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The point was that everywhere he looked, he saw walls too damn high to climb even if he’d had the energy and the will to climb them, which he mostly didn’t. What a fucking prize he was.
But he played it cool even though his mind was truly trippin’ over how good it felt to be needed.
“sometimes you gotta let someone else help you be strong before you can stand on your own.”
Damn, he was tired. Not just because he hadn’t slept much the night before. But because of the size of the load he’d been shouldering for the past twelve-plus months. If he could only figure out how to put it down. He scrubbed his hands over his face, wishing he could shake himself out of this fucking slump.
She was sweet and kind and trusting. How could he ever saddle her with all of his shit? The guilt, the shame, the depression. Even worse? The hopelessness, the despair, the thoughts that maybe he should just end it fucking all.
She didn’t heal what was broken within him—he wasn’t that naïve or delusional. But she sure as fuck made him remember the man he’d once been. Made him see glimpses of that man within the person he was right now. And made him believe maybe he could become that man again. Hell, maybe he couldn’t ever go back. But something about her smile and her touch and her belief in him made him believe, too.
“We are not losing you, too, brother. You are not going to be one of today’s twenty-two. Nor tomorrow’s. Nor any day’s. That’s a fucking promise,” Shane said, nailing him with a glassy-eyed stare. Twenty-two. Easy knew exactly what that number represented. The number of American vets who committed suicide. Every. Goddamned. Day.
