Fort Bragg, North Carolina September 2021
I took a deep breath as I stood in the empty hallway, facing the door I’d been scheduled to walk through for the past two weeks. Foolishly, I’d thought making the initial call would be the hardest, but it wasn’t. Standing here, staring at the clinical letters beside the door, deciding whether or not to turn the handle, was infinitely harder.
The clinic didn’t have that oversanitized smell that came with hospitals, but we’d never been seen by typical doctors either.
“You can do it,” Torres said from my left.
“If I do, it’s over,” I replied, keeping my voice low. “You know they’ll kick me out of the unit.”
“Yeah. And then maybe you’ll start living for you. Get some help for those nightmares, too, so you’re not terrified to sleep next to your girl. You’re not your dad. You’re never going to be your dad. But still . . . you need the help. You should probably figure out what to do with that farm of yours.”
I glanced over at him, my hand reaching for the doorknob.
“You gotta let go, Nate,” he said, offering me a smile. “You’ve carried shit that isn’t yours for too long. That guilt? Not yours. The career you’re not actually that fond of? Not yours. But Izzy? She’s the one who’s yours. So if you won’t walk through that door for yourself, consider doing it for her.”
Izzy.
It had been six weeks since I’d left her at the Kabul airport so I could give her the one thing I knew she needed—Serena. I missed her with every breath, and yet I knew it wasn’t time yet.
If we had one shot, then I couldn’t blow it.
I took one last look at Torres and then I opened the door and walked through.
Dr. Williamson looked up from his desk with a professional smile and motioned to the chairs in front of his desk. “How’s it going, Phelan?”
Usually I would have told him I was fine. That I was sleeping, eating, and relaxing just like I was supposed to.
But lying hadn’t gotten me anywhere, so maybe it was time that I told the truth.
I sank into the chair and looked the doctor in the eye. “I’ve been talking to my best friend as a coping mechanism for the stress, the deployments, the . . . everything.”
He nodded, leaning back in his chair. “That sounds pretty normal.”
“Yeah, except he’s been dead for four years. Think you can help me?” I gripped my knees and waited for his answer.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I can help you.”
