Chapter 18

Put the phone down!

It's my twelfth reminder of the day and it's only ten o'clock in the morning. For two days straight, I've held this phone in my hand, waiting for it to ring. Willing it to ring. A phone call, a text message, anything. But they were all from someone else, not Rhett .

I thought maybe, with his fall the other day and overexertion in the gym, that he would need me that night. He probably had his friends over instead.

How many of them has he slept with?

I hate that my mind goes there, but I can't help it. It's a toxic thought, followed by the sting of jealousy, like poison in my blood.

Has he had a relationship with any of them? A friends-with-benefits arrangement?

Fucking quit, Riggs.

Aren't you gonna ask me if my dick works?

He's got some fucking nerve. I can't believe he asked me that.

Yes, you can. That's who he is. It's one of the things I love about him.

Love? Jesus Christ, I've got to get my mind off him before I combust.

Yesterday, when he didn't show up for therapy, I had to physically restrain myself from going after him. If I don't see him today, I might just…

My phone beeps, and I check the screen so fast I have whiplash. Again, it's not Rhett. Instead, it's the Bitches group chat, which is the last distraction I need right now since it only reminds me of him. The only reason I check the message is to see if he responds.

West:

He's not good.

Brandt:

Totally depressed.

Mandy:

We gotta do something or he'll lie in bed all day. Again.

So that's where he was yesterday, hiding under the covers. I can't blame him. His unit came home, and they're back on base and life goes on without him, a stark reminder that he's lost everything.

Nash:

Let's meet up at his place around two. I'll bring lunch.

I guess I won't be seeing West or Nash in the gym today, either. It's better this way, though. Rhett needs them. I'm still not over being pissed about how they set me up. Rhett hasn't made much of an effort to hide his attraction to me, and I think the guys have finally picked up on it and are trying to push us together because that's what nosy Bitches do.

I have time for two patients before lunch, and at twelve sharp, I head for the cafeteria. Brewer's right on time, coming down the hall at the same time as me from the opposite direction.

"Who's treating today?" he asks. "You or me?"

Smart ass. "I don't care. I just need the distraction."

Today they're serving spaghetti and meatballs, a side salad, garlic bread, and a bowl of minestrone soup. The cafeteria is always packed on spaghetti day, and I wave to Dylan and his dad.

Brewer and I snag our usual table, and as I begin to chew, I can feel the weight of his stare resting on my shoulders. "What?"

"Did I say anything?"

"You didn't have to. I can hear your thoughts like you're screaming."

He continues to shovel forkfuls of spaghetti into his mouth, chewing silently. My agitation mounts until I feel like I have ants crawling beneath my skin.

"Your boyfriend has a big mouth!" I stab my fork in his direction. His smug expression just pisses me off more.

"A long time ago, I learned this handy technique, where all I have to do is sit silently and listen, and a patient will bend over backward to fill that awkward silence with plenty of information. I don't even have to ask any questions, really. I just wait for them to find the answer on their own. Self-guided discovery."

"Is that what you're doing? You're shrinking me?"

"Is that what you want me to do?" he asks calmly, his face a mask of serenity.

Losing my patience, I kick his shin under the table, and he laughs.

I know he knows! And he knows I know he knows.

"The Bitches ratted me out."

He's still chuckling as he says, "As Bitches will do, but only because they care."

"Bullshit. It's revenge, pure and simple. Revenge for all the times I stuck my nose in their business. For all the pain they endured in my gym."

He twirls strands of spaghetti around the tines of his fork. "And was that because you cared?"

Fuck. There's no getting around this. "Obviously, whatever I'm doing isn't working. The situation between us is progressing, and I don't know what to do about it."

"Don't you?"

"If I did, would I be asking you for advice?"

"Oh, I didn't hear you ask." He pops a meatball in his mouth.

Lord in heaven, give me the patience not to choke this man. "Brewer, in your expert opinion," I mock, "what do you think I should do about Rhett's growing attraction toward me?"

"What do you want to do?" he returns frustratingly.

"Come the fuck on, Brewer. That's not advice, you're just turning the tables on me. If I wanted to answer my own questions, I wouldn't be asking you."

"You already have the answer. You don't need to ask me."

"Really? And what's that?"

He glances over his shoulder toward the vending machines. "Sit tight, I'll be right back." Brewer crosses the room and purchases a snack from the machines, and when he returns, he drops a king-sized candy bar on the table.

