Out of the Ashes Read online

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Hendy

  “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, Momma K.”

  As I lean against her kitchen counter, Foster’s mother shushes my apology, waving it off.

  “Nonsense, sweetheart.” The older woman’s head disappears inside her refrigerator before withdrawing a large container I’d recognize anywhere. Prosciutto wrapped mozzarella. This sweet Italian woman cures everything with that stuff, I swear. “I figured you’d come around to see me when you were ready.” Her dark eyes study me intently.

  Reaching into the proffered container, I grab one prosciutto wrapped mozzarella. Lump forming in my throat, I avert my gaze, staring down at the cheese with the cured meat spiraling around it before I set it aside. My throat feels too tight, and likely, for the first time, Momma K’s going to realize she can’t fix this—can’t fix me—with her offering of food.

  “You’ve always been like another mom to me—to all of us. I should’ve come to see you earlier.” I force the words out, heavy with regret, because they need to be voiced. This is long overdue.

  “Hendy.” Her tone is one filled with such sadness that it has me raising my eyes to hers. “I know you had to take your time to deal with everything.” Letting out a heavy sigh, Momma K steps toward me, reaching out to grasp one of my hands. “Especially after all you’ve been through. But you should know I’m always here for you, honey.”

  My eyes focus on her hand on mine, the older, slightly wrinkled skin a contrast to my own. But there’s no mistaking the warmth of compassion in her touch.

  “You probably know about…”

  “About Dr. Presley?” I hear the smile in her voice as she moves away, checking on something in the oven.

  “You heard about her?”

  Turning around, Momma K rests against the counter, crossing her arms, and gives me one of those looks.

  “Ah”—I let out a tight chuckle—“I forget how small Fernandina Beach is.”

  “Or that my other boys tell me everything.” Her brown eyes sparkle with amusement.

  I can’t miss the fact that she says “other boys,” implying I’m one of them. And that’s the thing about Momma K; she takes everyone under her wing. Foster’s sweet mother is that lady who insists everyone call her Momma K—not Mrs. Kavanaugh. She’s the one who took it upon herself to send care packages to us when we were deployed along with Foster. Just because.

  She’s also the woman who insists on “family dinner nights” at least one Sunday a month. And those designated dinner nights include only three people who are blood-related: Momma K, Foster, and his sister, Laney. The other dozen or so are friends she’s welcomed—with open arms.

  And I’m the asshole who’s been shunning it the entire time I’ve been here.

  “She’s a sweet young lady, your Pres—”

  “I’m sorry,” I interrupt abruptly. “I’m really sorry for everything. For not coming to see you. I just…” I falter, feeling the painful tightness in my chest as my eyes begin to burn. Gripping the brim of my ball cap, I tug it lower, my hands remaining atop my hat as I stare down at the kitchen floor. “I just…hate the way I…look.” The last word comes out as a hoarse whisper.

  As soon as her arms enfold me in her embrace, everything I’ve been dreading actually happens. Wrapping my arms around Momma K, I bow my head, my cheek pressed against her hair, and I cry.

  For the first time since the night I lost my friends—my brothers—in that desert, I cry.

  * * *

  I let myself into the quiet house after my visit with Momma K, feeling emotionally drained. Upon closing and locking the door behind me, I hear the automatic doggy door slide up and the sound of Izzy’s nails tapping on the hardwood floors. Coming to sit right before me as I slide off my flip-flops onto the mat by the door and set my keys on the small entryway table, I squat down to pet her soft fur.

  “Hey, girl.” She nuzzles me, her wet nose pressing against my cheek before she gives me one big doggy kiss. “I missed you, too.” Izzy cocks her head to the side, and I swear it’s like she’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with me.

  “It’s been one of those days.” Rising, I walk over to drop onto the couch, bracing my forearms on my knees with my cell phone in hand. Izzy comes over and lies by my feet, placing her paws on them as if trying to comfort me.

