The Next Day (Foothills Book 2) by Carrie Thorne (christmas read aloud TXT) 📕

yeah. Kept his trap shut the entire fall, but the second we hit the water, he was the first to the surface so he could dunk me the moment I came up for air and promise to kick my ass if we survived the op.”

“And when you got home?”

“By then he was thankful. Until Asher and I took him on a surprise trip to the Grand Canyon.”

“You guys had some good times.”

“Yeah, yeah we did.”

“Sounds like a good friend. Would he blame you?”

Shit. “Of course not. It’s the job. Always a risk.”

“I wish I’d known about you while you were in. I was already worrying about Asher; I could have worried about you too.”

“And sent me care packages? His parents would send me the best stuff. Fancy chocolate and magazines with sports updates and Paul even snuck in a Playboy when Asher hinted that we were going stir-crazy overseas.”

“Maybe I would have sent you some naked pics.”

Laughter bubbled up and loosened the damn frog in his throat. “Tell me exactly in detail how you would have posed for those.”

She laughed out loud; he closed his eyes and pictured those rosy lips turned up in whole-hearted amusement.

“Phone sex isn’t cohabitating or consummating.” He grinned, shifting the pillow under his head to get comfy. “Although, video-chatting would be way better, then you can show me exactly what you’d be wearing, or not, for my dirty pics.”

“As much as I would love to accommodate you, especially after our laundry room adventure, I’m going to pass tonight.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“We’ll see. Goodnight, Zane.”

“’Night, Freya. Thanks.”

“Anytime. Seriously.”

Closing his eyes, he indulged in the what-ifs.

16

FUBARed

Fuck. Nothing was going the way it was supposed to. Having no plan had seemed brilliant. What better way to let the last few years fade?

Zane stared into the closet at his muddy black running shoes, teetering against Jack again. Biting his cheek, he forced air in and out before the fucking waterworks started. Not that he was some macho ass that refused to cry. Hell, if anyone deserved to have someone down on their knees, screaming at the sky and furiously crying rageful tears of life’s-not-fucking-fair, it was Jack.

Freya had talked him down last night, but he couldn’t call her every time he opened the damn closet. The run had burned off a lot of it. About a mile in, he’d felt the blissful sensation of an empty mind, cool air flowing in and out of his lungs, muscles burning with the lactic acid of escapism.

Then he’d seen the empty garage spot that Freya would eventually be filling with a car; a bleak reminder that she was in a tough place in life. Teetering on the edge of success and failure, her lifelong dreams at risk of shattering on impact, she didn’t deserve to be dragged down by a needy ex-SEAL that didn’t even have a dream. He didn’t have anything to fill that void she needed filling, and he loved that she would kick his ass for implying she didn’t have all her shit together.

The headache hit as he’d dashed up the stairs, each footfall echoing off the hills in the distance and pinging right back into his pulsating skull. After slamming the front door, egging on his headache, he’d mindlessly kicked his shoes into the closet. Crashing into the tin can, he’d nearly spilled the ashes across the floor… ashes. Fuck that. Ground up carcass that was too damn stubborn to burn.

Searing hot brine coated his eyes as he shifted his shoes to the side. Staring down at the latest set of muddy footprints to tarnish the can, he growled, “Come on, man. Asher was the goof-off playboy. I was the quiet, socially awkward one. You were the heart of us. The guy that knew when to laugh, when to grit his teeth and dig in harder, and when to go with the flow.”

He dropped to his knees, the impact vibrating into his hips, his ribs, his pounding head. “Asher blames himself for us leaving you guys. Not his fault; he followed his gut and it was the right thing to do. Your stubborn ass said we should go check it out, that you’d keep all those family men safe while we risked our expendable asses.”

Boiling down his sweat-encrusted cheek, the tear trailed down and sloshed onto the floor. “Dumbshit. You knew. Maybe not consciously, but you knew staying was a fucking death sentence, and you pushed us to get the hell out of there. Too damn stubborn to die that day, you let me drag your ass back to the LZ. Fuck, man. If you couldn’t keep it together, couldn’t tolerate the pain, living with the quiet of life on the outside, how do you expect me to?”

His throat raw, vision useless from the damn watery coating, he wiped the shit that drained from his nose and rose to his feet. He picked up his phone and texted Asher, Pick a spot; we’re scattering next time you’re home.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed. K.

Turning to hit the shower, he caught sight of the time. Stupidly, recklessly, he drifted to the window. As he’d hoped, or dreaded, Freya strolled barefoot across the lawn, yoga mat tucked under one arm. She unrolled the mat and gazed out at the endless vista, feet anchored to the ground while the wind tossed her hair around in a turbulent mass. From afar, he breathed with her, letting his brain calm enough to go about his day.

He stalked to the shower and let the hot water rush over his skin. Sandalwood and tangy grapefruit with bits of oatmeal formed a refreshing foam as he scrubbed the morning away. The corner of his mouth quirked up at the oddity; while he’d been at the barber, Freya had, apparently,