Chapter 7 – Strong

The week did not end on a positive note.

A nightmare had ripped her out of a deep slumber at 2:30 am. Hardly a rare occurrence, but it was actually the first since her arrival in Maine. As if making up for lost time, the images had been sharper and more vivid than usual; when the bomb detonated, the virtual impact sent her shooting straight up in bed, heart crammed up in her throat. Disoriented, she had panicked when the room that came into focus was not hers and she had scrambled out of bed, banging her leg hard on the corner of the bedside table and knocking over a lamp. It was several long seconds before her rational mind seized control of her reptilian brain and reminded her that she was at Bobby's cabin. She had crawled back into bed right away but further sleep had eluded her. She had spent the rest of the night staring out the window as the sky lightened and birds began their morning melody.

Her poor night's sleep dogged her all day. Despite downing multiple cups of strong black coffee, Alex felt foggy and sluggish. She was completely off her game at work – losing her train of thought, stumbling through answers to basic questions, fumbling with papers and markers. The sidelong glances and confused frowns of her audience made it clear that her struggle was noticeable. Embarrassed, she had rushed through the material for the day as quickly as possible and adjourned the group early, slinking back to her designated desk in a corner of the precinct to plan her lessons for the following week. The stink of failure crept back in, followed closely by hopelessness.

Over breakfast, Bobby had told her he had a date with Faith that evening and would be out for most of the night. She had tried to keep the disappointment that had flared in her stomach off her face. The prospect of being alone in that cabin, with nothing to distract from her thoughts, was anxiety-inducing and had gotten more and more disagreeable as the day went on. When she left the precinct late in the afternoon, Alex had turned in the opposite direction of the parking lot and wandered the streets aimlessly for an hour before she crossed the threshold of the Stampede Tavern.

The Stampede was a trendy hole-in-the-wall situated two blocks over from Portland's main drag. A small standalone red brick building, its facade was fronted by a black wrought iron fence that surrounded twin flower beds in full summer bloom. A ring of rusty horseshoes framed the door. Inside, the space was crammed to the hilt with a mahogany bar and a series of square tables, straight-backed chairs, and vinyl covered booths. The decor was pure, unadulterated western. Speakers pumped the same Top 40 country music that filled the bar out onto the sidewalk.

The pub was busy with Friday night revelers but fate had been on her side and she was able to secure a small, two-seater table that was tucked into a corner, parallel to the bar. Alex sat on the far side of the table on a booth seat that stretched all the way across the one wall. It gave her a fantastic view of the entire pub and she used the human spectacle before her to distract herself from the circus in her mind. A group of fishermen were playing darts off to the left, a retirement party was picking up steam near the back, and a crowd of male college students downed synchronized shots to her right. Waitresses squeezed through the throng, platters of drinks in hand.

She was on her fourth bourbon when her cell phone vibrated, jigging around on the table, display alight. She had been staring into her glass, lost in the ghosts of the past, and it took great effort to pull her eyes away and blearily check the number.

Bobby.

With reluctance, she picked up a second before her voicemail kicked in.

"What's up?"

"Nothing." Bobby's voice held just a tinge of faux cheerfulness. "Just wanted to check-in . . . see how your day was. Thought you might have been home by, uh, now."

It's not my home, Bobby. It's you that's living the charmed life.

"It was good," Alex lied, her tone flat. "How was yours?"

"Fine, fine." There was a pause on the line as Bobby seemed to be weighing his words carefully. "Are you okay? When you didn't come home, I got a bit . . . worried, you know."

Oh Bobby. Don't waste your time worrying about me. I'm already lost.

"I'm completely fine, I promise." Alex forced lightness into her tone. "Hey look, I've got to go. Have a good night."

She hung up and sank back into her solitary misery.


One hour and another full drink later, she was undeniably intoxicated.

The pub had emptied out some, hovering in the trough between the after-work crowd and the party crowd. The college boys were the lone holdouts from when she first arrived. The alcohol had fueled their rowdiness while it drained her spirit. Her throat was raw from the bourbon but the sharp edges of the flashbacks had softened so it was worth it. The room was starting to blur at the peripheries and her fingers felt thick and clumsy as they wrapped around her glass.

"What're you up to tonight?"

Hazily, Alex glanced up from the amber liquid in her glass and saw one of the college boys, a rail-thin young man with a buzz cut, hovering around the vacant chair on the other side of her table.

Wonderful.

"I'm waitin' for someone," Alex lied, speaking slowly and carefully to try and control the slur that marred her words. She turned her head cautiously, aware that any movement made the room spin, to see the rest of the college crowd staring over at them, grinning and elbowing each other.

Buzz Cut seemed pleased with that answer. His smile broadened, highlighting a slight gap between his front teeth, as he placed his beer glass presumptuously on her table. "Can I wait with you?"

"No, you can't."

