at an adventure camp that my sister started when she got back from Africa, and couldn’t drink while the kids were there. But I made sure to make up for it during the down times.”
“Did you get arrested again?” I ask, praying for a “no.”
“No, luckily. It got really bad, though, Nat. I lost a shitload of weight, slept or drank whenever I wasn’t working. I’m fuckin’ lucky I didn’t kill myself or someone else.” He picks at his thumbnail as he talks.
“Wait, back up a minute. Did you ever even try to reenlist after your drunk driving arrest?”
He laughs sarcastically. “I was fucked up, Nat, not stupid. Somehow I pulled it together to leave well enough alone. My discharge status was fine, I don’t know if I could have screwed it up by causing a scene, but that’s all I would have accomplished—a scene. I struggled with that the most, after the arrest. I felt like I’d let Luke down.”
Here it is, the first time we’re talking about Lucas.
“You know that’s not true.” I rub my hand on his knee for a second before pulling it away.
“I know that now.” His gorgeous blue eyes travel somewhere else, somewhere I’m not sure I’m ready to go. “Anyway,” he continues, “my mom found out about the pills and gave me an ultimatum. She said she’d kick me out if I didn’t go to rehab. And, Wyoming’s not really a place you want to wander around alone. Outside of the Park, it’s an incredibly depressing place with nothing going on.”
“So you went to rehab?”
“Yep. Outpatient. I got to deal with all kinds of fun things, like guilt, anger, my PTSD . . .”
“Ah, yes,” sighing, I kick my heels up and rest them on the coffee table, “good ‘ole PTSD.” It’s incredibly absurd that we’re talking about PTSD like it’s a great-uncle we haven’t seen in a while, but . . . whatever.
“I’m sorry, Natalie—”
Putting my hand up, I stop him. “Don’t, it’s fine. It wasn’t your fault—”
“I have to tell you, let me finish,” he cuts in. “I’ve waited a long time to tell you how sorry I am. I know most of it was the PTSD screwing up my brain, but, you deserved better, Nat.” I reach for his hand as he continues. “You deserved to have me telling you the truth when I told you I was getting help. You deserved someone who was willing to get better for you, someone who wasn’t going to push you around . . .” He hangs his head in apparent defeat. From the inside.
“Ryker,” I breathe, rubbing his back softly. It’s the first time I’ve seen what long-time guilt looks like from the outside, while it tears up someone’s insides.
“Thank you for staying with me as long as you did.” He reaches for my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine, still looking down.
Something like a chirp escapes my throat as I nod, tears pouring down my face.
Seriously, how much can one person cry in their lifetime?
“Also, thank you for pulling the fire alarm that night. It saved us both.” When his blue eyes, ones I once called my own, reach mine, I can’t take it anymore.
Instantly I release his hand and stand, pacing behind the couch with my hands knotted through my hair, trying to fight off a panic attack. Ryker’s brow furrows for a second before he heads to the kitchen and fills a glass with water, handing it to me calmly.
“Thanks.”
“It’s okay, Natalie. We’re not back there . . .” His eyes scroll across my face.
“I am. I have been. I never fucking left.” Pressing my palm into my forehead, I continue, “I need to get help, I can’t do this anymore. My boys need someone stronger than whatever this is . . .”
Ryker’s eyes close as relief seems to calm his face. Without hesitation, he reaches his hands up and touches my face. “You are strong, Natalie. After everything I already knew, and what you’ve told me tonight, you’re fucking amazing. But, you’re right, you do need help. We all do sometimes.”
It feels so good to have said it out loud—that I need help. I run my thumb over Ryker’s hand as he drops them from my face. “Thank you. Shit,” I say, looking at the clock, “it’s nearly midnight. I’m sorry I’ve kept you here for so long.”
“Are you going to be okay if I go?” He runs his hands down my shoulders on purpose. He wants to