"Dessert? I haven't even finished lunch yet."

Brewer takes his seat. "Tell me what you see."

"A big-ass candy bar."

"Yes," he laughs. "But look closer. What do you see?"

I don't know what game he's playing with me, and I wish he would just make his damn point already. Reading from the label, I say aloud, "Dark chocolate, family-sized bar, seventy-seven percent cacao, satisfaction guaranteed."

"Good. What does that mean?"

Blowing out a frustrated sigh, I push my garlic bread through a puddle of spaghetti sauce on my plate. "I don't know, that it's sweet? Just say what you want to say."

"At first glance, it's a huge bar of chocolate. Sweet, decadent, and delicious. You want it. It's hard to resist."

"Is the candy bar supposed to be Rhett in this situation?"

"Do you want it to be?" he asks with a raised brow.

"Jesus Christ, just go on."

Brewer grins, clearly amused by my irritation. "Your second thought is that as much as you want to have it, you know sensibly that if you eat an entire king-size candy bar in one sitting, there will be consequences, correct?"

"Yeah, I'll have a stomachache. I'll feel like shit." Where is he going with this?

"Exactly! So, it's a red flag and you pull back. But if you look closer, maybe flip it over and read the ingredients, you can see it says that it's seventy-seven percent cacao, dark chocolate with very little sugar. Many studies show that dark chocolate is actually beneficial to your health. Abundant in antioxidants and minerals, and it supports brain function, a healthy heart, and healthy skin."

"Are you lobbying for Hershey's ?"

"No," he smirks. "Just pointing out that perhaps your red flags are biased against most chocolate bars, but not this chocolate bar in particular."

"Good God, do you feed this shit to your patients?" I blow out a heavy breath and grab my iced tea. "Okay, so the chocolate bar is sweet and delicious and healthy for me. Now what?"

"Knowing that, would you still grab it and eat the entire thing in one sitting?"

"Probably not. I'm still gonna get a stomachache."

"Exactly, because everything in moderation, correct?"

"Yeah, moderation," I agree.

"So, if you were to approach the candy bar with that attitude, eating small amounts here and there, perhaps two ounces a day, would that make you sick?"

"No, probably not."

"I guess you could say the same about jumping headfirst into a relationship. Moderation is key."

"All that for that? Really?"

Brewer chuckles. Setting down his fork, he leans back in his chair, regarding me thoughtfully. "Let's try a different approach, a non-food related approach. As a therapist, when your patient comes to you with an injury, usually they're in pain and hurting, and probably afraid to start therapy. Correct?"

"Now you're in my wheelhouse. And yes, usually they are afraid. I have to gain their trust before I can see any real progress with them."

He nods. "They have to trust that you're going to protect their vulnerabilities, and that if you push them past what they think they can handle, that it won't turn out badly. Correct?"

"Yeah, that's exactly right."

"Imagine you're the patient, that it's Rhett who you have to trust with your vulnerabilities, and that if you push yourself outside of your comfort zone, it's not going to hurt you and cause further injury."

Christ, I hate it when he's smarter than me. "And if it all blows up in my face?"

Brewer rubs his hands together. "Well, at least your best friend is a therapist."

I hate his smirk.

I hate that he's right.

I hate that I have to push myself out of my comfort zone now and make the first move.

No, Rhett made the first move. He's made it twenty fucking times. The ball is in my court now.

Brewer leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table. "I just want what's best for you."

"And you think this is what's best for me? Honestly?"

"Would I have wasted my lunch hour if I didn't?"

On my way out of the cafeteria, I drop the candy bar on Dylan's table and ruffle the kid's hair. "Not one bite until you finish all your spaghetti."

Knowing what I have to do and wanting to do it are two completely different things.

Searching through my contacts, I find Loretta's name and hit send.

"Hello," she answers.

From what Rhett has told me about his mother, I've imagined Scarlett O'Hara's doppelg?nger, and her voice doesn't disappoint. It's pure southern.

"Hello, ma'am. I'm looking for Loretta Marsh?"

"This is she."

"My name is Riggs. Navarro Riggs. I'm Rhett's?—"

"Riggs!" she exclaims. "I know exactly who you are. Rhett has told me so much about you. Is my little pecan okay?"

