She shut her eyes for a moment, then said in a soft whisper, “I know.”

Another poet was announced, breaking the moment. An older woman with snow-white hair and black glasses approached the podium. Taylor glanced around the room, then rose to his feet, not letting go of her hand. He bent low to say in her ear, “There’s a free table on the sidewalk. Let’s go.”

Quietly, so as not to disturb the reader, he led her to the outdoor table. She was sorry when Taylor dropped her hand to pull out her chair.

A different waitress, equally perky, promptly came to take their order. When she left, Taylor pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Must you?”

He shrugged. “It puts me at ease.” He put his hand up to arrest her argument. “I know it’s not good for me and I’m going to quit.” His gaze was resolute. “But not yet.”

“Okay,” Harper said, although in her heart it was anything but. She watched as he put a cigarette in his mouth, pulled out matches, and, cupping the cigarette in his hands, lit up. As a rule, Harper didn’t date men who smoked. She thought it was a nasty habit that only brought misery in time. Looking away, she knew, too, that she had such bad associations with smoking because of her mother.

Taylor took a drag from his cigarette, then waved the smoke away from her direction.

She relinquished the battle. “I’m fine. My mother is a chain-smoker. I’m used to it.”

“Just one. I promise.”

The waitress returned with her wine and another beer for Taylor.

Taylor took a drink, as though summoning his resolve. He cleared his throat. “That poem,” he said, referring to her earlier comment, “it was personal. I wrote it when I came back from Afghanistan.”

“I figured that.”

He paused to flick his ash. “You know I had PTSD?”

“No.”

“Carson never mentioned it?”

“No. . . . How did she know?”

“That’s what started me working with dolphins. It came up at the DRC.”

“Of course.”

He shifted in his chair. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” she replied honestly, looking directly into his eyes. “Should it?”

He stared back, his eyes pulsing. Then he averted his gaze and shrugged. “It bothers some people. They don’t want to get involved with someone who’s crazy.” He took a long smoke.

“You have PTSD. You’re not crazy.”

“No. I’m not.” He looked up and she saw relief. Even gratitude. “I’m glad you know the difference. Not everyone does.”

At that moment she wanted to be as eloquent with words as he had just been. To share all the feelings roiling inside her. To reassure him. To allay his fears. And her own.

There were no words. So instead she leaned toward him and cupped his chin in both of her hands. Then she kissed him. Sweetly, tenderly. A kiss filled with promise. When she drew away, she saw that he’d dropped his guard to reveal vulnerability.

Harper leaned back in her chair and picked up her glass. “Carson did tell me you were great with the dolphins.” She smiled before she sipped the cool wine.

A smile filled with memories flitted across his face. He, too, leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I went there as part of the Wounded Warrior Project. Dolphins are amazing animals. Honest. Funny. Wise. They have a very real presence. You look a dolphin directly in the eye and you know you’re making contact with an intelligent being. You feel it in your gut. They see you. Really see you.” He looked at his cigarette. “They helped me through tough times. So I just kept coming back.”

“How did you get involved with poetry?”

He shrugged. “It was part of my therapy. When I came back from the war, I felt emotionally numb. I was hypervigilant. Terrified to go out in crowds. It’s part of PTSD.” He looked at his cigarette. “You want to die, and sadly, some guys do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” He sipped from his beer. “I’m one of the luckier ones. My physical injuries healed. It took longer for the psychological wounds to heal. The wounds you don’t see. I went through a lot of different therapy—art therapy, EMDR, the dolphins, video games. That’s how I knew what to do with Nate this morning.”

“I wondered about that. You were so good with him.” Then she smiled. “And so was Thor.”

“He’s trained to bring me out of that dark place. He senses when I’m having a nightmare and licks my hand and my face to wake me up before I get to the red zone. You saw how it worked with Nate this morning. His job is to bring me back from the war raging in my head. We both knew what that little guy was going through this morning. When he’s in a tantrum, it’s like being stuck in a nightmare and you can’t wake up. It tore me up to see him like that. Thor, too.”

“I heard him whine.”

He took a swallow of the beer.

Harper sipped from her wine, set the glass on the table. Waited, then asked, “What happened to you in Afghanistan? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time, if you want to tell me about it.”

Taylor took a drag from his cigarette and looked to the street, considering. When he turned back, he took a final swig from his bottle, then tossed his cigarette in. Looking up, she saw decision in his eyes.

“I was in Afghanistan,” he began slowly. His voice sounded far away. “The days all seem to blur into each other in my mind, so I can’t even say exactly when the accident happened. It sometimes feels like it was just the other day. It’s all so different there—the smells, the sounds, the people. But we had our routines. Jobs to do. Sure it was tough, but we knew what we’d signed up for. And we had our friends. Our band of brothers.”

He reached for his packet of cigarettes, paused as though remembering his promise, then let his hand drop.

“We were out riding in a caravan, on our way to a new location. Like we’d done dozens of days before. We were prepared for trouble. I was wearing body armor and a helmet.” He laughed shortly. “Man, it was hot. Hotter than here, trust me. My buddy Dave took off his helmet to wipe his brow.”

Taylor stopped speaking and rubbed his forehead. Harper went very still, knowing he was coming to the hard part of the story.