  Peering down at her, I twist my lips in a humorless grin. “You think I should call him, don’t you?” As if she understands my question, she raises her head and tips it to the side like she’s considering it. “That would mean you’d be traveling. Feel like road tripping with me?”

  Raising up on all fours, she tentatively sets her chin on my knee, looking up at me with those soulful eyes that I swear can see everything. When she lets out a little grunt, I pet her head softly, a sigh breaking free. “I figured you’d say that.”

  Swiping my thumb at the screen of my cell phone until I find the number I’m searching for, I press the button, hearing the ringtone. And hell, if my heart isn’t racing, and I don’t feel the beginning of perspiration on my forehead. Especially when Heath answers.

  “Hey, man! I’ve been hoping you’d call me back.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.” I blow out a heavy breath, forging on. “If you’re still offering that position, I’d like to take you up on it.”

  “You’re just in time. We’re getting ready to kick off the tour starting with the West Coast. It’ll mean traveling extensively for the next five and a half to six months. Think you could be ready to go and up here by tomorrow morning?”

  Leaning back against the couch, I peer up at the ceiling for a moment before my eyes fall closed. Virginia Beach, where Heath’s foundation headquarters are located, is about a nine-hour drive. Since Foster and Noelle returned from their honeymoon two days ago, I’m no longer needed at TriShield.

  “I can be packed up and see you in the morning.”

  * * *

  Preparing to leave the house, my truck already loaded, Izzy waits at the front door for me. I finally decide to send the text message.

  I’m sorry for earlier. You deserve to be treated with the utmost respect, and I failed at that.

  I know I can’t be what you need the way I am now. I need to fix me.

  My thumb hesitates over the keys before I finish with, Clue: Man who’ll miss you more than anything in the world while he’s gone.

  I don’t expect a response, so I silence my phone as I walk out with Izzy and lock up behind me.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Presley

  One month later

  “Presley,” Lucia’s voice calls out as I prepare to go over some new patient files on my lunch break. “There’s a big, burly man here to see you.”

  My head whips up, heart immediately beginning to race, because… Is it—

  “Now, now, darlin’. Is that any way to speak to your future husband?”

  My entire body deflates when I hear Kane’s familiar Southern Texas drawl. No denying a part of me—okay, all of me—hoped it was Hendy who Lucia had been announcing.

  Keep dreaming, Presley, I tell myself derisively. It’s not exactly like the guy’s been knocking down my door—or blowing up my phone—trying to get in touch with me. Hell, maybe I should feel lucky that he sent me those text messages before he left town.

  I’m sorry for earlier. You deserve to be treated with the utmost respect, and I failed at that.

  I know now that I can’t be what you need the way I am now. I need to fix me.

  Clue: Man who’ll miss you more than anything in the world while he’s gone.

  The logical part of me understands and realizes the facts—Hendy may be healed physically, but he isn’t healed emotionally. He has a major roadblock when it comes to accepting his appearance. And believing others could accept it, as well.

  I’m not coping. Not coping well at all after being left behind by the man I truly fell in love with. The man I wish would realize I accep
t him the way he is—that I can love him.

  Instead, I hide from the pain by burying myself in work.

  And I’ve begun to run on the beach in the mornings, too. Because that’s not pathetic in the least. Especially not when said person imagines running by the same man who used to run that same beach nearly every morning.

  Nope. Not pathetic at all.

  It surpasses pathetic.

  “I’ve brought my favorite doctor some lunch.” Kane lifts the large plastic takeout bag in gesture. “Want me to set your salad on the table here?”

  Nodding slowly, I train my eyes on the bag, watching as he removes a large plastic container. “You got me a salad.” My tone is flat, almost numb.

  Kane stills before his eyes find mine. “Is this not okay?”

  Attempting to shake it off, I roll my lips inward, attempting to stave off the emotions brimming at the surface. “It’s fine. Great.” The smile I fix on him feels as brittle as it is forced. “Thanks!”