Little pecan? Oh, I can't wait to use that. "Mostly. He's doing well with his recovery, working really hard in the gym and pushing himself a little too hard sometimes. I'm calling because I think he might be feeling down. Really down. He needs a boost, and I think you're just the face he needs to see."

She pauses before asking, "What happened to him?"

"His unit came home from deployment. They visited him and he was so happy to see them, but when they left, well, he's been down ever since." Down is an understatement. He's still hiding under the damn covers.

"What can I do? My poor, sweet boy, he needs his mama. He's been through so much. If only I could just get there, wrap him in my arms, and cheer him up."

"Ma'am? Is there a reason you can't come?"

She sighs tiredly. "I feel just plain tuckered out. I can't fix myself to rights lately. If I piddle around for more than just a minute, I'm completely wiped. I just don't see how I can travel all the way there from Louisiana."

I'm not sure exactly how old Loretta is, but no matter, she shouldn't be feeling that level of exhaustion if she's healthy. "Ma'am, have you gone to a doctor? Maybe you should get checked out."

"Oh, I reckon, but no need to 'cause a fuss over me."

I'm not making any headway like this, so I try a different approach. "Loretta, Rhett needs you. I wouldn't be calling if he didn't need you that bad. Please, for him?" She sniffles, and I can hear the pain in her voice. Knowing her son is hurting is killing her. "Maybe it would be easier for you if I come and get you myself? I'll drive you back home when you're ready."

"Really?" she asks hopefully. "You would come all this way just for my persnickety old ass?"

"Yes, ma'am, for Rhett."

"You must be something real special, Navarro Riggs. I can tell. A mother knows these things."

I chuff, humored by her intuition. "Pack your bags, ma'am. I'm coming for you."

I must've been high when I called her.

I shake myself awake as I pass through my third state and turn the radio up. "Welcome to Louisiana," my GPS informs me.

Loretta lives up north, near Ruston. I don't have much longer to go. My worry for Loretta kept me awake for most of the drive. She shouldn't be that tired. What if something's wrong? The nurse in me won't let it go. Loretta lives alone now that Rhett is gone, and probably thinks she doesn't have to take care of herself because she has no one left relying on her, but she's wrong. Dead wrong. Rhett relies on her. She's all he's got left.

The GPS leads me through an older section of town with large historic homes immaculately maintained and landscaped. Just as I start to think Rhett hid the fact that he came from money, I realize my ETA still says I'm ten minutes away. Passing through the old neighborhoods, I head back out of town through endless fields of sugarcane. There are fewer homes out here, spaced further apart, and some look like former plantation homes, and others, rundown farmhouses. I turn down a gravel drive that leads to one of those. The two-story home has seen better days. Faded yellow paint is peeling off the wooden siding, and the aluminum gutter on the left side of the house is hanging askew, and that's just the start of the repair list.

I grab my duffel from the backseat and make my way up the broken concrete path. Loretta opens the screen door, waiting to greet me with a huge smile. She's a tiny woman, her bright red hair dyed and pulled into a bun. She's wearing a blue dress and an apron that looks older than she is.

"Riggs! Or is it Navarro?"

"Riggs," I correct, sliding my arm around her tiny waist. I pull her in for a hug and breathe in her sweet perfume.

"Well, you just call me Retta. Come on in, honey. I've got biscuits in the oven. We're havin' crawfish and dumplins."

I don't know what to address first—my joy over having homemade cooking, the fact I just crossed the threshold into a freaking museum that could honestly be the thrift store version of the set of Gone with the Wind , or that she switched out the chicken for crawfish.

"Retta? So you're Rhett and Retta?" How fucking cute.

"Isn't that just a hoot? I bet my son told you to call me Loretta. He gets so doggone embarrassed about his name. Did he tell you his middle name?"

A smile touches my lips. "He did, the first night we met," I recall, trying not to get lost in the memories. Every time I think about that night, I get sucked into the past. "He doesn't know I'm here."

Retta wipes her hands on her apron and then places them on her slim hips. "What nonsense are you talkin', boy? Why wouldn't he know you're here?"

"As I explained, he's having a difficult time right now. We haven't exactly talked in the last few days. He's sort of hiding out."

"Is that normal behavior for him? Does he do that often?"

"Not since he moved to Black Mountain, no. Before that, I couldn't say."

"Sit down, Riggs. Can I get you some tea, hun?"

