[i]He loved you, you know.[/i]

Luke knew, but he sometimes forgot, especially when they had disagreements or Sam was accusing him of fucking his wife. But he knew. He’d never forget.

At Charlie’s question, he let a large breath fill his chest. “No,” he exhaled. “Let’s go tomorrow. After the chores.” Maybe it was the jet lag, shooting himself in the chest with painkillers, or their two hours of emotional surgery, but Luke was exhausted. He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt rested. For now, he wanted to memorize the small feeling of hope he held, so when he lost track of the light at the end of the tunnel, he could call back on it. There was a future for him that didn’t involve guns in the desert – bombs, mines, death, and skeleton cities. It was still small and fleeting, but it existed.

Then they could take stock of everything that needed fixing and repairs before winter. Build up the pantry again, in case there was a storm. Assess the barn’s insulation. Fix the field truck…

“I’ll have coffee on at five.” He gave Charlie’s arm a squeeze and fought the urge to pull her in and press his lips to the top of her head, which he sometimes did before he left for a long time. Instead, he avoided any eye contact that would linger and brought his bag upstairs to the guest room.

“Guest room” wasn’t entirely accurate, because to Luke’s knowledge, he was the only one who’d stayed in it for the last few years. It was across the hall from the bathroom, past which was the master and what he knew what going to be a nursery. If he thought the kitchen felt haunted, he was wrong. Downstairs had nothing on the memories of the upper floor.

Luke changed the sheets, wiped dust off the bureau, and unpacked his bag. Fatigues went in the closet, shoes on the rack, clothes in the drawers. He plugged in his phone and put the miscellaneous items in the nightstand drawer. As chaotic as certain aspects of his life were, the military had taught him the importance of systems and organization. Everything had a place. It made up for how untethered he sometimes felt.

Over the last few weeks, he’d taught himself how to take off a t-shirt without aggravating his healing chest. He got his right arm out first, pulled the shirt over his head, and then gently worked it off his left arm. Many hospital bathroom mirrors had gotten him accustomed to his new Frankenstein aesthetic. The red scar at his neck went down to his first left rib, the focus of most the damage. It ended in mottled tissue and surgical scars. Most of the bruising and discoloration was gone, but at first glance, it was startling. Like something out of a horror movie. Not even his various torso tattoos could distract from it.

At some godforsaken early morning hour – well before five – Luke gave up on sleeping. Every house creak or noise outside festered in his brain. Usually, it was nightmares that kept him up, but now, it was his incessant trainwreck of thoughts that crashed into each other. He figured it was better than any of his reoccurring bullshit dreams, like the echoes of Sam’s shouts in the barn, or trying to find Charlie in the dark, following the sounds of her sobbing.

He pulled on his jeans from earlier, forewent the shirt because he didn’t want to deal with the misery of taking it on and off, and stepped as quietly as he could down the stairs. Luke felt around in the dark for the small light above the kitchen sink and got himself a glass of water. After smoking a cigarette outside in the dark, he sat at the kitchen island and put his head in his hands.

[i]It was supposed to be me,[/i] he thought, closing his eyes. [i]Why wasn’t it me?[/i] He sank down farther in his seat, until his forehead rested against his forearm.

Maybe the bed was the problem – because that’s where Luke fell asleep.