I escaped while he shouted out from behind about me trying to mug him.
I ran to the bathroom and called Mac.
I’d been pale and shaky in that bathroom mirror, just like now. I hadn’t even realized I was crying that day until I’d seen my reflection.
While today I hadn’t been grabbed or kissed or yelled at, I’d been silently attacked. My body had been brutalized, and I’d been humiliated. My legs started to give out, and I sank onto the edge of the tub, a cold numbness invading my body and mind.
The door opened, and Nash walked in carrying my heavy suitcase. It was heavy enough that I always dragged it on the rollers. Not Nash. Not the SEAL. Not the best of the best of the best. He carried it like it was nothing more than a bag of bread.
He saw me sitting and did a double-take. He came toward me.
“What happened?”
Nothing. Everything. Nothing. I shook my head.
“You look even paler than when I left.” He stepped closer.
Pale. Yes, I was pale. The word “victim” was spinning around in my head, sliding over my body in a way I wanted to shrug off. I was unsure how to incorporate that word into my self-image.
“Why don’t you stay here? I’ll go talk with Brady and the team.”
I shook my head. Victims became survivors. Being a survivor wasn’t a word I wanted tied to my name either, but survivor was easier for me to shoulder. I had survived. I would survive again.
“No, I’m going,” I said.
I pulled myself up and walked past him to where he’d left my suitcase. I unzipped it, found the items I needed, and then went back into the bathroom. I put a hand on the door and waited for Nash to leave.
He stopped in front of me, cupping my cheek. “You’re gonna be okay.”
It was the same statement he’d made outside my room the night before, as if he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that when I got to the other side of this, I’d be whole. But I’d just realized, I wasn’t. I’d already been burnt into pieces. Images of Nash and the SEAL team documentary flew through me. I wasn’t ringing any damn bell yet. I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. I could come out of the charred ash stronger.
Nash stared into my eyes for a long time, as if he wanted to tell me something else, but then, he pulled the door from my grasp and shut it behind him.
I pulled on my underwear, strapless bra, and the sundress I’d pulled out of the suitcase. It was October, but it was still warm in Florida, and better yet, it was loose, which I needed on my stomach that still felt bloated and sore.
I slid on a pair of flat sandals, brushed my teeth, and washed my face to remove the remaining makeup that had smudged under my eyes with my half-hearted attempts at the restaurant and in the shower earlier. I looked at the mess that was my hair but didn’t have the energy to even put it up in a ponytail. There was a numbness dragging at my insides as unfamiliar words still swirled through me and around me. They’d have to take me as I was at the moment. Victim. Survivor. Dani.
When I opened the door, Nash was right there, as if he’d been listening to make sure I didn’t hit the ground. I was grateful and annoyed all at the same time. But it was hard to work up the wall of hatred I’d been presenting to him for weeks. Not after he’d been so damn kind.
After he’d seen me at my worst and stayed.
After he’d shown me his own scars.
The fissure that losing Darren had caused in his soul had been open and gaping in front of me when he’d talked about the medal earlier, the guilt bubbling through his every word. He’d survived, too. I didn’t think of him as less because of it. He was more. It made me determined to be the same. More.
I opened the door to the hallway, and he came with me. He started toward the emergency exit, but I grabbed his arm, shaking my head. “I can’t do the stairs.”
I didn’t want to say I was too weak. But it was the truth. My body was weak. But that would pass.
“I can carry you,” he said. And he would, but I’d been humiliated enough for one day. I’d been weak enough for a day.
I turned and headed to the elevator. I didn’t have my phone with my meditation app, and my palms were already sweating. I’d just relived that entire night at The Oriental in my head. It wasn’t a great time to be climbing back into—what had Nash called it—a rattle trap.
But I wanted to face it.
I hit the up arrow. The doors sprung open, and I walked in with Nash following me. He inserted a key card that was required to access the top floor and then pushed the button. The doors swung shut, and I closed my eyes, letting the sensation hit me. My heart rate spiked, making it hard to breathe, but I focused on just doing that. Inhaling and exhaling.
Then, there were fingers tugging at mine, a warm, gentle hand holding my sweaty one. When I slowly opened my shut lids, Nash was close. Not close enough to cause alarm, but close enough to hold my hand and then to reach out and grab the other one as well. He ran a thumb along my palm.
