Page 89 of The Sailor

Epilogue

Linc sat up in bed and gasped. His hand immediately went to his shoulder, and it took him a few moments to realize that he wasn’t sleeping under branches and leaves, his arm wasn’t almost torn from its socket, and he wasn’t on the run from enemy forces determined to find and kill him . . . after interrogating him, of course.

He was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. Sweat dripped down his temple, and he’d soaked his sheets once again.

Damn nightmares. The head docs he’d been to all said the nightmares would fade. Said that once he’d mentally dealt with everything he’d been through during that week after crashing his fighter jet, he’d be able to sleep through the night once more.

That was a crock of shit.

Linc had dealt with the mental aspect of what happened. He’d actually received training before the crash on what to do if he was ever captured by the enemy. He’d gone through “interrogation training,” and he didn’t recommend it to anyone.

Afterward, he’d had physical therapy for his shoulder . . . and yet he was still medically chaptered out of the Air Force.

His entire identity had been tied up in being a pilot. Not just any pilot . . . but a hotshot top gun fighter pilot. He’d been one of the best of the best. And now what was he?

Nothing. It sucked.

Looking at the clock, Linc saw it was one in the morning. He hadn’t been asleep that long. He’d long since gotten used to only getting two or three hours of sleep each night. He swung his legs out of bed and quickly gathered up the sweat-soaked sheets. After throwing them into the washer, he went down to the kitchen in nothing but his boxer shorts.

He made a cup of hot chocolate—he didn’t care how childish it was, he loved the stuff—and walked over to the large windows in his living room to stare out at the night.

Linc loved Maine. Always had. One of the reasons he’d enjoyed living out West was because there weren’t as many people around, very similar to his home state. But here, he had a lot more water and trees.

The house he’d bought needed a ton of work, but he liked the place and had nothing but time on his hands. He wasn’t working, had saved and invested wisely while in the Air Force, and now he received disability since being discharged. So he spent all his time working on either his own house or his mom’s.

Thoughts of his mother made Linc smile, forgetting his nightmare. Evelyn was a firecracker. He hated that his dad wasn’t here anymore, but at the same time, he was grateful he hadn’t lived to discover the appalling things his oldest friend, Otis, had done. He would’ve been so proud of his sons though, for coming home to help their mom when she needed them most.

He also would’ve been thrilled about the two grandbabies that were on the way.

Linc shook his head. He still couldn’t believe Chad and Zach had both found women to put up with them, who were now pregnant. Their mom was in heaven with the fact that in the next year, she’d have not one, but two grandchildren to spoil rotten.

As Linc stared out into the darkness, imagining how beautiful the ocean would look if the moon was bright enough for him to see it, he realized his feet were cold. There was a chill seeping in from around the windows.

Sighing, he realized resealing the windows—or maybe even replacing them—was on his list of “must do” things for the house. Of course, every day it felt as if he found another “must do.” The house was old, but he’d fallen in love with its location—on a hill overlooking the Atlantic—and hadn’t hesitated to buy it, especially because he’d gotten it for a steal.

It was big, with five bedrooms, an office, a dining room, two separate living areas, a small but cozy kitchen, and of course, those huge windows letting in the light and warmth in the summer and highlighting the view. His brothers had helped him with the roof earlier in the summer, while it was still warm, and he’d rebuilt the deck off the back of the house so it wouldn’t collapse when someone walked on it.

He still needed to gut the kitchen and put in all-new appliances, as well as redo the floors in the entire house. Painting was up next on his task list, though.

He should do that now. Might as well get something done since he was awake. There wasn’t a chance in hell of him being able to fall back to sleep.

His family wasn’t aware of the extent of his insomnia or the nightmares connected to his PTSD—or that he had PTSD at all. And he wasn’t about to tell them. He was the oldest Young brother. The one everyone looked to when they needed something. Admitting to a weakness like not being able to sleep because of one damn week of his life? Wasn’t going to happen.

Looking into the now-empty mug in his hands, Linc sighed, then turned toward the kitchen. He’d just finished washing the mug, putting it in the dish rack next to the sink, when he heard his phone pinging.

Looking around, he realized that he’d grabbed it off the nightstand out of habit when he’d left his bedroom on the second floor, leaving it on the counter when he’d made his hot chocolate.

Frowning, Linc grabbed it from the linoleum countertop. Concerned about how late it was and hoping nothing was wrong with one of his family members, he looked at the screen.

His frown grew. The text wasn’t from any of his brothers or his mom. It was from Kash. The twelve-year-old kid who lived next door to Lobster Cove. The grandson of the curmudgeon who’d been a thorn in their side for as long as he could remember.

The son of the girl who’d made his high school years almost unbearable.

Linc had befriended Kash that spring, and they’d gotten even closer when he’d helped coach him for the annual Great Crate Race. Obviously desperate for some positive male attention, the boy had latched on to Linc in a big way.

He was a good kid. Smart as hell. A little nerdy. At times, he seemed like he was twelve going on thirty, and other times, he was more like a seven-year-old. But Linc liked him. A lot. Told him that if he ever needed anything, no matter what it might be, to let him know.

The second Linc read the boy’s text, he tensed.