“Exactly.” Kendra tipped her head back to enjoy the eucalyptus-smelling breeze. “Matty said he’s seriously depressed.”
“Ugh, I bet. So she wants you to fix up his ego and send him back into battle?”
“Yup.” Kendra waited a beat. “Maybe with a squirrel next time.”
Another shriek.
Kendra laughed with her. Yes, it was horrible to make fun of someone in physical and emotional pain, but Jameson and his twin brothers...it was sort of inevitable. Reap what you sow, Cartwrights. “One interesting fact. Matty never went into the military. She’s a working actress. I almost got the impression she had some depth.”
“No way.”
“What’s more, she implied Jameson might have some, too.”
“You have to admit, he wasn’t as bad as Mark and Hayden.”
“Not saying much.”
“True. I’ve told you his dad was a piece of work. We’d hear shouting over there all the time. I don’t know if he drank or what, but he had a hell of a temper.”
“I remember.” Not surprising. Most people who grew up bullies had a first-class role model at home. “I said I’d talk to him.”
“Of course you did.” Lena sighed. “You can’t resist trying to fix everyone. I’m not sure this guy deserves you, though.”
“I said I’d talk to him. Then I get to decide what to do. I’m curious, to be honest. Don’t tell me you’re not. You were madly in love with him.”
“Only for a few weeks! Besides, everyone was madly in love with Jameson. He was a jerk, but he was a major hottie.”
“Not to me.” Kendra shuddered. She liked men whose strength lay in kindness and caring, not muscles and manipulation. Lena had married Paul, a slender, dark-haired fellow lawyer—complete opposite of her plump blond energy—who was gentle, brilliant, funny and the nicest man on the planet. Kendra wanted one of those.
“When are you going to talk to him?”
“When I can stomach it. His sister wants me to make it seem like I’m on official business and leave her out of it.”
“Smart. If my brother thought I was trying to force him into counseling, he’d refuse on principle.”
“Uh-huh. And honestly, I think he’s probably mortified. I mean, really, a cat?”
“Oof.” Lena started giggling again. “I know, I’m terrible. If it was anyone else it wouldn’t be so funny. Call me the second you finish talking to him, okay?”
“I promise.” She hung up and sat still for a moment, remembering Jameson in grade school, bringing up his wide, smug smile from her memory bank, that weird nervous snickering he did when taunting her, looking back at his hulking older brothers for validation and support.
In elementary school he’d tripped her in the halls, put worms in her lunch, glue in her hair. In middle school he’d spread rumors that she had mysterious rashes, that she was dating a cousin, that she’d had an abortion in eighth grade, that she was being medicated for a mental illness. In their freshman year of high school he’d asked her to the school dance as a joke—pretending he wanted to date the fatty, ha-ha-ha. Then without lifting a finger, he’d denied her the class presidency she’d worked so hard for.
Why was she even considering helping this guy?
Because she, at least, was a grown-up now. Because he was hurting. Because helping people in pain was her job. Because Kendra knew depression, knew how it could sap your ability to get out of bed in the morning, how the idea of having to live the rest of your life seemed an impossibility, how feeling anything but crushing pain seemed a distant dream, sometimes not even worth going after. Didn’t matter what caused the pain, the very fact of its existence meant conquering it should be imperative.
After she’d emerged from the worst of her own grief with the support and help of an amazing therapist Lena had dragged her to, Kendra had decided she wanted to help people out of that same darkness.
For her program, she used the techniques that had helped her the most, starting slow and simple—getting out of the house and back in touch with nature, then gradually resuming favorite hobbies and activities and introducing new ones that had no memories attached. And along with that, listening, compassion and a friendly shoulder—repeat as needed.
Could she offer those things to Jameson Cartwright in good faith? She’d need to make sure she didn’t just want to prove he hadn’t won. To show him how in spite of him and people like him, she’d emerged with self-esteem intact. To parade her slender self, no longer in thick-framed glasses or drab don’t-look-at-me clothes. To show him she had the strength to survive worse than anything he’d ever dreamed of dishing out, a tragedy that put his stupid pranks and arrogance into stunning perspective. To be able to confront him in a situation in which, finally, she held all the power.
Kendra would need to check her baggage and her ego at his door. If she couldn’t be genuine in her approach, she’d do neither of them any good.
A red-tailed hawk circled lazily over a fir tree growing partway down the hill, its uppermost needles at eye level where she sat. The bird landed on the treetop, folded its feathers and stood fierce and proud, branch rebounding gently under him.
When Kendra was in elementary school, she’d found a baby hawk on the fire road below their house—how old had she been, seven? Eight? The creature had broken its wing and lay helpless to move, to fly, terrified of the sudden vulnerability.
In spite of his feeble attempts to peck her eyes out, she’d gotten the creature to the house; her mother had helped her transport it to the Humane Society. Kendra had visited often while the hawk healed, naming it Spirit. The staff had invited her to come along when they rereleased Spirit into the wild. She’d watched him soar into the sky and had felt the deep joy that comes from helping a fellow creature heal.
Kendra had thought of that bird often as she’d struggled through the first year after the crash that left her without family except for the much-older brother she’d never had much in common with who lived abroad. And she’d thought about Spirit when she’d decided on her career path, and when she met people made helpless by grief, and when she was first trying to help people who wanted nothing more than to peck her eyes out. Because she knew something they couldn’t grasp yet. That there would be a moment when she could rerelease them into the wilds of a renewed life and watch them soar.
She picked up the phone and dialed Jameson.
2
WE LIVE IN fame or go down in flame. The line from the Air Force song played endlessly in Jameson’s head. Torture. As if he needed more.
He was stretched out on his buddy Mike’s sofa, staring out the window, sick to death of watching TV. Yeah, he’d gone down in flame. Because this sure wasn’t fame, and it could only marginally be called living.
At least Mike had his back, letting him stay at his place so Jameson wouldn’t have to crawl to Mom and Dad. As if his humiliation wasn’t complete enough, moving back home would have about killed him. He’d met Mike at Maxwell during basic officer training, and in one of those stranger-than-fiction coincidences realized he was living in Jameson’s hometown with his wife, Pat, who was with her new-mom sister in Reno. Mike had been assigned to train at Keesler in computer communications at the same time as Jameson, and offered his place after Jameson’s accident. Couldn’t have worked out better.
His cell rang. Again. He didn’t look at it. He hadn’t looked at it last time or the time before that. It was Dad or Mom or Matty or one of his brothers or a friend. They’d make stilted conversation, Matty