Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Because he was a journalist. Because he could still remember standing at Harry Winstead’s funeral, watching Caroline sob her heart out. Because he could still hear Harry’s anguish relating things that had happened while he was in the service. Because of that text, the one he’d never been able to reply to. Because he could still remember Del’s LT dismissing his injury questions. Because these were stories that needed told. All the lost men. All the “Harrys” who came back, battered and bruised and weren’t put back together. The decades of war taking its toll on a generation of young men. Yes, these were all stories that needed telling.
And he was, as Del had said, Spencer Fucking Bryant. This was what he did. He told the hard stories. He dug deep. He didn’t let personal feelings get in the way of good journalism.
But none of that comforted him right then. He really did love Del, loved him in his life, loved taking care of him and sharing with him and laughing with him. All of that. Letting go of him, of all that potential, hurt.
The condo felt stark and airless, a giant void where Del had been. Spencer paced the living area, trying to ignore the memories assaulting him. There, by the front door, was where Del had kissed him so desperately. There by the fridge was where he’d teased Spencer about his bagel selection. There on the couch was where they’d cuddled so many times while Spencer had worked. He left his laptop on the breakfast bar, knowing that if he touched it, he’d be likely to smash it into a hundred pieces.
Instead, he stalked to the bedroom. He hadn’t been in bed alone during daylight hours since a few ill-timed all-nighters in college, all he wanted was to climb into the sheets that still smelled like Del, hold his pillow as tightly as he was going to hold his memories. He was beyond fanciful and pathetic, but right then, he had zero fucks to give. All he knew was that Del was gone and not coming back and it was no one’s fault but his. He’d known it would be hard, but he hadn’t expected to crumble like this. Like his world had ended. Like he’d lost the best part of himself. Like he might never find it again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“So remind me, do you have any hobbies?” The psych had a nice sunny office over at the sprawling medical center complex. She was around his mom’s age with dyed burgundy hair and teal glasses and a way of leaning forward when she talked. They’d covered all the hard stuff about the mission, and Bacon had seen her a few other times over the course of his enlistment, so talking hadn’t been particularly hard.
And she was entirely unflappable, so Bacon didn’t try to come up with a cutesy answer and instead went for the truth. “Does sex, hiking, and driving my truck count?”
“All good things.” The barest hint of a smile teased at her lips. “And the sex? That’s going okay since you’ve been back?”
“I just broke up with my boyfriend, so haven’t exactly had a lot of opportunities...”
“Okay.” To her credit, she didn’t even blink at the boyfriend comment. “Would you like to talk about the breakup? Do you feel the mission played a role?”
“No and no.” Bacon stretched, trying to send a clear signal he was done here. He couldn’t tell her about Spencer’s book—their sessions might be confidential in a medical sense, but he didn’t kid himself into thinking that nothing would filter back to the brass, who wanted to know he was fit to send back out. And the whole navy would be interested as fuck in Spencer’s book.
They might even try to stop it. And even as pissed as he was at Spencer, Bacon didn’t really want that for him, didn’t want to sabotage his project.
“All right. Any trouble sleeping?”
Bacon grunted a response because he was sleeping like shit, missing Spencer’s bed and Spencer’s warm body. And some of that must have shown on his face because she nodded knowingly.
“Even if it’s more breakup than mission related, I can get you a script for something to help. Maintaining a normal schedule is so important.”
“I’m good.”
Undeterred, she leaned forward and continued, “That’s why I was asking about hobbies. Do things you like. Sleep. Returning to a sense of normalcy always helps.”
“Did you miss the part where I broke up with my guy?” Despite his best efforts, his irritation was slipping through. “He was my sense of normalcy. My sleep aid. My hobby. All that.”
“I see.” Her head tilted to the right side. “And there’s no chance of reconciling?”
Oh, wasn’t that the million-dollar question? Spencer cared—Bacon didn’t question that. He’d felt it the last time they’d kissed, seen it in Spencer’s eyes even though he was trying to hide it, but it had been there in every action, every touch, every word for months now. Spencer caring wasn’t the issue. He just didn’t care enough. Or about the right things, maybe. He cared about the story more than about keeping Bacon, and that was the truth of it.