The Patriot A Small Town Romance - Jennifer Millikin Page 0,85
wonder in her voice and step into the shower, leaving a portion of the sliding glass door open so I can talk to her.
“Not that I know of,” I answer, tipping my head back into the warm spray of the shower. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking of you.”
“I hope these were positive thoughts.”
I can practically hear her eye roll. “Of course they were, Dakota.”
“How are you?”
“Who cares, let’s talk about you. How are you? How’s the project? How’s Sierra Grande?”
She’s really asking How’s Wes? but she’s trying to be roundabout.
“Good, I suppose.” I squirt shampoo into my palm and lather it in my hair. “FYI, I’m taking a shower.”
“Thanks for not calling me on FaceTime.”
“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“True story. Now start talking because you sound weird and it probably has something to do with that sexy, brooding cowboy.”
I angle my face toward the opening in the shower door and keep my hair in the running water. “I slept with him, Ab.”
She whistles. “Tell me everything. Married sex is boring.”
“Does Wes seem like the kind of guy who wants me to air our intimate moments?”
Abby makes a sound, almost like an irritated growl. “Fine. Just tell me if it was like you remember it?”
I bite my lip at the ache spreading throughout my belly and down into my thighs. “It was better.”
Abby laughs. “Good for you, Dakota. Good for him, too. Something tells me he needed that.”
“I agree.” Especially after that nightmare. I’m not going to tell Abby that part. It’s Wes’s to share, and I’m pretty sure I already know how likely he is to tell anybody about that. “He told his family we’re getting married.”
When she doesn’t respond, I assume she hasn’t heard me and I repeat myself.
“Dakota.” Her tone is more serious now. “When are you planning on telling Dad?”
One side of my nose screws up as I contemplate her question. “Never would be preferable.” It’s crossed my mind that maybe, with a little luck and a whole lot of well-meaning fibs, I could get through this marriage of convenience without telling him. It would be cowardly, but so much easier.
“Dakota…”
She’s using her big sister voice.
“I know, I know. Just let me think about that a little more, okay?” I press my face into the water, so I don’t hear what she says next and ask her to repeat it.
“I asked if it was just sex.”
Wes’s words come back to me. I feel like it’s easier to breathe. What are you doing to me?
“I don’t think so, Ab. We agreed that it meant something, but that we both still need what the other can provide.”
“What a mess.”
“A messy mess.” I sigh and turn off the shower. “I need to get ready for work now.”
We say goodbye and hang up. I get ready for work, and the entire drive over all I see is Wes’s face, his shuttered heart opening up for me. It feels precious and terrifying, like holding a newborn baby.
29
Wes
Dakota was right. I stopped by the Merc yesterday. On a board near the entrance, stuck between an advertisement for lawn mowing and coupons to a craft store, was a light blue paper. PTSD support group, VFW Post 0507. Below that, it listed the address and meeting time.
I took a picture with my phone, bought a package of sunflower seeds and a bottle of water, and spent ten minutes looking at funny postcards. I forgot how much I loved going to the Merc with my mom when I was little.
I’m on my way to the meeting now. I don’t know what to expect, and that makes me nervous. Are we going to sit around and talk? How many people will be there? Do I really want to share my story with strangers?
I guess that’s another thing Dakota is right about. I need to talk to people who’ve been in the military. People who understand.
I pull into the parking lot and kill the engine. The VFW is a long, squat building, made of gray bricks. An American flag undulates in the breeze, and a handful of cars are parked out front.
Growing up in Sierra Grande, I passed this place plenty of times, and my dad explained VFW stood for Veterans of Foreign War. I pictured old men, wrinkled and wearing pins on their hats. From my childlike point of view, veterans were old.
I get out of my truck. Here I am, and I’m not old. Or maybe I am.