“Kayce said it felt right to have his truck used to work the land here, so it’s been on the farm…well, ever since.”
I scooted closer as birds chirped their evening greetings from the nearby oaks. “Do you want to tell me about Jonathan?”
Miller’s laugh was void of humor. “That’s what people do, isn’t it? Tell you their every problem and hope you can fix them. You can’t fix me, Hattie.”
“I’m not asking you about Jonathan as a therapist. I’m asking you as a friend.”
Miller dragged in air from some deep, emotional catacombs where he’d stored painful memories. “Two-and-a-half years ago Johnathan was honorably discharged from the military. He and my sister were stationed in San Antonio, Texas, and he was struggling to adjust to civilian life. They were having problems, so he asked if he could come stay with me for a while. When Jonathan got to San Francisco, he was a wreck.”
“How so?”
“He was up all hours of the night, had this hollow look in his eyes, and just…was not the guy I knew like a brother. For so many nights, we’d stay up late talking, but eventually we ran out of words. He told me all these war stories, but one day the stories stopped. Maybe he knew I couldn’t stomach it anymore.” Eyes full of hurt met mine. “I’m ashamed to say, at the time, I was glad he quit talking about it. It was too much.”
“It’s hard to see people we love deal with pain we can’t understand.”
“I found him the best therapist in California. Made sure he knew money was no object. I thought that would fix things—and it made me feel less guilty.”
“Why would you feel guilty?”
“I couldn’t help Jonathan. I lived this privileged life in my designer suits and my expensive house. And here my brother-in-law had defended our country and gone into some of the darkest, most dangerous places, only to come back damaged and beyond reach.”
“You also used that privilege to get him help and offer him a safe place to land.”
“By the eighth week of his stay, I told Jonathan he needed to think about going home. His wife was worried, his kids missed him, and staying with me hadn’t seemed to help matters. He disagreed and said he wanted to stay longer. We got into an argument, and he stormed out.” Miller stared into his cup as if there were answers there. “Jonathan didn’t go home. He went to a friend’s place in Boulder and took his life there a week later.”
“Miller.” I reached for his hand and just held it with both of mine. “I’m so sorry.”
“As Jonathan was walking out the door, he told me that I didn’t understand, that no one did.” Miller flipped over our hands and ran his thumb over my palm. “He was right. That last week I nagged him about getting a job or going back to school, about picking up his dirty clothes in the bathroom and making his bed. Meanwhile, he had battle scenes playing out in his mind every day, gruesome visions that wouldn’t leave him alone. Until I started working with the vets at the farm, I really didn’t get it.”
“None of us can understand fully if we haven’t lived it.”
“Not a day goes by that I don’t relive the night Jonathan walked out. All these options play back in my head—if only I’d kept my mouth shut, if only I’d found a different counselor, if only I’d let him talk more, if only I’d tried harder for my sister, for the girls…” He shook his head. “If only.”
Eschewing nerves and what was left of my pride, I wrapped my arms around Miller and hugged him tightly. “It wasn’t your fault. You have to believe that.”
I felt Miller tense, holding himself taut for a matter of seconds before his body finally went slack against mine. “I’d give anything to go back and do it all differently. I loved that guy.”
“Of course you did. And Jonathan knew that. Even if you can’t believe this yet, know that you were a safe place for him.” I squeezed tighter when Miller began to protest. “And now you’re a safe place for a lot of veterans who are walking through their own dark places.” Somehow I’d disentangled from Miller, and my hands cupped his cheeks. “You’re saving lives, Miller. Can you hear that? Can you accept that you’re making a difference?”
He eased off the truck bed and walked to the creek, his feet stopping where the water tripped over rock. “It’s never going to feel like it’s enough.”
“You can’t bring Jonathan back.” I joined Miller, standing by his side, watching his strong profile in the dimming shadows.
Glistening eyes turned to me, then back to the water. “I know.”
“But his legacy is on every inch of soil on the farm, every crop grown, and each animal raised. Anytime a veteran gains ground, finds a smile, feels space open up in their mind and heart, that’s all because of Jonathan…and you.” My hand slid up his back and rested there. “He’d be proud of you, Miller James.”
Miller turned toward me, his body a breath away from mine. He reached for a chunk of hair that had escaped my braid and let his finger glide against it. “Jonathan also would’ve been a big fan of the work you do, Hattie. He’d have adored you.”
“That would have been a great honor.” Something shifted in the vicinity of my heart, and a small jolt of panic followed. I could not fall for Miller. Should not, could not. “The girls tell me you don’t like to talk to their mom.”
Some of the warmth banked in his eyes, and he frowned. “We text all the time.”
“That’s not really a conversation.”
“Have you ever texted with Kayce? She can’t be brief to save her life. It’s definitely a conversation.”
“When’s the last time you actually spoke to your sister?”
