“What’s the problem then?” Brad asked.

“Reagan’s pissed, that’s the problem.”

“Pissed at whoever dug that junk up? Hell yeah, she should be pissed. We’re all pissed.” Sweeney gave him a confused look. “So?”

“She’s pissed because I never told her. Now she’s playing clean up when she’s already behind on the story.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sort of fucked that one up.”

“Ya think?” Graham asked.

“Ho, boy,” Brad muttered. “Word of advice from someone who just went through this shit . . . get your ass over there now and talk to her. Put your foot in the door and don’t let her shut it until you’ve said what you need to. She’s smart, and she can make up her own mind from there.”

Greg picked at a corner of the label of his beer with a thumbnail. “And if she closes her door for good?”

Neither of his friends spoke for a while. He started to feel sweat gather down his spine, along his upper lip and at his temples. “You’re not going to tell me to walk away quietly, are you? Do the noble thing or whatever and give her up for her own good?”

“Hell no,” Graham said, looking offended. “I’m sorry, are we or are we not Marines? When was the last time you heard a CO say, ‘Men, sit here and let everything we worked for walk away. Don’t fight. Don’t bother being proactive. Just sit here and piss and whine your life away. ’Murica.’”

Greg gave a watery laugh, then swallowed hard. “Very inspiring.”

“What our theatrical brother over there is saying,” Brad added quietly, “is if she closes the door, you wait until she moves off to the side, kick it down and keep fighting.”

“And if she gives me a hard slap for it?”

“Marine,” Brad reminded him. “You’re not in the Air Force. You can take a slap and keep on moving.”

“Oo-rah,” Graham added, toasting them.

“Somehow, I doubt Reagan will be impressed with the caveman act.”

“Then you’re doing it wrong.” Graham put his feet up on his coffee table.

“Or it’s not something that appeals to her.” Greg surged to his feet, setting the bottle down with a clink. “But you’re right about busting down the wall. Charge the front lines. Take no prisoners. Leave no stone unturned.”

“Leave no cliché untouched,” Brad added dryly. “Just go. Fix this with your lady friend, be careful, and stop moping around.”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant Cranky Pants.” With a salute that had Brad throwing a pillow at his back, he darted for the door. He halted when Graham yelled his name. “What?”

“You okay to drive?”

Greg looked at his still half-full beer. “That’s all I had. You wanna insult me some more?”

“Look, I’m not in the mood to disrupt my training to stand up with any of you jack wagons in court on a DUI charge, so sue me for checking.”

He gave another salute and closed the door behind him.

That was the last closed door he hoped to see for a while.

CHAPTER

25

If the carpet hadn’t already shown several worn spots, Reagan was sure it would now.

She’d been pacing her apartment for two hours now, and there was only one conclusion she’d managed to make in that whole time.

She did absolutely no good thinking while pacing.

Huffing, she dropped down onto the sofa and rubbed at one aching calf muscle. Maybe other people relied on the blood flow they got from the cardio workout of walking in a circle, but she preferred to do her thinking in a more civilized manner: in bed, lying on her back, with a spoonful of peanut butter.

Five minutes later, that’s exactly where she was. She used the spoon to trace the water marks on the ceiling, one eye closed. It was sort of like picking images out of clouds. “That one looks like a bunny, that one’s a train . . .”

“I’ve lost it,” Reagan said to nobody. “I’m talking to myself, picking shapes out of water marks and eating peanut butter from the jar. I’m seven cats away from being the crazy cat lady.”

The apartment didn’t answer.

After speaking to her supervisor one more time, she knew what she had to do. She needed to get ahead of the story before whoever found Greg’s records went public. She just wasn’t sure how much of a fan of the plan he would be. He hadn’t even told his girlfriend about his childhood.

And what a knife to the heart that was. She’d bared her own shame about her background. Growing up poor, being ashamed of their financial status, being ashamed of her shame, the guilt she felt . . . the ugliness of herself, she’d shared that with him. And he hadn’t reciprocated. Hadn’t even tried.

The kinder, gentler side of her debated, maybe he would have, eventually, given more time.

When? After a year? On their wedding night? On their twentieth anniversary? He’d had weeks, and ample opportunity. It wasn’t a stretch to think he’d hoped he could get away with keeping that part of himself quiet forever. He’d started fresh the day he jumped on the bus to basic. He’d said so himself. He wanted everyone else to believe so, too.

And that list of charges . . . She shuddered. Reagan was a mature enough woman to be able to pick out her own flaws. She knew, without a doubt, it was a horrible thing to feel, but it didn’t change the instant recoil she’d done when she thought about who Greg had been as a teen.

What led a man like Greg into those situations? Into those actions?

She might have known . . . except he wouldn’t freaking tell her.

The pounding on her door almost had her dropping her peanut butter spoon on the sheets. That would have just been the endcap to a delightfully shitty day. Sticking the spoon in her mouth, she shuffled in her bare feet toward the door. As whoever it was pounded again, she yelled out a garbled, “I’m coming!” around the spoon and sticky peanut butter. Whoever it was could just damn well slow their roll and give her five freaking seconds to get to the door.

But when she opened it, spoon still lodged in her mouth, she fought against the urge to slam it shut again.

That wouldn’t be the mature thing to do. And she was Mature Reagan. Professional Reagan. Can Handle Anything Reagan.

He looked her up and down, then raised a brow. “Nice outfit.”

She slammed the door in his face.

Not so mature or professional, but she could call a mulligan on today and try again tomorrow. Looking down, she had to admit he was right on the clothing. She was still wearing her skirt, but the jacket had long been ditched in favor of her favorite University of Wisconsin hoodie that was a size too big. And her hair, she knew, was a tangled mess from lying down on the bed. Her makeup was either smeared or long gone, most likely, and her eyes were red from the crying jag she’d indulged in on the way home from the gym.

So yeah, she’d looked better. But as his own moral ground was damn shaky, he could have ignored that.

She leaned against the door, and heard him sigh on the other side.

“Reagan, come on. Open up.”

She shook her head—despite the fact that he couldn’t see her—and had another spoonful of deliciousness.

“Reagan, please.” His voice sounded more hoarse.

She simply waited.

“Reagan.” It sounded almost like a plea. “Please. Baby . . . we need to talk.”

It was the “baby” and his tone—defeated—that had her opening up again. The look he gave her was so bleak, it almost broke the few pieces of her heart left. “I’m not sharing my peanut butter.”

He looked surprised a moment, then shrugged. “Fine. Just let me talk and I’ll get out of your way.”

She motioned for him to come in, debated running to her room for a minute to change and pull her hair into something less manic-looking and wash her face clean. In the end, she did wash her face, because it felt good on her puffy eyes and seemed like a clean slate, and brushed her hair to pull it into a no-fuss ponytail. But she’d be damned if she changed in her own house just to listen to a five-minute story.