Fighting for Everything (Warrior Fight Club 1)

All his anger had achieved was to piss Kristina off and alienate her. Because she was still going out with Ethan the Dickhead Neighbor, wasn’t she?

He poured a bowl of cereal and sat heavily at the table. He hadn’t eaten since dinner on Sunday and, despite his generally poor appetite, he was fucking starving.

Beneath his keys and wallet, Noah spied the course catalog Kristina had given him before she’d left on Saturday night. He’d given it a long enough glance after he dropped her off to see that it was a listing of art therapy courses—music, dance, theater, studio art, music, writing, and more.

It had only taken an additional two seconds for his brain to say no fucking way.

Noah sighed. He’d tried the therapist. Tried keeping it all bottled up inside. He’d tried it his way and was falling the fuck apart. Maybe it was time to try something else?

Giving the flyer a second look, he flipped through the pages between bites of frosted flakes.

Buzz.

Relief flooded through Noah’s gut as he reached for his cell. Kristina. Finally. He thumbed on the screen.

Want to tell me about this hole in your shower? I’m standing here with a tile guy you scheduled…

Not Kristina. His father.

“Fuck,” Noah said. With the migraine, he’d totally forgotten about the appointment he’d made. He’d meant to get up and over to his parents’ place before they knew what was going on. “Fuck.”

I’m sorry, he typed back. I was trying to take care of it without bothering you. He sent those messages and stared at the screen.

If Noah didn’t explain that he’d forgotten because of the migraine, he’d just look like an inconsiderate asshole. If he did explain about the migraine, he’d have to admit he wasn’t doing well to his father.

Rock, meet hard place.

Be right over, he texted. Then the truth trumped his need to make everyone think he was fine, just fine, thank you very much. Had a shit migraine for the past two days and lost track of time. I’m sorry.

Noah inhaled the rest of his cereal and threw on some clothes, and then he stood in front of his bathroom counter which held so many pill bottles it looked like a pharmacy had vomited all over it.

One by one, he downed the battery of meds he had. For depression. For anxiety. For his equilibrium issues. When he’d choked them all down, he collected his keys and wallet and then, without thinking too much about why, he grabbed the listing of courses, too. Ten minutes later, he pulled into his parents’ driveway behind the contractor’s service truck.

He found his father standing at the island in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hand and the newspaper spread out in front of him.

“Good morning,” his dad said in what sounded like a neutral tone. But Noah knew that was really an invitation for him to come clean about the damage he’d done—and why he’d done it.

“I’m sorry,” Noah said, bracing his hands on the far side of the island.

Dad pressed his lips together and gave Noah a sad look. “I don’t care about the hole, Noah. I care about you. I saw the cuts on your hand and I let it go because it’s clear you don’t like being pushed to talk, but now that I know how it happened, I have to ask—”

“It was the fireworks.” Noah dropped his gaze to the cook-top stove in between them. “At the Memorial Day party.” He shrugged, searching for the words, and debating just how much to reveal. He didn’t need to bring his fuck-up with Kristina into it, that much was for sure. “They set off a full-on flashback. I didn’t know where I was. Actually, that’s not true. I was in Iraq, only, I wasn’t. Afterward, I lost it. I’m sorry.”

His Dad came around the counter to stand right next to Noah. “I didn’t even think of how the fireworks might affect you.”

Noah chuffed out a laugh that held no humor whatsoever. “Me either.”

His mind was so damn fucked, and the weight of it was just…too much to bear. He yearned for a release, just a way to lift a little of it from his shoulders, even if only for a short while.

“Talk to me, son.”

Pressure clamped down on Noah’s chest and a knot lodged in his throat. “I’m having flashbacks. Nightmares. Anxiety all the time.”

“What does your therapist say?”

Noah shook his head. “Talking makes it worse.”

His father’s shoulders fell. “You’re not going.” It wasn’t a question.