“You wanted me to open up, didn’t you?” He frowns. “Talk about my time overseas? Jonah is a big part of that.”
“Him and Sawyer,” I point out, and Andy smiles.
“Yeah. Sawyer is still in Afghanistan, but I think this’ll be his last tour.”
“Why?”
“Just a hunch.” Andy shrugs.
“Okay, but back to our original conversation—”
“Baby steps, Curls.” Andy cuts me off in a stern voice.
“I don’t mind the baby steps, Andy, but at the end of the day, I want to talk to you.” I counter his stern voice with a soft tone, and his eyes immediately seek mine. “Your eyes were always smiling. I loved that about you, and I hate how lost you seem now.”
“I don’t want to be lost anymore,” he whispers. Our gazes hold for what seems like forever, and the realization that I would do anything it takes to help him knocks all the air out of me.
Because the last thing I expected to find after all this time was that a part of me still sees forever when I look at Andrew Atkins.
Andy
“Uh, am I interrupting?” Jonah seems genuinely apologetic, and Phoebe shakes her head a bit too eagerly, seeming rather relieved at the interruption.
“Nope. You’re just in time!” she declares. “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-three, enlisted straight out of high-school, that was pretty much the plan until I was injured.”
“What have you been doing since you got back?”
“Well, I was in rehab for a while.” Jonah rubs his palm over his thigh in an almost subconscious motion. “And after, I joined my brothers in their company, Peak Securities.”
“How many brothers do you have?” Phoebe wonders.
“Three, all older.” Jonah grins. “You?”
“One older brother. What do you do at the company?”
“Strategic operations. I mainly map out and plan the individual security needs of each client.”
“That sounds interesting.” Phoebe beams.
“Yeah, been trying to get this one—” he says, indicating me with his thumb, “—to join the team, but he’s dragging his feet about it.”
“Why?” Phoebe inquires.
“Dunno.” I shrug, taking another sip from my already warm beer.
“You know, Andy wanted to be a journalist before he enlisted,” Phoebe informs Jonah. “Finished top of his class in his major and in the Spring Term journalism course. Wrote for The Dartmouth and everything.”
“And you wanted to go into politics,” I remind her. “We were going to ‘change the world together.’”
“Don’t be so sarcastic about it,” Phoebe chides me.
“I didn’t know that,” Jonah jumps in, drawing attention back to himself. “How did you two meet?”
“Senior year of high school,” I answer, glancing at Phoebe. “Ten years since I first laid eyes on you.”
“Yeah, you fell hard.” Phoebe laughs. “He really pulled out the big guns to get me to go on a date.”
“I was the army brat new kid, you were the ice queen head cheerleader. I did what I had to do,” I defend myself. “No regrets.”
“Now that side of Andrew Atkins, I recognize,” Jonah chortles, and Phoebe joins his laughter.
“It was about a month into the school year, and some asshole burned down a women’s shelter,” I recall. “No one got hurt, but they didn’t have the funds to renovate and replace everything that was lost.”
Phoebe smiles and shakes her head, continuing the story for me. “Then this kid with wavy blond hair comes up to me and says, ‘We should do something about it, Curls!’ So, we did.”
“What’s with the Curls?” Jonah wonders, examining Phoebe’s blown-out waves of dark silky hair.
“Back then, Phoebe wore her hair shorter and had these amazing bouncy curls,” I explain.
“Anyway,” Phoebe cuts in, finishing her story, “we organized a fundraiser pep-rally, raised enough money for the shelter to renovate, replace all their equipment and upgrade their security system and even had leftover funds.”
“That’s impressive for a couple of high schoolers.” Jonah’s eyes dart between us in awe.
“Yeah, we got local news on board, and all the school was involved, from the cheer team and jocks to drama and band. Andy did this crazy piano solo.” Phoebe’s voice is full of so much pride at the things we achieved together, it’s contagious.
“Dude, you play the piano?” Jonah turns to me, his expression full of surprise, and I nod.
“Yeah, piano, guitar, drums,” I list.
“You also had that harmonica phase,” Phoebe reminds me with a snicker. “I did not like that one.”
“I forgot about that.” I burst out laughing. “It’s been a while since I touched an instrument, though.”
“I bet you haven’t heard him sing, either.” Phoebe turns to Jonah, who shakes his head with wide eyes. “Yeah, we used to kill it at karaoke nights, remember?”
“Spring break, freshmen year of college.” I tip my bottle toward her with a smile. “We made five-hundred bucks in tips in that dive bar on the way to Tijuana.”
“Right!” Phoebe perks up with a giddy laugh. “What did we even do with the money?”
“Probably spent it on tequila in TJ?” Jonah guesses.
“No, we left it in the tip jar,” I correct. “Our waitress was a single mom, the bartender had a sick parent, and the other waitress was trying to save for college. We didn’t really need the money, not as much as they did.”
“That’s right, you always knew everybody’s stories.” Phoebe looks at me with adoration, and my heart thuds in my chest.
“He always was good with people,” Jonah agrees. “It’s why he was a handler.”
My head snaps to Jonah with what I’m sure is a menacing glare, and he cringes, realizing he’s said more than he should have.
“How long are you here for, Jonah?” Phoebe surprises me by changing the subject.
“Just tomorrow morning. I have a meeting in the city.” Jonah seems relieved he hadn’t accidentally opened a can of worms, but I can’t stop the panic that had already started bubbling inside me.
“So, no time for breakfast at Brenda’s?” Phoebe cocks her head to the side, and Jonah groans.
“I wish. Her BLT—”
“Heaven,” they say together and burst out laughing, but I’m too busy trying to tame my pounding heart and the blood rushing to my head. The tight winding of my shoulder blades and neck makes me feel like my muscles are trying to pull my brain straight out of my scalp through my eye sockets.
“You okay there, Double-A?” Jonah’s voice sounds far off through the thuds in my ears, but I can still make out the worry in it.
“Yep. Peachy,” I reply, my voice strained and cracked.
“You’re having a migraine attack again, aren’t you?” Phoebe rests a soft hand on my arm, and without meaning to, I nod. “Come on, let’s get you home.”