Jon watched the girls run and climb in the park. As if the world could be that perfect. As if nothing mattered. Oh, for the world to be so simple.
But his wasn't. Oh, sure, since that night, they had not only been sharing the same bed but burning up the sheets of it, too. Hell, his sex life had never been better. Almost every night, he waited up for Alicia to come home. He often ran her a bubble bath, or they shared a shower. Whether it was her massaging the creams into the scar tissue or him rubbing the knots from her tight shoulders or tired feet, it almost always got around to sex.
He had kept his promise to her - a couple of times, actually. His head buried between her soft thighs, like that apple pie, made him wish for his sense of taste.
He half-smiled, of course, she had returned the favor a few times herself. Damn, the woman was talented with her mouth and hands. But he knew the truth, the reason why the sex was so fucking fantastic was the fact that Alicia put her heart and soul into it.
Honestly, he did too. Trying to show her with kisses, caresses, and his body what he could not bring himself to reveal with words. But there was still a tension between them, as if both were walking on eggshells or a field of landmines.
He knew he needed to do something about the situation. This was his fault, after all. She had put herself out there, taken a risk, and he had blown it to hell just like that IED had the SUV that day.
"So, what the docs say about your arm, dude?"
Chris's question brought him back to the present. He shrugged; that was the other thing that was bothering him. He had been back to the VA twice. The doctors were adamant. Not only was his bad left arm not improving, but it also seemed that the circulation to his remaining fingers was deteriorating. That, of course, decreased the feeling in them, increased the chance of injury to them, and even infection. That arm needed to be amputated. Soon.
But he had been delaying that decision too. Trying to come to some closure, but he wasn't sure what with.
Was it some epiphany with the survivors' guilt that seemed to plague him even more? What right did he have to love and happiness when it was his decision that had cost other good men their lives that day? Some of them had wives and children too. Why should he be granted the opportunity to watch his Hope grow up when they never would? And why should he receive mind-blowing blow jobs when they would never hold their wives or love them again?
Fate was such a suck ass excuse for being happy at the expense of others. Or that was what he had been telling himself for five years. Or was it that he was wasting the opportunity that Fate had given him?
That he was half living. Going through the motions while playing it safe. Perhaps enjoying all the benefits without any of the responsibilities? Those three little words hung over his head like a guillotine.
It had been weeks, and he needed to do something. 'Shit or get off the pot,' was the expression that his first Gunnery Sergeant had used. Chad Wilson had always said that there came a moment when you just had to make a decision, because not making one was usually worse.
Maybe that had been his problem that day? Perhaps he should have decided to turn around? But they had their orders, and no matter the feeling in his gut, he and his man had all been trained to follow orders.
But he could not go back to that day, no matter how much he might want to. He could, though, make the decisions that faced him now.