A deep voice to her left responded before she could. Bobby appeared suddenly as if emerging from a fog. He had gathered himself up to his full height, shoulders square, mouth set in a thin line. His eyes were locked on the would-be suitor as he approached the table, gaze hard as steel. The younger man held his ground for only a moment before his bravado wavered and he removed his glass from the table and retreated back to his crew.

"Christ, Bobby," Alex groaned, folding her arms on the table and dropping her forehead onto them. She knocked her glass in the process and Bobby deftly grabbed it before the bourbon sloshed over the rim. "What are you doing here?"

The wooden legs of the chair scraped across the tile as he pulled it back and sat down across from her.

"Saving you from drunken frat boys, apparently."

Sighing, Alex straightened back up resignedly and rested her chin on her hands. "How did you know I was here?"

Bobby gestured toward the speakers on the wall behind her that were presently blaring Garth Brooks.

"The, uh, music in the background. When we were on the phone. The Stampede is the only pub in Portland that plays country music twenty-four seven."

Alex laughed despite herself. "Of course."

Only Bobby. Always the detective.

Uncharacteristically, Bobby didn't join in the laughter. His face was serious as he laced his fingers together and placed his hands on the table. "What's going on with you?"

Alex frowned, her finger tracing a gouge in the wooden tabletop. "Nothing. What's going on with you? I thought you had a date with Faith."

"I did. I, uh, cancelled."

Alex groaned again, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. "I really wish you hadn't done that. Faith is going to hate me."

A family of four slipped behind Bobby's chair. He watched them over his shoulder weave through stools and chairs to an empty table before turning back to look at her, voice low. "I was . . . concerned. You seemed, uh, off this morning."

Sighing, Alex closed her eyes. She could feel the fabric of the curtain she had drawn between herself and the world start to fray and split. The alcohol inhibited her ability to return her shields to their normal state and she felt vulnerable in a way that she hadn't allowed in a long time. For once it took more effort to lie than it would have to tell the truth. Yet old habits died hard.

"I'm fine. It was just a long day."

"You're not fine, Alex," Bobby said quietly, his dark eyes steady and unflinching. "Please don't, uh . . . keep pretending you are."

Her shoulders slumped as the last of her energy evaporated and her entire body sagged.

I can't do this anymore. I'm done with fighting. I'm tired, so very tired.

Too exhausted to argue the point any further, Alex shook her head and tried a different tact.

"It doesn't matter, Bobby."

"It matters to me."

Bobby's voice was firm, a contrast to the soft tone that he typically used with her. She was surprised when he grabbed her glass and, in one gulp, downed the rest of the bourbon.

"Come on. Let's get out of here."


They didn't speak a word the entire drive home.

Alex had sat in the passenger seat, staring out into the night while Bobby drove. Talk radio droned on in the background but at a volume so low that the words were virtually indistinguishable. She had rolled her window down a crack, hoping the cool evening air would help her sober up. Her mind did end up feeling clearer but she was still unsteady on her feet when she got out of the car. Even holding on to the railing, she had stumbled going up the front steps. If Bobby hadn't grabbed her arm, she would have done a face plant. He had kept a firm grip on her elbow while unlocking the door and letting them inside, only releasing it after she was safely seated on the couch.

The cabin was damp, the woodfire that had burned earlier that day to combat the morning chill now reduced to nothing but embers, and Alex pulled the wool afghan that was draped over the back of the couch around her shoulders. She recognized it from his apartment in New York – it had originally belonged to his mother – and she found that small reminder of the past a nostalgic comfort. Bobby vanished into the kitchen, reappearing with a huge bottle of water and a plate of crackers that he placed in front of her on the coffee table before lowering himself onto the adjacent loveseat. Crossing one leg on top of the other at the ankle, he folded his hands in his lap and sat, watching.

Waiting patiently for her to find a place to start.

When all else fails, focus on the facts.

"I have nightmares. Bad ones," Alex said slowly, cracking her knuckles in an effort to release pent-up tension. "Every night I pretty much relive the moments leading up to the explosion."

Bobby blinked but said nothing. He was careful to keep his face neutral, expressionless, but she strongly suspected that this admission wasn't news to him.

Of course it isn't. He probably heard you crash around like a bull in a china shop this morning.

"It's been hard to . . . function . . . since that day. I have trouble concentrating, focusing. Sudden noises make me jump. I get anxious in confined areas. I have flashbacks, I feel . . . on edge, constantly."

Bobby nodded and remained silent, as if afraid that any comment would bring an abrupt halt to her narrative. He needn't have worried; now that the dam had sprung a leak, the story could not be held back.

Alex yanked at a piece of yarn that had wormed loose from the weave of the afghan. "We missed the mark so badly, Bobby. I don't know how. But innocent people paid the price."

"You can't own that," Bobby said quietly. "You did the best you could. You didn't make the bomb or put that detonator in his hand."

