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moment, she stood in the half darkness and remembered when this room had belonged to Michelle. Most weekends they spent their nights together, usually here, because it was better. Safer. When they’d been Gabby’s age, they’d made daisy chains to wear and offer to guests. They’d run down to the beach and thrown rocks into the Sound. Michelle would wade into the cold water, but Carly kept to the shore. She’d always been afraid of the water. She had no explanation, no early trauma. The phobia simply existed. Unfortunately, she’d passed it on to her daughter.
On her good days, she told herself she’d more than made up for that with love and caring and a stable home life. Their world was orderly and predictable. They were happy. No matter what it took, Carly had to make sure that didn’t change.
* * *
     
The motel room could have been on any one of a thousand roadsides. The bed was small and hard, the sheets rough, the carpet stained. The dark drapes didn’t quite meet in the middle. Car lights swept across the window, creating a pattern on the opposite wall. There was a steady drip from the faucet in the bathroom.
Michelle supposed she could have found a nicer place, but she hadn’t had enough interest. This place would do for the night. It had the added advantage of being close to the main highway into town and a favorite stop for truckers. She was unlikely to run into anyone she knew. Right now being anonymous was a win.
She ran water in the shower until steam filled the small bathroom. After stripping down, she stepped into the spray and let the hot water wash over her. She used the soap, rubbing the tiny bar into her hair, then rinsing.
Despite the heat, she shivered, eventually turning the taps off and drying with the small, thin towel provided. She couldn’t see herself in the mirror, which was fine. It wasn’t as if she was going to put on makeup. Her lone concession to her skin while deployed had been sunscreen. Now that she was back in the Northwest, she didn’t even have to bother with that.
As she dressed, she avoided looking at the still-healing scars on her hip. She was sure the surgeon had done his best to tidy up the injury, to mitigate the blast marks from the gunshot, but he hadn’t had much to work with.
In her head she knew she was lucky. She was all in one piece. A partial hip replacement was barely a footnote compared to what others had suffered. She’d survived, meeting every soldier’s goal of not getting dead. The rest would take care of itself.
She left the small bathroom. A stack of take-out menus sat on the narrow desk in the corner. Food was probably a good idea. She was still on antibiotics and pain meds. Having something in her stomach would make them go down easier. Or she could avoid them completely, solving the problem in another way.
The paper bag stood on the nightstand. She crossed to it and removed the bottle of vodka.
“Hello, you,” she murmured, undoing the top. “I’m not looking for anything long term. How about just spending the night together?”
The counselor at the hospital had warned her that using humor as a defense mechanism would get in the way of her healing fully. She’d told him she could live with the flaw.
The night was quiet. The steady rumble of cars was practically a lullaby compared to what she’d heard just a few months ago. There was no threat of explosions, no roar of heavy equipment, no jets overhead. The night was cool instead of warm, the sky cloudy instead of clear.
Decisions would have to be made. She couldn’t avoid the inn. She belonged there, or she had. There was also the issue of Carly. Saying she was fired had felt good. Maybe she should keep her around so she could fire her over and over again. A little gift to herself.
“That’s bad, even for you,” she told herself, still staring at the vodka.
Exhaustion pulled at her, making her want to lie down, to close her eyes. She resisted, despite the need to heal. Because sleep came