There he is again. I guess I should start preparing myself for weekly run-ins with Mike. Seems he's gonna be a regular around the clinic for awhile.

He's dressed in a plain white V-neck and a pair of dark gray jeans. Simplicity at its best. It's disgusting how not disgusting he looks. He almost makes me wish I was blind. Maybe then I'd be able to get over him.

"Hey, Lindsey," he greets, polite but not overly enthusiastic.

"Mike," I return. "Good to see you."

"Same," he nods.

I get him checked in and he takes a seat as usual. His appointment doesn't take nearly as long as it usually does. He's in and out before I'm able to escape for lunch. I've already clocked out though and have my purse slung over my shoulder when he exits the hallway.

"You leaving?" he asks, stopping at the desk where Abby proceeds to schedule his follow-up while trying not to make her attraction to him too obvious. She even goes so far as to prop her chin in her palm to give off a nonchalant vibe. It's failing miserably... mainly because she keeps laughing every time he glances in her direction. Her laugh is painful to listen to in normal circumstances, but add nerves and too much caffeine to her pitiful attempt at restrained giggles and I'm ready to dig my eardrums out.

"Yeah," I nod, tilting my head toward the exit. "Lunch."

"Ten next Wednesday okay?" Abby cuts in, shooting me a look.

Apparently, she thinks she's saving me from an awkward situation, but nothing could be more awkward than what Mike and I have already endured: the kiss, his war story, him feeling my scar, the bomb drop about Haley. Small chit chat is now a walk in the park.

Speaking of parks, from the looks of it, today might just be the perfect day for lunch in the park. It's bordering on too hot, but there's a nice breeze. With Mike's back to me, I assume our discussion is over and make my way out the door.

I'm already to my car when I hear Mike call for me. Rolling down my window, I peer up at him as he comes to a stop beside my door.

"Wanna grab lunch with me?" he asks, not the slightest bit hesitant or unsure of my response. He knows I can't turn him down and I hate that he's right. "I feel kind of bad about ditching you the other night. Wanted to make up for it."

"Oh." I'm surprised. Since his return, I haven't caught any evidence that he even possesses feelings outside of his own inner turmoil. From his behavior, everything he's dealing with is very personal and deep. For the first time, he's admitting to feeling bad about how he's treated me, rather than subconsciously seeking pity for the hell he went through in the war. Progress?... Maybe.

"Do you have plans already?"

I sort of want to say yes because the thought of chilling in the sunshine while I slurp a chocolate milkshake sounds a whole lot better alone. But one look at his serene face and I'm giving in. I'd hate to be the one to disrupt the happy flow of his day.

"No," I hurry to assure him. "Was just gonna go to the park. You're welcome to join me."

He smiles, the first genuine smile I've seen in the three weeks since he's been back—that's if we don't count the night of the cookout and his drunken delirium.

"Sounds great. Which one?"

"Rotary," I suggest, since it's the park closest to the clinic.

He nods. "You want me to pick you up something?"

"No, that's fine," I tell him. "I actually brought my own. I was just gonna grab a drink somewhere."

"Alright. See you there." He smiles again and I can't help the horrible thought that he must be on drugs or something. All this smiling is messing with my head.

———

"So, I take it your sessions with Dr. Michaels are going well?" I inquire, pulling out my turkey and cheese sandwich and taking a bite, grateful for the distraction of food to keep my hands busy.

We're seated at a wooden picnic table, the chatter of moms and squeals of happy children tickling the air from the distant playground. Squirrels dance around the grass collecting acorns and chasing each other up the base of the trees and through the swaying branches. It seems everything's peaceful except for the spastic mess going on inside my ribcage. I swear my heart's about to jump through the spaces in my ribs so it can yank Mike into its needy arms and kiss him itself.

"I suppose," he shrugs, popping a handful of fries in his mouth. "If you're one who believes drugs are a cure-all."

I continue eating, watching him as I chew and hoping he'll continue.

"I got some sleep last night," he explains. "He put me on Zolpidem to see if that'd help the insomnia."

"How long have you been taking it?" I ask around a mouthful of food.

"A week," he answers, fiddling with the straw in his large Pepsi. "Last night was the first night it worked. We'll see if it continues to do so."

"That's great," I smile.

"Yeah."

"So how long will you be in town?"

Something about the conversation feels stilted now and I'm wracking my brain for new topics. Unfortunately, neither of us have very many positive life-experiences to chat about anymore.

"Hard to say," he answers, stretching his legs out under the table and accidentally grazing mine. I flinch, almost pulling away, but when he just continues speaking, I realize he's not even aware he's touching me. "Arriving back on US soil was the start of my three years of inactive duty, meaning, I'll be here for a while unless I'm needed for some reason."

"How do you feel about the idea of possibly having to go back?"

Mike shrugs, glancing out across the park at the children playing on the swings. "I don't know. Being back hasn't been nearly as easy as I'd expected. I feel like—" He stops, squinting into the sky as he contemplates his words. "I almost feel like a foreigner here now and nobody really gets it. As awful as war could be, those guys were my brothers."

I frown, hating that I can't be that person who can relate with him. I've got my own struggles, but nothing like his. "I bet that's hard," I say.

Mike shifts forward suddenly, leaning his forearms on the table.

"Hey, about the other night," he grimaces slightly at the words he has yet to utter. "I'm sorry about kissing you. It was the—"

"Alcohol," I cut in and then wave him off. "Yeah, I get it."

