She was afraid of becoming vulnerable.
She wanted to walk away now, while things were perfect between them, but she didn’t want to miss any goodness.
She already knew she’d never forget Damon.
Finally, she left the room. She pulled the door to the bedroom behind herself. She didn’t shut it completely, because she thought the latch might click.
No doubt he’d hear any small sound and jump to attention.
He’d have been trained for that and the PTSD would have made it worse.
Haley made sure she was completely silent. She didn’t want to leave just yet, in case Damon woke up and wanted to talk. She felt good in his house, welcome and safe. Haley was going to go down to the kitchen and see if there was any tea in the cupboard, but she couldn’t resist the urge to investigate just a little.
There were two bedrooms that faced the back of the house, one being Damon’s. The other had a couch and a television in it, a pair of bookcases. A lot of the titles were in a different language that looked like Russian. Haley assumed these were his mom’s books. There was a basket of crochet on one side of the couch and she had a look, again assuming it had been his mom who had been making dishcloths.
She paused at the top of the stairs, listening to Damon’s steady breathing. Then she took a chance and pushed open the other door. It didn’t make a sound and, as she expected, it opened to a large bedroom that faced the street. There was a queen-sized bed at one end and a big bureau with a mirror, but what made Haley stop and stare were all the pictures. There were dozens of them, all framed in the same simple black wooden frames, hung in rows all around the room. They were all black and white.
She stepped closer to look at them and realized they were drawings. Some were pencil and others were charcoal; still others were in ink, but it was clear to her that they’d been done by the same person.
D.P. had initialed and dated each one in the bottom right corner.
This was Damon’s work.
Haley raised one hand to her mouth and moved around the room slowly, looking at each and every one. They were hung in the order of creation, beginning at the right of the bureau and continuing clockwise around the room. This laughing woman had to be Natasha in younger days.
Here she was helping a little girl with her toe shoes, such tenderness in her expression that Haley bit her lip. Damon had come honestly by his affection for teaching. Here was a stiffer one of a man, maybe done from a photograph, a man who had Damon’s eyes.
Here was a smiling young man, armed for combat, apparently taking a break in a hot and dusty place. Haley swallowed and eyed the surrounding drawings. They had been folded at some point, and she guessed that he had sent them home to his mom in his letters. She read the names. Foster. Buchanan. There was a German Shepherd with another man, the dog alert and the soldier looking weary. Killer and MacRae. There were others without names, a little girl selling scarves who looked to be Afghani, an old man selling spices with a thousand lines on his face, an older lady offering a cup of tea, fear and welcome warring in her eyes.
After that were drawings of kids, American kids, some with huge boxing gloves and others with weights that looked too heavy for their slender arms. Several wore expressions of concentration or determination, and there were several that included a burly man. His head was shaved bald and his nose had been broken at least once, but Haley saw his undivided attention for each child. There was a portrait of him, too.
She recognized the partners from Flatiron Five Fitness that she’d met while there. Their names were on the bottom of the drawing. Cassie. Kyle. Both of them were laughing and he’d caught them perfectly. There were two more: both elegant men in suits, one white and one black. Tyler. Theo.
On the bureau were a few loose drawings and Haley smiled as she looked at them. Here was Khadija from the hospital, concentrating on her charts, and here was Dr. Smithson, listening to someone. That person wasn’t shown, but his characteristic concern and focus were both clear. He had such a great bedside manner, and Haley knew that Damon had observed the doctor with Natasha.
There were some random sketches that she guessed were in the neighborhood and some from the subway. He was really talented and she surveyed the room, seeing his mom’s pride in his skill and feeling as if she’d had a secret peek into his life. She’d guess that Natasha had been the one to have Damon’s work framed.
Haley would have framed it, too. She admired the work again.
When she went into the hall, she could hear that Damon was still sleeping.
Should she leave?
She wasn’t sure. It wasn’t that late. Not even eight.
Before she could decide, Damon yelled.
He was back there.
Again.
Damon stirred in his sleep, knowing he was having the nightmare and only wanting it to stop. They were on that street. They were approaching the corner. He felt himself thrash with his desire to escape.
He saw the kid.
He warned Foster.
He saw the grenade and time slowed to a crawl. He knew what it was, of course. He knew what was going to happen.
But this time his body responded.
Damon flung himself on the grenade. He wrapped himself around it, squeezing it tightly, trying to make sure there was no way that any of its destructive force would touch Buchanan or Foster.
Then it squirmed in his grip, becoming larger, turning into an enemy warrior. That man laughed and Damon locked his hands around his throat, squeezing the life out of him for what he had done. He laughed until the blood ran from between the other man’s teeth, until it leaked out his ears, until it ran from his eyes, until he laughed no more. Still he kept squeezing, demanding a due for Foster and Buchanan and all the others...
“Damon.”
A voice summoned him back from the abyss.
A familiar voice that didn’t belong in Afghanistan.
“Damon!”
Damon opened his eyes, panting, in a cold sweat, and found himself in his darkened bedroom with his heart racing. He realized he’d shredded the life out of a pillow.
And Haley was silhouetted in the doorway, staring at him.
She’d said his name.
She’d called him back.
He exhaled and surveyed the room. He was on the floor. He’d seized the pillow from the bed and slaughtered it in his dream.
If Haley had been beside him, he could have killed her, without even realizing what he was doing until it was too late.
This had to stop.
Now.
Before she paid the price for his sins.
Eleven
Haley had a very bad feeling about Damon’s nightmare.
It was horrible to watch. He was muttering under his breath, his head jerking back and forth. His hands were clenched into fists and his teeth were bared. He’d kicked his way free of the blanket and his whole body was tense.
Vibrating.
She could feel the tension emanating from him in waves. She wanted to intervene, to help him, to wake him up, but was afraid she might make it worse somehow. She’d never seen someone so tormented.
Then he yelled someone’s name, shouted it loud enough to raise the roof—or raise the dead. Had it been Foster? Haley wasn’t sure. He flung himself from the bed, almost catapulting into the air before he landed in a crouch on the floor. She was reminded of Spider-Man for the barest instant. She could have sworn he was awake, because he was surveying the room for whatever villain he fought.