He’s got to be exaggerating. The Weston McKnight I know came home a different man, but he’s too strong to be the broken mess he’s describing. Way too disciplined.
“Have you told her what you went through over there?” Marty asks quietly.
“Fuck no. I didn’t write home after I told her I would for a reason. She hasn’t asked me either, thank God, and don’t you go telling her and putting ideas in her head.”
Yikes.
The pain inside me boils into anger.
I form my own ideas just fine, jackass. Don’t need any help from Marty.
Why is he so sensitive? So hurt? Barking crap like a cornered dog with a wounded paw...
Why can’t I know what it was like for him after he returned from combat?
“West, what the fuck? Why?” Marty asks bluntly.
“Why? We’re talking about Shelly, man,” Weston says, his voice trembling with hate...or is it self-hatred? “You know her as well as I do. She can’t handle my shit, nor should she have to. I don’t want her knowing my demons. Not now, not ever.”
They think they know me, huh?
Now, I’m blinding pissed.
No wonder.
No flipping wonder he clammed up every time I brought up the military. He thinks—
Damn him, I’m not a kid! I can handle real life tragedies with the seriousness and empathy they deserve.
I spin around, march to the door, and push through it before my mind catches up with my feet.
They must hear the screen door banging shut behind me because they appear around the corner of the house as I’m walking down the steps.
The frustration welling up inside me is a slow, sweeping flame. The guilty look on their faces coaxes it straight to the surface.
“Hey, Marty,” I say flatly. “I see you found me. FYI, I was having a summer fling with Weston. You know, hot monkey sex, with the guy standing right beside you. The guy who can’t tell me what happened while he was in the service, because...because, well, you know. I’m not mature enough to handle it, or apparently my own future plans. I’m just grown up enough for sexy time, and not grown up enough to be anything except the little girl who follows you two around like a helpless puppy. The girl who gets in trouble and never grew a sensitive, self-aware bone in her body.”
Am I bitching out? Yes.
And while I might feel kinda bad later, I’m definitely not feeling it now as I prop my hand against my hip and try to hate-stare them down to the planet’s core.
Weston’s eyes flash like blue sirens. “Shel, that’s not—”
“Not what, West? The reason you won’t tell me anything? I call BS. You think I can’t handle knowing the truth. You think if I know your platoon was caught in an ambush in Afghanistan, I’ll want you to relive it constantly or something.”
I’m glad Faye told me that much. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have a defense. I’m also not done.
“Shel,” he growls back. “It isn’t like—”
“Like what? Like you don’t think I’m so shallow, so immature, that I can’t handle the truth? That I’m not ready to hear why you were too messed up to write me?” I pause, watching his eyes widen. “Thanks. I really appreciate that. I love knowing what you really think of me—good enough to be your toy, your fling, and nothing more.”
“Shelly!” Marty throws up his arms, jerking toward me.
I twist away.
Yep, I’ve gone too far, and I know it.
I’ve never handled betrayal from Weston McKnight well, but this, after I thought we were almost over it and having conversations like normal human beings...