I followed him down to the kitchen and took a seat at the table in the breakfast nook. I watched as he ground the beans and set the coffeemaker up to brew. He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “How much do you know about me?” he asked without preamble.
“Enough,” I said, even as I thought, not nearly enough.
“So you know I was in the Navy. I flew Super Hornets in Operation Enduring Freedom. I spent six years in the cockpit on missions. Almost all highly classified.” He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I was young, cocky, and thought I was invincible. Until I saw the first one of my brothers get shot down. That’s a lesson in human fragility you never forget. I lost six more over the years, and I should have been one of them.”
I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond. So I didn’t.
He continued, voice haunted. “I can’t tell you the whole story, but I can tell you that a man I considered a brother picked up on a surface-to-air missile locked on me before I could even react. Kingman flew into it, trying to catch it on one of his tail fins so he’d at least have time to eject, but he miscalculated. We’d been flying missions non-stop for days, and we were all dog-tired and off our game. I watched him explode in a ball of fire. And I can’t stop seeing it happen. It was my fault—a misread of my instruments—that we were even there, where they could get a clear shot at us, and he was the one who paid the price. He had a daughter he never got to meet, and I made his wife a widow.”
His hazel eyes were shining with unshed tears when he finished. He turned to fumble with the carafe, hand shaking as he poured two cups. He reached into the fridge and pulled out cream. “How do you take your coffee?”
It was such a mundane question after the emotionally wrought confession. But I rolled with it.
“Black, please.”
He fixed his coffee with cream and sugar, sat both mugs on the table, and dropped into the chair across from me.
I decided to ask the obvious question.
“Do you have PTSD?”
“Not officially.”
“So … what does that mean exactly?”
“It means I gave all the right answers to every shrink the Navy made me see.”
“So you…”
“Lied? Yes.” He took a sip of his coffee.
I was stunned, holding my mug to my lips, unable to drink. Yes, stunned by the confession, but more so stunned by how open and honest he was with me. Someone he barely knew. Someone who could never be so honest with him.
My next question made me feel like a complete hypocrite. “Why weren’t you honest about it? Why didn’t you let them get you some help?”
He closed his eyes for a beat before answering. “Because of the black mark it would leave on my record. And the stigma. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was broken.”
I set my mug down on the table with a loud thump. Goddamn. His honesty tore through me. Staggered me.
“Oh.” It was a ridiculously useless word, but I didn’t have anything else.
“And now, it’s time I did something about it. Because I haven’t spent a full night with a woman in four years. I haven’t let myself fall asleep holding someone for fear that I would scare the shit out of her when a nightmare hit. Like this morning.”
“Why now?” I asked.
Simon looked up, and his stare trapped me with its intensity. “Because I want to spend an entire night with you.”
My eyes went wide.
“More than one night,” he added.
“Oh,” I said again.
I felt a pang in my chest where my heart was thumping double time. His brutal honesty did what legions of charm couldn’t—it broke through my walls. Demolished my better judgment. I tried to appear unaffected, squeezing my mug to hide my trembling hands. He continued drinking his coffee as though he hadn’t just rocked me to the core. One thought echoed through my head: Things were about to get complicated.
Three sharp raps sounded on the door, and a woman called out, “Simon, I saw your light on. I hope you have coffee!”
“Shit,” Simon mumbled, standing and moving to the coffeemaker.
A petite, dark-haired tornado blew into the kitchen. She looked to be in her fifties and was wearing black yoga pants, a black zip-up jacket, and hot pink sneakers. Her sleek hair hung to her chin in a flattering bob. Her hazel eyes and the angle of her nose gave her away immediately as Simon’s mother.
“Oh. Hello there! Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said as Simon handed her a mug.
I pictured us from her point of view and winced. This looked like an intimate morning after. Simon was shirtless, wearing only sweatpants hanging low on his hips. I was dressed in his shirt and boxer shorts. Awkward, to say the least. But Mrs. Duchesne acted as though nothing was amiss.
She held out a small hand with perfectly manicured nails. “I’m Margaret Duchesne.”
“Ch-Charlie Stone.” I shook it, choking a little when I realized I had almost given her my real name in response to her formal greeting. What is this family doing to me?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. We get to meet so few of Simon’s—”
“Mother,” Simon interrupted.
She smiled warmly before releasing my hand and speaking to Simon. “I just wanted to stop in and say hello. I’m headed to my yoga class, and I haven’t seen you in a few days. We need to have dinner sometime soon. Time is running short before we leave for Maine. So much to do before we go.” She turned to face me again. “So Charlie, tell me, who are your people? What do you do?”