door? Why did he worry about an animal that wasn’t even his?
And why did he keep thinking about a woman who had brought nothing but trouble to his life? Yet think about her he did. All the time. When he rolled out of bed, he wondered if she was next door, brewing coffee. When she came home at night, he wondered if she ate alone like he did, in a chair in front of a TV playing something inane. And when he went to bed, he wondered whether she was doing the same—and what exactly she was wearing, or not wearing, when she climbed between the sheets.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, and headed down the hall, away from the kitchen, where it was all too easy to walk outside and show he cared.
As he did, he passed the dining room. His step faltered. His hand automatically went to the wall for the light switch. He flicked it on, then off almost as fast. The brightness was too much, too . . . bright. He preferred the dim light filtering past the blinds, just enough to outline the shapes in the room.
His gaze caught on the bright white squares a few feet away. The medals, still packed in their cardboard boxes. Medals he never wanted, never earned or deserved. Medals he would give back in a second if it would change anything.
“Damn you. Just . . . damn you.” He backhanded the stack of boxes and sent them clattering to the floor. He heaved a breath, but it didn’t ease the tight, sharp pain in his chest.
Against the wall he could make out the slim frame of his bike. For an instant, he could feel the wind riffling down his back, hear the swish-swish of the tires against the road, feel the rush of exhilaration as he raced down a long, sloping hill . . .
His hand skimmed over the hard rubber wheel. The tire spun with soft, almost silent clicks, spinning easily beneath his touch, whispering a tempting song in the quiet. Feel the wind against your skin, the pavement beneath your seat. Get outside, enjoy the world again. Ride . . .
Luke jerked the wheel to a stop. He wouldn’t be riding this or any bike, not now, maybe not ever. Or jogging again, or doing anything that required vision. He missed the adrenaline rush of a good workout, the mindless pounding of his body, the sweaty exhilaration at the end. He missed doing something that forced his lungs to expand, his body to work harder, faster. He wasn’t the kind of man who sat around all day—
And yet that was what he had done for months.
The urge, no, need to do something gnawed at him like a rat. It was Saturday morning, and for ten years, he’d spent his Saturdays running or biking, something that got him outside, worked up a sweat, pounded out the week’s stresses, and got him as close to flying as he could be on the ground.
He closed his eyes, and in his head, he was out there again, hitting the pavement, while birds dipped into the glistening waters of the ocean and the soft caress of a spring breeze rippled down his skin. He inhaled the sweet tang of the ocean, mingled with the crisp scent of fresh-cut—
Those days had passed. He needed to quit thinking about what used to be. But as he turned away, he misjudged the turn and elbowed the bike, sending the Cannondale crashing to the floor. Luke cursed and bent to pick the bike up again.
He jerked the carbon frame back into place. As he did, his knee collided with the footlocker beside the bike. Pain shot up his leg. A fast string of cursing didn’t ease the pain but sure made him feel better.
He started to turn away, to limp back to the sofa. To retreat, as he had done so many times before. As his hand left the bike’s frame, a sudden fierce yearning for the life he used to have, the man he used to be, rose in his chest. He paused in the dim light, the dust tickling his nostrils.
“Goddammit,” he said again, but the curse had become a sob, a tear in his throat. He dropped to his knees beside the footlocker, his hands reaching along the sharp, hard corners, the smooth metal hinges, then back to the
And why did he keep thinking about a woman who had brought nothing but trouble to his life? Yet think about her he did. All the time. When he rolled out of bed, he wondered if she was next door, brewing coffee. When she came home at night, he wondered if she ate alone like he did, in a chair in front of a TV playing something inane. And when he went to bed, he wondered whether she was doing the same—and what exactly she was wearing, or not wearing, when she climbed between the sheets.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, and headed down the hall, away from the kitchen, where it was all too easy to walk outside and show he cared.
As he did, he passed the dining room. His step faltered. His hand automatically went to the wall for the light switch. He flicked it on, then off almost as fast. The brightness was too much, too . . . bright. He preferred the dim light filtering past the blinds, just enough to outline the shapes in the room.
His gaze caught on the bright white squares a few feet away. The medals, still packed in their cardboard boxes. Medals he never wanted, never earned or deserved. Medals he would give back in a second if it would change anything.
“Damn you. Just . . . damn you.” He backhanded the stack of boxes and sent them clattering to the floor. He heaved a breath, but it didn’t ease the tight, sharp pain in his chest.
Against the wall he could make out the slim frame of his bike. For an instant, he could feel the wind riffling down his back, hear the swish-swish of the tires against the road, feel the rush of exhilaration as he raced down a long, sloping hill . . .
His hand skimmed over the hard rubber wheel. The tire spun with soft, almost silent clicks, spinning easily beneath his touch, whispering a tempting song in the quiet. Feel the wind against your skin, the pavement beneath your seat. Get outside, enjoy the world again. Ride . . .
Luke jerked the wheel to a stop. He wouldn’t be riding this or any bike, not now, maybe not ever. Or jogging again, or doing anything that required vision. He missed the adrenaline rush of a good workout, the mindless pounding of his body, the sweaty exhilaration at the end. He missed doing something that forced his lungs to expand, his body to work harder, faster. He wasn’t the kind of man who sat around all day—
And yet that was what he had done for months.
The urge, no, need to do something gnawed at him like a rat. It was Saturday morning, and for ten years, he’d spent his Saturdays running or biking, something that got him outside, worked up a sweat, pounded out the week’s stresses, and got him as close to flying as he could be on the ground.
He closed his eyes, and in his head, he was out there again, hitting the pavement, while birds dipped into the glistening waters of the ocean and the soft caress of a spring breeze rippled down his skin. He inhaled the sweet tang of the ocean, mingled with the crisp scent of fresh-cut—
Those days had passed. He needed to quit thinking about what used to be. But as he turned away, he misjudged the turn and elbowed the bike, sending the Cannondale crashing to the floor. Luke cursed and bent to pick the bike up again.
He jerked the carbon frame back into place. As he did, his knee collided with the footlocker beside the bike. Pain shot up his leg. A fast string of cursing didn’t ease the pain but sure made him feel better.
He started to turn away, to limp back to the sofa. To retreat, as he had done so many times before. As his hand left the bike’s frame, a sudden fierce yearning for the life he used to have, the man he used to be, rose in his chest. He paused in the dim light, the dust tickling his nostrils.
“Goddammit,” he said again, but the curse had become a sob, a tear in his throat. He dropped to his knees beside the footlocker, his hands reaching along the sharp, hard corners, the smooth metal hinges, then back to the
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