Caleb did what any sane person would do when faced with the wrath of India George.
He ran.
Caleb took off toward the property line and the tree house that had once offered him protection against her fury, but India launched herself at him the way she would have a perp and took him down.
“They’re like puppies,” Betsy said, laughing.
“He thinks it’s a good idea to play Ghost in the Graveyard after dinner and a few more beers.”
“He’s still twelve.” Betsy shook her head. “It could be fun.”
Jack couldn’t help wondering if things had been different, if he’d come back whole, whether he’d be chasing Betsy through the grass right now. If he’d be thinking about a few more beers and stalking her in the dark until she was breathless and wanting underneath him.
Instead he had to worry about navigating unfamiliar and unsteady terrain—the very real possibility that he could fall and break something vital that would further impede his mobility. He couldn’t think like he was twelve, or seventeen, or even twenty-four. He had to think like an old man who was at the end of his life and whose body had started to fail him.
The sensation that his skin was too tight washed over him again and he wanted to rip it off, along with the mask that told the world everything was okay. It wasn’t.
It never would be.
He needed a bottle of whiskey, but he’d have to settle for another beer.
“Come on. Don’t you want to chase me? I’ve been chasing you since we were kids. It’s your turn.”
“Bets, I can’t.” He gritted his teeth as he spoke. Damn her for making him say it.
“Yes, you can.”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
“What? Because of your prosthesis? People do triathlons, cross-country and all manner of things. You just have to do it.”
“And how do you know so much about it, huh? You go missing anything vital lately?” he snarled.
“Yeah, I did.”
He’d had enough of this. “It’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
“Isn’t it? I feel like there’s a part of me missing, Jack. I’ve had to start over. Aren’t we in the same place?”
Her face, her innocent determination, it was all just too much. “Only you, Bets, would equate moving back to Glory with fighting a war.”
“That’s a mean thing to say. You know that’s not what I meant.” She bristled and straightened her spine, obviously gearing up for a fight.
“Isn’t it?” He laughed, but the sound was cold and empty. “I feel as if there’s not a piece of me missing. In fact, it still feels like it’s on fire. So you should really know what you’re talking about before you make that comparison.”
“You know, Jack, you’re not the only person who’s ever suffered. Your pain isn’t so much bigger and worse than everyone else’s. You’ve got it worse than some, but better than others.”
“Really? Who do I have it better than?”
“The ones who didn’t come home.”
“If I could trade with any one of them, I would.” Jack watched as Betsy deflated. All the fight seemed to just wilt out of her, faded away with an exhaled breath.
“I wonder if they’d say the same, if they could speak.” Betsy turned and went back into the house, carefully pulling the door closed behind her.
THE BRIEF GLIMPSE of the old Jack was gone and in its place was this hard, angry man who’d come home in his stead. Maybe Betsy shouldn’t have been so hard on him, but she couldn’t stand to see him like this. Their conversation earlier had felt as if she was being cruel, but he needed someone to tell him these things. Didn’t he? She wished she could just take away his pain, Betsy thought as they ate dinner.
His gaze met hers over the mashed potatoes, and she was surprised to see how unguarded his expression was. His eyes were pools of sorrow, and they were so clear she could see all the way to the bottom.
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