I walk toward the path, waiting for the twinge in my leg that will halt my plans in their tracks. But there’s no pain. There’s nothing but the glorious feel of damp sea air against my damaged skin.

I start to walk a little faster now, still giving the leg a chance to protest the lack of support from my cane. And although I do feel a little off-balance, I can’t tell if I’m actually limping or just mentally limping.

A lone seagull cry pierces the perfect quiet of the early morning. I increase my pace.

A drop of water runs down the center of my forehead, and I realize that the mist has turned to rain.

And then my walk turns into a run.

I’m running.

For the first time in three years, I’m running.

Not a fast run. To anyone else, it probably looks like some awkward speed walk or failed jog. But I know the importance of it. I’m running.

It’s raining harder now, and I don’t care. Hell, I barely notice.

I’m concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, careful to make sure that my left leg hits the ground squarely each time. I still feel a little off-balance. My good leg is doing more of the work, and the shitty leg is definitely letting me know that it’s not used to this.

But I’m running. I’m f**king running.

Of course, I reach my limit quickly. I make it less than a mile before the slight awkwardness starts to dip into discomfort. Still, it’s a start. And that’s what really has me feeling like taking on the world. It’s the start to normalcy.

The leg’s never going to be pretty—I’m always going to get a stare or two on a beach vacation—but for the first time in a long time, normal seems within reach.

And I know exactly whom to thank.

I take my time walking back. The rain is heavier now, and I’m soaked but invigorated. Cheesy as it sounds, it’s one of those good-to-be-alive moments.

I pause inside the back door long enough to peel off my shoes and soaked socks. I need a shower, stat, but first, coffee.

I can’t help it. I grin when I see Olivia perched at the kitchen counter with her laptop. She’s changed into long flannel pajamas with pink and white stripes. Her hair’s still a mess, but she looks adorable. Lindy’s nowhere to be seen, and Olivia’s humming tells me she has her headphones in like she usually does when she’s checking email or shopping online.

Still in a ridiculously good mood, I move up beside her, wanting to wrap my arms around her and beg her to take a chance. On me. On us.

There are things I need to tell her. Steps I need to take, admissions I need to make. Stories to tell, ghosts to expunge, and all that. I’m ready.

My smile slips as my eyes catch on her laptop. Thanks to the headphones, she doesn’t seem to realize I’m behind her. If she knew, she’d make every effort to hide what’s up on her screen.

All the euphoria running through my veins turns to ice water immediately as I register the headline of the story she’s reading. It’s old news, but achingly familiar. My heart feels lodged in my throat.

Olivia senses me then, spinning around with a gasp, even as she frantically slams the laptop shut. Her face crumples when she realizes she’s too late.

I take a step backward, unable to stop the images conjured up by the words in that painfully understated headline: “Weston-Area Soldier Lone Survivor in Afghanistan Torture Tragedy.”

“Paul.” She reaches out a hand, her expression a combination of regret and horror.

“I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you everything.” My voice is raspy.

Her face crumples. “I know. I just—”

“You just what?” I sneer. “Wanted to know exactly who you let cuddle up against you last night? Wanted to know who—no, what—you almost f**ked?”

“Stop.” Her voice is firm, and her hand drops. “I just thought . . . You never want to talk about it, and—”

“You never asked!” I explode. “Nobody ever asks! Sure, you tiptoe around it. ‘Wanna talk about the dreams, Paul? Anything you wanna discuss?’ Everyone asks, from concerned nurse to poor victim, but nobody ever looks me in the eye over dinner and asks me, person to person, ‘What happened over there?’ You think I want to carry it around by myself? I don’t. I want to tell someone. I wanted to tell you. But not when you were looking at me like a damaged child.”

Her eyes fill with tears.

“It was mine to tell, Olivia. My story.”

“Then tell me.”

I jab my finger in the direction of the laptop. “No. You’ll have to satisfy yourself with that watered-down half-truth.”

“Paul.”

This time when she moves closer, both hands are outstretched, as though to pull me to her.

Damn it, I’m tempted to let her hold me, even after she belittled everything that I’ve gone through, all of the progress we’ve made by f**king Googling me.

My hands find her shoulders before she can touch me, and my fingers tighten briefly in the urge to pull her closer, before I very deliberately, almost roughly set her back. I don’t hurt her. I’d never hurt her, not physically, but the pain on her face tells me that my rejection hits something deeper.

Good.

“If it were up to me, you’d be on the first flight home to New York,” I say.

She gives me an incredulous look. “Oh, come on. Because I was reading a news article on you? News flash—I could have done that at any time.”