  Kane darts a look over to where Lucia remains propped against the doorjamb. “A little help here?” he murmurs.

  “Don’t ask me.” She raises a hand as if to stop him. “I’ve never gone loco over salad before.”

  “How did you…know to get that particular salad for me?” I ask quietly while simultaneously dreading and anticipating the answer.

  “Because Hen—”

  “Ahem!” Lucia’s loud clearing of her throat does little to drown out Kane’s response. At any other time, watching the two of them trade looks of warning as if trying to have a silent conversation would amuse me.

  “Shit,” he mutters beneath his breath before shifting gears. “Well, I figured you’d be hungry and…aw, shit.” He lets the bag drop to the table with whatever else it holds and steps toward me, opening his arms.

  “I’m sorry, darlin’. I was trying to—” He breaks off when I hurl myself at his chest, wrapping my arms around his large, muscular torso. “Help.”

  “I’m crying over a stupid salad.” My voice is thick with emotion mixed with a tinge of deprecating humor as my tears dampen Kane’s shirt. “I’ve reached a new level of low.”

  His chest rumbles slightly beneath my cheek, one hand smoothing down my hair while the other rubs my back soothingly. “Get it all out. You’ll feel better.” He pauses. “About the salad, of course,” he tacks on, and if I had it in me to laugh, I would.

  Kane smooths down my hair again. “My great-grandmother used to say that tears are like when God brings rain. They cleanse and make everything feel newer, fresher, and rejuvenated.”

  A weak smile tugs at my lips. “No offense, but I think she was full of it. Because I don’t feel any of those things anytime I cry over him.”

  “Well, she did hit the bottle pretty hard…”

  I can’t resist a tiny snicker at his musing.

  “Ah, that’s more like it.” The smile in his voice is evident, but then he sobers. “He misses you just as much,” he says softly. “But I think you and I both knew it would’ve come to a head at some point. He needs to accept himself before he’ll ever get it through that damn thick skull of his that anyone else could accept him the way he is.”

  I don’t say anything as my tears slowly ebb. Finally, I ask what’s been on my mind. “Has he talked to you about me?” Mustering up the courage, I lean back to peer up at him.

  Those aquamarine eyes study me intently for a moment. “All the time.” The edges of his lips curve up in the start of what I’ve come to know as his trademark grin. “Especially to make sure I’m not making any moves on you.”

  Shaking my head with a short humorless laugh, I look down at the floor.

  “Hey.” Raising my eyes back up, I meet his watchful gaze. “I guarantee he’ll be back for you. Because right now, he’s doing everything in his power to get himself right—to be the person you need him to be. The real question is do you love him enough to wait?”

  As my lips part to answer, Lucia interrupts.

  “He’d better not make her wait long is what I say. None of this Notebook crap where so much times passes.” She folds her arms across her chest, leveling a hard stare.

  “Now, darlin’. I happen to like The Notebook.” His head tips to the side. “Who doesn’t want a letter written to them every day for a year?” He winks at her with a smirk. “I reckon I’d call that hardcore dedication.”

  Lucia rolls her eyes, but I can see she’s trying hard not to smile. “Ay, Dios mío. Why am I not surprised?” she mutters. Kane merely smiles wider in response.

  As the two of them go back and forth, Kane’s question replays in my mind.

  The real question is do you love him enough to wait?

  But I think he’s wrong. I think the real question is whether I have it in me to risk waiting for him…only for him not to come back.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Hendy

  Three months later

  Early September

  San Diego, California

  “Thanks so much for joining us tonight. I’m Cristiano Hendrixson, but most people call me Hendy. And this gorgeous lady here…” I pet Izzy’s head briefly as she sits beside me on stage. I’ve come to learn she’s a bit of an attention whore, loving being up here with me in the spotlight. “This is Izzy.”

