandard."

"Dom, please." He spreads out plans on a kitchen island, skylights above us illuminating an interesting challenge. "This is the second part of a rolling programme of renovation at an old private school."

That gives me pause. "A school?"

"Yes." He brings up photos on an iPad. "Glynn Harber hasn't been well maintained, and extra rooms have been tacked on over the years in a mishmash. This is where we started." He shows me a ramshackle Gothic building, then scrolls through a start-to-finish montage. "And this is it now." The end result is stunning. "We didn't need any demolition work there. The bones of the building were sound, and we managed to reuse and repurpose what was there already, which is always my preference. The library though?" He sucks his teeth. "It's a whole other kettle of fish."

"You've got surveys I can take a look at?"

That's how we spend the next half hour poring over reports and sketches. By the time we finish, we've been joined by a little girl with a snotty nose who sucks her thumb while in her daddy's arms. Her curls are a wild tangle in a bittersweet reminder of another little girl who must be the same age by now. She's also wary, which is another reminder—this time of someone whose glasses couldn't mask his worry when he left me.

I'm not surprised she's cautious. I know what I look like, so I try to take up less space and to smile instead of scare her. I speak softly, hoping my voice isn't too much of a growl. "Is that a mermaid on your T-shirt?"

The little girl nods, smiling around her thumb, and her daddy sighs. "Maisie here thinks she is one. The worst thing about living with a sea view is trying to keep her out of the water twenty-four seven." He tilts his head at the iPad. "So, what do you think?"

"I think that if you take out even part of this wall, the rest of the school building could?—"

"Is that Peppa Pig I hear?"

His reason for cutting me off is clear once his daughter scampers back to wherever she was watching TV. He still lowers his voice like she might overhear him.

"Maisie's very attached to her school. You were about to tell me it would collapse, right?"

"Yeah." I squint at the plans. "But you must know how to take additional precautions. How to stagger the work around inserting new steels that can carry the load."

"I do. I just can't take a single risk with this rebuild." He makes a confession, and maybe today is a day for bravery because he plainly states what might be easier to keep private. Or maybe it's a test of my reaction. "My husband works at the school. He's very invested in the library rebuild. That's why I need the right person to get the project started. Someone super-careful. Not only a true demolition expert, but someone who understands the whole rebuild process. You know all about construction, right? And how to come up with creative solutions?"

That's one way of describing what it takes to be a Sapper. We forge roads and landing strips from craters, and clear rubble to rebuild bridges out of almost nothing. Creative? Conflict is the mother of invention, and I've seen plenty, so I nod and he continues.

"Jason says you're the right man for the job. Can you fit us into your schedule?"

He turns a contract towards me to show me a figure that isn't as much as the York job would net me. But it also doesn't have the same explosive potential to fire me into orbit, even if some days the silence of outer space is tempting.

At least, it was for a while.

I'm learning to live with tinnitus. With being alone with it instead of sharing constant barracks chatter.

Now I drag in a breath, considering as Dom asks, "More to the point, would you want to?"

"Let me think about it."

His shoulders don't slump. They straighten, and I like that about him. Gotta respect someone who doesn't give up.

Like Rowan.

I spend the next ten minutes in a kitchen negotiating contract clauses and timings but, like earlier, part of me is busy wondering how the rest of the day is going for someone whose wary gaze still hasn't faded for me. Especially when Dom shifts, and I glimpse a framed photo of someone who could be Rowan. At least, the traffic-stopping smile of the blond in the photo could be his.

Maybe that's why I can't stop thinking about him. The contrast between the blinding smile he gave me after that kiss and all the cautiousness I also witnessed intrigued me.

It still does.

Another glance at the photo shows a different man pictured with Dom, his daughter wearing a bridesmaid dress held snug between them. Dom shifts again, blocking my view of that wedding photo. "When could you let me know your final decision?"

"I won't keep you waiting." I need to think about reasons that don't only come down to money—like Matt, and having more miles between his meetup reminders than less. "I've got a few smaller jobs I'm already committed to, and one longer-term potential contract. Can I let you know?"

"Do that." He walks me back to the path leading to those cliffside steps. "Message me. Doesn't matter how late," he tells me. "The timings are all a bit crucial if we're going to have scope to gut the inside of the main building during the summer holidays. That's why the library has to come first. No point renovating the rest if it's all going to end up as a pile of rubble. Austin will sleep better once we know where we stand with getting the project started by an expert."

"Happy wife, happy life, right?"

Dom's bark of laughter carries, cutting through tinnitus static for a welcome moment. Then that internal roar is back, complete with high-pitched whining that threads through what he tags on. "He'd have your bollocks for calling him that, but yeah. I'm all about marital bliss, so I hope you'll decide in our favour."

We shake again, and I head back down the steps to the beach. It's thinner now, just a sliver of sand left, the waves foaming so much closer to Matt. He leans on one of those twin boulders, his hair damp with sea spray. "You took your time. Finally found your voice, Mr. Chatty?" He casts an eye upwards. "Don't tell me. You couldn't drag yourself away from another blond and pretty muppet."

Matt's still got my number.

I've still got his too. "More like a sizzling, salt-and-pepper Daddy."

"Shit." Matt pants with his tongue out. "I should have come up there with you."

We head back to the campsite as I knock my shoulder against his. "But seriously, why didn't you wait for me in the van, you wazzock?"

He knocks my shoulder with his in return, the great lump, then catches my elbow when I stumble. "Because someone had to make sure you made it back in one piece."

That's another reminder of someone I can't stop picturing.

I hope Rowan's okay.

It's also why I change back into a poop-stained wetsuit as soon as we're back at the van.

"Haven't you had enough for the day?" Matt bitches because he's a lazy fucker. He also frowns with concern. "Or is Radio NSFW getting louder?" He must decide that's why I head back to the beach with my longboard, where the sound of the sea almost, but not quite, negates my internal racket.

But here's really why I can never ditch him, and why I keep circling back to the West Country between projects even though staying away would surely be easier on all of us—Matt guesses why I want to get back into the water and doesn't take the piss out of me. He just says, "You dirty, dirty dog," before ruffling my hair and grabbing his own longboard.

We both paddle out, battling the tide and current together. Then he surfs right beside me up to the base of a cliff where he minds my board so I can clamber around jagged rocks. That's where I find what Rowan lost, what left him so vulnerable that I couldn't leave him.

His glasses are wrapped with strands of seaweed in a rock pool. The frames are scuffed but the lenses are intact, so I raise them like a trophy—like the stupidest prize ever.

Matt shakes his head, but he also tips his head up and howls. And for the first time since the medical discharge I never wanted, I don't feel like a complete loser.