"Yes, please." Beside the fridge, there's a macramé wreath tacked to the wall. Everything in my mother's kitchen is perfectly matched, from the paint on the walls and the fabric of the cushions to the hardware on the cabinets and the finish of the appliances. Retta's kitchen is a mismatched hodgepodge of collected things that feel homey and comfortable. It feels lived in.

"Let me ask you a question, and you better give me God's honest truth. Should I be worried about him?"

"Ma'am, I drove eleven hours to get here, and I'm going to drive eleven hours back, and when you're ready to come back home, I'm going to make the trip all over again. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't worried about him."

I've worked with so many veterans and served with them, and I've seen the consequence of ignoring the warning signs that someone is in trouble. Last year, I watched West struggle terribly, trying repeatedly to take his own life. I witnessed Nash's battle against drugs and alcohol as a way to cope with the insanity in his head. I'd rather suck-start a pistol than watch Rhett suffer through the same hell.

She places a glass of tea before me and retrieves the biscuits from the oven. "My God, they smell delicious."

"Come and wash up at the sink while I make your plate," she instructs me.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I have to say, I'm a bit nervous about this trip. I haven't traveled this far in years."

"You mentioned you weren't feeling well. Are you sure you're up for this trip?"

We take our seats at the table and she serves two steaming plates of dumplings. The fragrant steam wafting in my face makes my stomach growl with hunger.

"Whether I am or not won't stop me from going to see my son. I can't tell you how grateful I am that you came for me. It broke my heart not to be able to see him as soon as he came home, just thinking of him lying in that hospital, hurtin' so bad and all alone."

"He wasn't completely alone."

Retta squeezes my hand. "You're a special man, Navarro Riggs. You'll always have a place at my table."

I have to swallow past the lump forming in my throat. The sudden rush of emotion is unexpected. My mother doesn't inspire the same warmth and generosity as Loretta Marsh, and it's been a long time since I've felt so welcome at someone's table.

She's wrong about me. I'm not special, but she is .

I see where Rhett gets it from.

"I remember the day he told me he was joinin' the Army to jump out of planes. We were sittin' at this table. I nearly choked on my fried chicken."

I can't help but laugh. "I bet that was a shock for you. Why would anyone want to jump out of a perfectly good plane?"

"It wasn't that so much as him volunteerin' to move thousands of miles away from me. He never talked about college, so I just assumed he would stay right here after he graduated. I didn't know he was itchin' to go off and see the world."

"I think he feels lost, struggling to figure out where he belongs and what comes next."

Retta picks up her fork, loaded with crawfish and a dumpling, and pauses halfway to her mouth. "We'll help him find his place. We'll help Rhett figure out where he belongs."

He belongs with me. I shake my head, erasing the thought.

After dinner, which was decidedly one of the best meals I've ever eaten, Retta directs me up the stairs. "You can bunk in Rhett's room. We'll leave first thing after breakfast in the mornin'."

On the landing, I pause. A huge gilt-framed portrait catches my eye. I recognize Loretta, but the other man… "Is that Clark Gable?"

Retta's laughter floats up the stairs. "Rhett had that painted for me for my fortieth birthday. Isn't it somethin'?"

Oh, it's something, all right .

At the top of the stairs, I turn left, and there's no mistaking which door belongs to him. There's a macaroni heart taped to it he must have made over twenty years ago. Above that is a handwritten sign that says ‘ Rhett's room: Trespassers will be made to do chores .'

I enter with a smile on my face that grows exponentially wider when I get a load of his bed. The sheets on the twin-sized mattress look decidedly familiar, and very similar to the ones I bought for him recently. Wooden shelves line the walls dotted with baseball and soccer trophies. A Louisville Slugger leans against the headboard. Dozens of paratrooper posters are taped to the walls.

After washing up in the bathroom down the hall, I change into a pair of plaid sleep pants and climb under his covers. The old frame squeaks, but the mattress is soft enough that I won't have any trouble falling asleep.

How many nights did he lie here wondering what he would be when he grew up? Unfortunately, he's still trying to figure that out.

I can feel him here, like a dominating presence in the room, as if he crawled under the covers to lie beside me. I may be thousands of miles away from him tonight, but I've never felt so close to him. Except maybe that first night we met, when he refused to let go of my hand. When he cried with me and begged me not to leave him alone.

I bet he feels alone tonight, lying in his bed, wondering why everyone he loved left him.

I haven't left you, Rhett. I'm coming home.