"No," he hurries to correct. "I mean, yes, it was the alcohol. But please don't get the wrong idea. I never would have done that if I'd been sober, but that doesn't mean I didn't like it. I just feel like I sort of took advantage of you and I feel like crap for doing that."

I laugh. It's a single, boisterous sound, but it lightens the mood briefly.

"If anything, I feel like I was taking advantage of you," I tell him. "You're the emotional one. You're the one dealing with a beaucoup of demons you're trying to untangle and I just let confused Mike take the reigns."

"Yeah," he scratches the side of his temple. "Why did you?"

"Why'd I what?" I ask, playing dumb.

"Why'd you let me kiss you that night?"

I shrug, suddenly drawn to the grooves in the weathered table as I trace my finger over them. "Maybe because I wanted you to."

He sighs, shaking his head like I've just unloaded an entire dump-truck of concrete onto his shoulders.

"Lindsey," he says softly, shaking his head like he's almost disappointed in my answer. "You can't want this."

"Why not?" I defend.

"Because," he answers, his voice firm. "I will destroy you. I'm a mess. I'm dealing with anger issues I never knew myself to be capable of. My guilt eats at me until I can't breathe at night."

I run my hand down my scrub-covered thigh, wondering if I should take this opportunity to probe Mike for answers about his time in the war. The notes have to be from him. They're too personal and intuitive to be from some creeper in the distance. Whoever's writing them knows me. When I rewind through each encounter, I realize I usually only receive notes after having been with him. As for the other times, maybe he's just been in the area and slipped one under my wiper blade.

Now's my chance to find out if he's the one reaching out. If he wants someone to care enough to ask the hard questions. Maybe speaking to a doctor about all this isn't enough. Right now, it seems the ear of a listening friend might be more beneficial.

Swallowing, I set my sandwich down and take a drink, washing away the dryness in my throat.

"Is it nightmares that keep you up?"

Mike looks up at me after taking a bite of his Whopper, chewing slowly. He's obviously in no rush to offer any details, instead, going for a rigid nod of his head.

"You can talk to me about it, you know?"

"I know," he mumbles around his food.

"I wouldn't think any less of you," I tell him honestly. "Maybe it'd be good to get some of your experiences out."

"Now you just sound like Dr. Michaels." He quirks his lips at me in a tight grin but doesn't bother elaborating.

With a sigh, I return to munching on my food until I realize I can't stomach anything more until I've done all I can to open this door of communication with Mike. I need for him to truly understand just how willing I am to listen. I need him to know I won't judge.

"Are they bad?" I try again, a hint of irritation twitching across Mike's brow.

I feel ridiculous. I'm not the type to pry for answers. Usually, I just wait and wait until one day someone decides to spill a little bit about themselves to me. Otherwise, I usually just remain in the dark. Everything's surface level, even with my buddies. Aside from Andy and Gavin, I'm not sure I've had a real in-depth conversation with any of them. Not even Mike. Not really.

"Why are you pushing this?" he asks. Though the question sounds harsh falling from his lips, his face is more curious than anything.

"Sorry." I clear my throat, glancing at the food my body no longer craves. "I just thought it was what you wanted." My voice sounds small, and to flaunt just how uncomfortable I feel, my fingers suddenly start playing with the little crumbs scattered across my lunch sack.

"What I wanted?" he asks, baffled. "You think I want to talk about the body parts I've stuffed into bags after an F-16 blew up half my squad? You think I want to talk about watching my best buddy die as he confesses he'll never get to meet his unborn baby? You think I want to talk about the little girl—" His voice catches and he drops his head, shaking it back and forth.

I'm speechless, hating myself more than anything for obliterating the smiling Mike who'd presented himself to me earlier. That was the closest I'd seen him act like his old self and I just destroyed all of that. I ruined any progress he'd made over the past few weeks by asking my stupid questions and thinking he'd actually be jumping for joy to relive all the horrors he'd been through.

"I'm so sorry, Mike," I say hoarsely, clearing my throat and dropping my gaze again.

This is miserable. The tension. The heat spiraling around in my blood. If I could just rewind the entire day, or refuse to go for lunch with him, none of this would have happened. And yet, a few childish letters compelled me to shatter the man in front of me. For a split second, I feel like the enemy. Like I'm aiming missiles at Mike and laughing as they break open the barrier he'd worked so hard to build.

Let me just say, it doesn't feel good to force someone's deepest hurts into the open. It doesn't feel like an accomplishment. I set out this afternoon with the goal of getting Mike to open up... instead, I broke him.

"What would make you think I'd want to dredge all those memories back up again?"

The question hits me hard. And not because of the fury in his gaze as he says it, but in the tender, broken way in which the question leaves his lips. Like I've physically wounded him.

"The notes."

"Right. The notes." He nods a couple times before diverting his head movement. With a couple slow, incredulous shakes of his head, he levels his gaze at me, eyes narrowed and asks, "What notes?"

---

Ugh! The title of this chapter describes exactly how I felt writing it. It's an awful feeling. Like, I felt awkward and stupid and tiny and uncomfortable for Lindsey. Anyone else?

I think most of you had figured out the notes weren't Mikes but some weren't quite sure. Now we can cross his name off the list of suspects. Any clue who they're really from? Are you pissed they aren't Mike's?