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Authors: Candace Havens
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reasons.”
She smiled. “I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. It’s about the interview. The one for your story.”
He leaned back in his seat and eyed her suspiciously. “Are you doing the interview?”
“Hear me out, please.”
Frowning, he stood. “Look, I understand this is what you people do, but I told you. I’m not interested in talking to anyone else.”
“Why, because you like me?”
“I do, but it’s because I trust you. And I’ve read your work. Whatever you wrote, it would be fair.” His voice had grown raw and deep.
She’d touched a nerve.
“You’re right. It would be fair if I did the article. And I’m flattered you know that. But what I have in mind goes far beyond just you. The person is someone you’ll trust even more than me.”
He crossed his arms. “Who?”
“You.”
He huffed. “I’m no writer, and it doesn’t make sense for me to do a story on myself. You should know I’m not a big fan of games.” He was to the door in three strides.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t explain it well. But I’m not exactly sure what it was I said that set you off.”
He didn’t turn around, but he didn’t open the door.
“I thought it would be interesting if you interviewed other veterans, there are so many at the nursing home and the Lion’s Club. Not really about war, but about what it’s like to come home. How hard it is for families and friends who weren’t there to understand what you’ve gone through.” She stood, but didn’t move toward him.
Instead, she continued. “The first time I came home from Afghanistan, I couldn’t process what had happened. I tried to pretend like it was another life. But after a year of being stressed about everything, even if I’d ever live to write my next story—” She took a deep breath and pushed the painful memories away.
“I was in the newsroom in Boston. One minute I was packing up to go home and the next I was huddled, shivering at my desk unable to speak.
“My uncle Todd came to the rescue again. He’d covered Desert Storm. He got it. And he’s the one who called my friend Cherie, who happens to be a psychiatrist. Between the two of them, I was able to talk about it.
“And Cherie taught me coping mechanisms. So thankfully I was able to go back. I had to go back. A lot of important stories needed telling. You get why I had to go back? You’ve done it time and again yourself, but many people don’t. But what we don’t always realize is that it not only takes a toll on us—you and I—it takes a toll on our family and our friends.”
As he turned to face her, a myriad of emotions passed over his face. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the back of the chair he’d been sitting in. She didn’t worry, though, and she certainly didn’t fear him. This was his way of channeling anger.
“Being overseas in such conditions—it changes us, Blake. Sometimes for the better, other times not. As much as I’m a loner, I’m a lot more compassionate than I ever was. A journalist must be objective, but even I had to examine my life when I got home again.”
She took her seat and gestured for him to take his. “I want to tell you something off the record. Something no one, except Cherie, has heard me say. I’m telling you because I know I can trust you.”
“You can trust me,” he said gruffly.
Why did she feel the need to confess? She didn’t talk to anyone like this.
He sat in his chair. “You don’t have to tell me right now,” he said. “I believe you. And I’m sorry I—lost my temper. I’m trying very hard to simplify my life. Get up in the morning, do my job, go to sleep at night. I need that kind of routine right now. Things have to be easy.”
“I get that. I suppose it’s why I’m a workaholic. It happens to be the one constant in my life. We really are a lot more alike than either of us wants to admit.”
A long silence followed before he spoke up. “Your idea for the veterans story
She smiled. “I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. It’s about the interview. The one for your story.”
He leaned back in his seat and eyed her suspiciously. “Are you doing the interview?”
“Hear me out, please.”
Frowning, he stood. “Look, I understand this is what you people do, but I told you. I’m not interested in talking to anyone else.”
“Why, because you like me?”
“I do, but it’s because I trust you. And I’ve read your work. Whatever you wrote, it would be fair.” His voice had grown raw and deep.
She’d touched a nerve.
“You’re right. It would be fair if I did the article. And I’m flattered you know that. But what I have in mind goes far beyond just you. The person is someone you’ll trust even more than me.”
He crossed his arms. “Who?”
“You.”
He huffed. “I’m no writer, and it doesn’t make sense for me to do a story on myself. You should know I’m not a big fan of games.” He was to the door in three strides.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t explain it well. But I’m not exactly sure what it was I said that set you off.”
He didn’t turn around, but he didn’t open the door.
“I thought it would be interesting if you interviewed other veterans, there are so many at the nursing home and the Lion’s Club. Not really about war, but about what it’s like to come home. How hard it is for families and friends who weren’t there to understand what you’ve gone through.” She stood, but didn’t move toward him.
Instead, she continued. “The first time I came home from Afghanistan, I couldn’t process what had happened. I tried to pretend like it was another life. But after a year of being stressed about everything, even if I’d ever live to write my next story—” She took a deep breath and pushed the painful memories away.
“I was in the newsroom in Boston. One minute I was packing up to go home and the next I was huddled, shivering at my desk unable to speak.
“My uncle Todd came to the rescue again. He’d covered Desert Storm. He got it. And he’s the one who called my friend Cherie, who happens to be a psychiatrist. Between the two of them, I was able to talk about it.
“And Cherie taught me coping mechanisms. So thankfully I was able to go back. I had to go back. A lot of important stories needed telling. You get why I had to go back? You’ve done it time and again yourself, but many people don’t. But what we don’t always realize is that it not only takes a toll on us—you and I—it takes a toll on our family and our friends.”
As he turned to face her, a myriad of emotions passed over his face. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the back of the chair he’d been sitting in. She didn’t worry, though, and she certainly didn’t fear him. This was his way of channeling anger.
“Being overseas in such conditions—it changes us, Blake. Sometimes for the better, other times not. As much as I’m a loner, I’m a lot more compassionate than I ever was. A journalist must be objective, but even I had to examine my life when I got home again.”
She took her seat and gestured for him to take his. “I want to tell you something off the record. Something no one, except Cherie, has heard me say. I’m telling you because I know I can trust you.”
“You can trust me,” he said gruffly.
Why did she feel the need to confess? She didn’t talk to anyone like this.
He sat in his chair. “You don’t have to tell me right now,” he said. “I believe you. And I’m sorry I—lost my temper. I’m trying very hard to simplify my life. Get up in the morning, do my job, go to sleep at night. I need that kind of routine right now. Things have to be easy.”
“I get that. I suppose it’s why I’m a workaholic. It happens to be the one constant in my life. We really are a lot more alike than either of us wants to admit.”
A long silence followed before he spoke up. “Your idea for the veterans story
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