More rasps grated in his ear. Then the throb of heavy wind. At last, a heavy grunt he’d never been happier to hear. “Yo, Hawk.”
“Christ,” he muttered. “I ordered her to hit the commissary and then get her ass straight home.”
“I see how that worked out.”
The implication in Z’s voice was plain as a fly on a trap strip. “Look, after this morning, she started calling me the prison warden. There isn’t a Broadway cast of brothers around to help me with this shit, either.”
“I feel you,” Z replied. “But it’s all good, okay? Fortune owed us one and decided to pay up. There’s a Seattle PD officer nearby, and I’ve filled him in on King’s witch hunt for the girls. He’s adding his eyeballs to the cause. It’s handled.”
Garrett snorted, his shorthand version of a thank-you. “So why are you two there?”
His friend let out a low grouse. “Rayna started calling me the warden too.”
He couldn’t help a sharp laugh. No wonder Z was being Mr. Understanding about his frustration. “And the story on the tipsy status?” Another jolt of alarm hit him. “Hell. If Sage drove there from the base in that condition—”
“Relax, man. There’s a bunch of Yakima Valley wineries here having a tasting thing in the restaurants. Your Aunt Josie has grabbed Sage’s keys already. She can follow me back to your place. It seems we’ve been invited to dinner.”
“Seems so.”
“We’ll be buggin’ soon, Hawk. I promise.”
“Thanks, Z.”
“Peace out.”
He settled the phone back on the table and released a weighted whoosh. Though he’d been aware of Wyatt’s watchful silence through the whole conversation, Garrett’s brain officially jumped back into the symbolic petri dish. He had a couple of choices now. Try to hide the relief on his face, or simply wait for the question he was certain Master Sergeant Wyatt Hawkins was about to lob his way.
“The troops aren’t cooperating today, eh?”
There was enough of Wyatt’s old bravado in that to make Garrett smile. “You could say that.”
His uncle stared over the water again, rubbing a finger across his lip. Added to his beard and the sunglasses he wore, the motion made it impossible for Garrett to read what he was thinking. It was likely by design.
“And how’s Zeke? Still getting you into some crazy-ass Charlie-Foxtrot missions?”
“Well, he’s still crazy.” Garrett tossed back some more beer. “And he’s still an ass sometimes. But as you know, I get hard for the clusterfucks.”
“Yeah.” Wyatt’s murmur was low and tight. “So did I.”
Garrett didn’t say anything. Words would have diluted what his silence said louder and better. That he understood. That his addiction for the tough missions, the batshit bullet fights, and the tore-up-from-the-floor-up adventures had been prewritten into his blood from the first battle story Wyatt had ever told him—and that he wouldn’t have changed a damn thing about it, either. Like he could have.
As if Wyatt read that exact thought, he cocked his head toward Garrett. “Guess everyone in Adel was right when they called us two of a kind.”
The reaction for that didn’t come so easy. There was a time when the words would’ve had Garrett beaming. That time was long ago—and seemed even more distant after this last year. After this last month.
“I guess so.” He hated himself for sounding as thrilled as a grounded teenager. But faking the happy-happy-joy-joy with Wyatt was like trying the effort with Zeke. That was what sucked about hanging out with guys who’d been trained to spot a lie on your face more clear than a wart.
“Yeah,” Wyatt muttered. “Just as I thought.”
Garrett glowered. “Just as you thought what?”
“You really are my goddamn Mini-Me.”
“All right,” Garrett snapped. “Now that we’ve established the obvious, what’s your point?” He grabbed his empty beer bottle by its neck and flung it into the trash can next to the barbecue. Glass shattered in the can with satisfying violence as he uncapped his second brew. “For that matter, why have you two even come here, Wyatt? I’m not buying the excuse that you and Josie volunteered to be Sage’s welcome wagon back to life on behalf of the family.”
His uncle leaned back again. Every inch of the move was a slide of smooth, careful assessment, acting like a Bowie knife to Garrett’s gut. I’m not some interrogation subject. I’m the guy who grew up worshipping you, damn it, and now you won’t even take off your sunglasses to meet my eyes.
Still, like an imbecile himself, he waited and hoped that this time would be different. That maybe—
Wyatt would yank off his glasses, like he did now.
That his uncle would stare at him with pure pride and affection, like he did now.
Garrett dipped his own gaze. He’d dreamed the moment, right? But when he lifted his head again, Wyatt’s pure blue eyes looked back, now attached to a sincere smile.
“We came because I wanted to, Sergeant.” He used the rank with purposeful respect. “Because I needed to see you. To talk to you.”
The confession pushed a weird overload button in his brain. Was this really happening? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d entertained this fantasy, before finally shoving it down into that dark pocket of his psyche called better to just forget.
“Why?” he finally challenged.
“Besides the fact that I’m about twelve months too late on doing it?” Wyatt answered. “Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? Later than that, right? But I started thinking about it in earnest right after they declared Sage KIA.” His fingers went white where they still hung on to his glasses. His other hand balled into a fist on top of his thigh. “My God, Garrett. My soul cracked for yours.”
Though a humid twilight breeze blew up off the water, Garrett felt like he’d been thrown into the desert. Heat blasted him, especially north of his neck. He opened his suddenly parched lips, trying to suck in air. Right. So not happening, man.
“It’s probably best you didn’t come around,” he muttered.
Wyatt’s reaction wasn’t what he expected. Did the man really laugh? “Well, fuck,” he spat. “Didn’t you rattle that off like a damn fine soldier?”
Garrett sat up straighter. “I have no idea what you’re—”
“Of course you don’t, Sergeant.” He didn’t invoke the rank with such reverence this time. “Neither did I, when everything in my world unspooled beyond my control.” He stared at the water again. The line of his jaw hardened into an anvil of antagonism. “So many people reached out to me. Your dad. Your mom. Pastor Dooley. All my goddamn doctors. And at least three head-fucking-shrinks.”
Garrett cut in with a snort. “I hate the head fuckers.”
“So did I.” Wyatt shook his head. “Even going to see Dooley was preferred torture over them.”
“You mean Drooley?”
Wyatt spat a mouthful of beer. “Holy shit. That’s good.”
“And accurate.”
“That too.” The man took in another swig of beer and kept it down this time. When he lowered the bottle, his mouth was reset into a somber line. “But I shoved them all away, Garrett. I locked myself in a box of mental steel, forging the thing out of my anger, my fear, my goddamn guilt. I was the sole survivor of that attack, yeah? So how could anyone get that? How could anyone understand? How could anyone know what the fuck I was going through? How could any kind of therapy or prayer touch the depth of my shame? Psychology certainly wasn’t set up for my shit.