She chuckled bitterly. "I bet that's a real comfort for the families. We were clueless, Bobby. We bungled the investigation. Three months in and we still had no clue that Franklin was the trafficker. If we had figured it out sooner, we could have handled the whole situation so much differently. We would have been far more careful. You would have known. You would have figured it out long before then."

"You don't know that."

"You would have, Bobby," Alex insisted, wrapping the afghan more tightly around her, a protective cocoon. "I realize now that you really were the genius, and I really did just carry your water. I said that all those years ago out of anger, but it's true. I can recognize that now."

"Alex . . ."

"No." She held up a hand to silence him. "We messed up, and innocent people died. Period. I should have died too, but I was spared, for God knows what reason. I should be out, leading a better life, making a bigger difference in the world, to somehow justify my ongoing existence. To make up for the fact that those people aren't here to do it."

Her voice broke as a huge lump formed in her esophagus and it took several deep breaths to smooth it out again. "I have had the best medical care, the best mental health care, and yet still, here I am, unable to get it together, miserable, squandering this second chance at life."

Tilting her head forward, Alex purposely allowed a curtain of hair to cascade down around her face to hide the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm her features. A muscle in her cheek twitched and she frantically blinked back the water that was gathering along her eyelids, in danger of spilling over.

Do not cry, do NOT cry. You have NO right. You are still alive.

She heard the creak of the loveseat as Bobby stood. With her head still tilted down, face shrouded behind the veil of hair, the first thing she saw was his socks, followed by a swath of leg as he gingerly lowered himself down on the coffee table in front of her. He didn't speak, just rested a hand on her knee.

When she was confident she had herself somewhat together, Alex squared her shoulders, lifted her chin defiantly and met his gaze, waiting for him to feed her the empty platitudes that she had heard so often over the last year.

It's not your fault.

Everything will be okay.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

It's the PTSD and survivor's guilt talking.

Blah, blah, blah.

But as usual, Bobby offered that which she was not expecting.

"I'm so sorry that you're going through this."

His eyes were soft and deep, his voice gentle and her heart leapt at just that simple acknowledgement. It promised no false hope for the future, offered no solution, made no futile attempt to explain that which she already knew and from which derived no comfort. It was a simple validation that communicated he was there, in the moment, with her. Something no one else had ever done.

To her horror, Alex felt one fat, traitorous tear escape and slide down her cheek.

Reaching out, Bobby gently brushed that lone tear away with his thumb.

Surprised, Alex cleared her throat and leaned back, scrubbing at the remaining tear trail with the coarse corner of the afghan. "Thank you. It's been . . . a struggle. Still is."

"Why didn't you, uh . . . tell me sooner?" Bobby's voice was kind and devoid of judgment as he returned his hands to his lap. "You've had to deal with this . . . all on your own. I would have, uh, liked to help."

"I know, I'm sorry." Feeling a bit lighter, Alex tucked her hair back behind her ears. "I just didn't want you to think of me any differently. As soon as people hear the story, find out that I've got PTSD, they get all weird. As if I'm some sort of china doll that they're afraid they'll break. I couldn't have handled it if you had started treating me differently too, because of what happened. I didn't want you to think that I was weak, damaged somehow."

"Weak?" Bobby sat back in apparent surprise. "Alex, weak is never, uh, EVER a word I would use to describe you. I just hope that you know you don't always have to be so . . . . so strong."

Before she realized what she was doing, Alex had wrapped her arms around Bobby's neck in a hug. He stiffened at first, as if unsure how to respond, but that faded quickly and he hugged her back. It was the lengthiest physical contact of their relationship and she held onto it until it was bordering on awkward.

As she released him and sat back, a tendril of hair escaped from behind her right ear and brushed against her face. Gently, Bobby swept it back. His fingertips lingered on her face for a moment, lightly tracing the small scar on her cheek - the scar that no one else seemed to notice but that he, naturally, had.

For one intense moment, Alex was sure that he was going to kiss her.

And, for the first time, ever, in the history of their relationship, Alex allowed herself to acknowledge that she actually wanted him to.

A sudden commotion on the front porch startled them both. The two metal garbage pails that had been sitting by the door, waiting to be returned to the shed, had overturned, their metal lids raising a riotous clatter. Trance broken, Bobby dropped his hand, jumped to his feet and strode to the front door, flicking on the porch light. As he peered through the screen, Alex sat motionless, head cocked to one side, listening.

There was only silence.

After a minute, Bobby turned and shrugged. "I don't see anything, but if it ran off the porch, I wouldn't. It's, uh, pitch black out there. Probably just a raccoon.

Feeling unsteady for a reason that she wanted desperately to attribute to the cacophony but knew was actually a product of the moment before, Alex agreed. "Probably."

That moment now passed, they were careful to keep a safe distance for the rest of the night.