  Straightening, I slip my hands into my pockets to resist the urge to fidget. “My story began when I was a young’un, and me and a buddy of mine snuck off to his basement to watch the war movie, Apocalypse Now. I wanted to be a Special Forces”—I use finger quotes—“‘badass’ from that moment on.” Laughter at my naiveté fills the large auditorium, and I can’t help but grin at my own foolishness.

  “I know, I know. I’m cringing at how innocent I was back then, too. But the next day, I was doing pull-ups and everything else under the sun to get my ass in shape…”

  Two weeks later

  Carlsbad, New Mexico

  “I graduated from the Naval Academy, thanks to my mother who always lectured me about the importance of getting an education and a degree under my belt.” I glance upward, silently hoping Mom hears me where she’s, well-deservedly, in heaven. Especially for putting up with me all those years.

  “Afterward, I thought I was ready to become a Navy SEAL”—my tone is ripe with sarcasm—“because I mean how hard could it possibly be, right?” There’s laughter amidst the crowd as I shake my head. “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, in case you haven’t gotten a good look at my face, it’s clearly tougher than you think.” I pause. “But from what I’ve been told, chicks dig scars.”

  This time, when the laughter comes again, my own joins with it.

  Late October

  Seattle, Washington

  “After all the shit they did to me, not once did I regret signing up to serve my country. And man, considering the way the cavalry came storming in to rescue me and flattened that joint once we were out safely, nothing could ever compare to that feeling.”

  There’s complete silence—you can literally hear a pin drop in the auditorium.

  “Because men I’d never met risked their lives for me.” Shaking my head, I add, “They didn’t know me from Adam, but when they got word that a SEAL had gotten himself into some pretty bad shit, they came out, guns blazing. And regardless of what I’d thought—and I really always figured, hoped, my time would come to an end in a pile of brass—I don’t think I could’ve felt more pride.”

  Swallowing past the lump in my throat, the same one I have to move past every time I retell this part of my story, I do my best to maintain composure. “I couldn’t have felt more pride in my country, in the men who came to my rescue without a second thought…”

  Mid-November

  Kitsap, Washington

  Naval Base

  “Has it been tough as hell to go from that”—I gesture to the large projection screen behind me where a photo is displayed of me and some other guys I’d served with, taken long before that fateful night—“to this?” I wave a
hand to encompass my face now. The face that’s here for all to see. No ball cap in sight. And I’m certain the lights in this joint are picking up on every damn imperfection.

  Traveling with the others on this tour and sharing our stories has helped me in ways I never imagined possible. Surrounded by these men—and woman—who are opening themselves up to complete strangers and sharing their experiences is empowering and cathartic. It’s therapeutic in ways I could never have imagined.

  Kara, the lone woman, is a former Army bomb technician who’d lost both arms when a bomb she was trying to dismantle had detonated. Leif, a former SEAL from the West Coast, has muscle missing from his right arm and along the outside of his right leg due to shrapnel from an explosion.

  I could continue—there are six others, including Heath, who go out on the stage in whatever city or town we’re in and share their personal accounts.

  It’s our final stop of the tour on the West Coast before it ends at Walter Reed Medical Center in Maryland. Then we get a much-needed break before we start again.

  The outpouring of emails, letters, cards, and comments from those who stop to chat with us after we’re finished each night has been awe-inspiring. What’s more surprising is the number of women who attend these things and approach us guys.

  “Chicks dig scars, man.” Heath had told me that when several women had approached me on the first few nights of our tour. He’d noticed the shock, the surprise on my face.

  The thing is I didn’t pay them any attention because there was only one person who hasn’t cared about my scars. The same person who hasn’t given me attention because of them.

  I finally managed to see what I needed to do. Not only did I have to accept how I looked on the outside, but I also had to figure out how to love—to appreciate—myself the way I am. Without that, there was no way anyone could love me…nor could I believe it possible.