Dear Heart

13. Ollie

13

Ollie

He hadn't seen a look like that cross someone's face since Iraq. That sudden flare of absolute panic. He'd seen it almost daily over there, on patrols, each time the sun caught on something shiny, or whenever a stray vehicle loomed along the road.

He hadn't expected to see it on Wendy, though.

One second she was smiling in response to something he'd said, and for once he'd been able to unclench his gut, push back the chatter of the crowd around them, and actually eat food in public – he hadn't felt this relaxed in a busy place since he got home. But the next second, Wendy gasped, spilled her coffee, and ducked under their tiny café table.

His first instinct was to join her under there. Throw his body over hers to shield her from the impending explosion. His heart stopped and his throat closed, and his vision blurred at the edges, a sure sign of a panic attack.

He slid down to the floor, on his knees beside their table, looking at Wendy huddled up with her arms around her middle, breathing through her mouth, eyes squeezed tight.

"What is it?" he asked. "Tell me what to do." Because he needed orders, damn it, before his brain splintered and he was in as bad as shape as her.

She let out a deep breath and met his gaze, her pale eyes wild and unfocused. "I can't – I can't – he–"

"He?" There was a "he"? A person had scared her? A man? What had...

Energy crackled across his nerve endings, a productive flood of adrenaline, the kind that came direct from mission parameters and his CO's orders. "Who, baby? Who did you see?"

Wendy looked down at the floor and shook her head, hair obscuring her face. "N-no one. I just thought I – nevermind." She sucked in a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I spilled coffee all over you, I'm so sorry." She unfolded her legs and tried to scramble from beneath the table, clumsy and shaking.

"Whoa." He put a hand on her forearm, holding her still, alarmed by just how much she was shaking; he felt the vibrations through her shirt and jacket sleeves. "Nobody cares about the coffee. What's going on? Who are you talking about?"

Other customers were staring at them now. Had Ollie been the one under the table, he would have wanted to melt through the floor. But this was Wendy wrecked by her own mind, and he wanted to fling himself between her and the onlookers, bare his teeth at them and growl.

Because that was a normal reaction.

She wouldn't answer.

"Wendy," he said, firmly, the voice he'd used when he'd had to evacuate a family from a rigged house, his Soldier Voice. "Who?"

He didn't think she would have admitted it if she'd had her wits about her. But now, panicked and embarrassed and fighting her own flight reflex, she whispered, "Chase."

Chase. Ollie filed the name away in his mind, someplace dark and already populated with toe tags. Who the hell was Chase? They hadn't known anyone with that name growing up. Someone from Tennessee? From SCAD? What had he done to make her react like this?

He took a steadying breath. "Is he still here? Can you look?"

She let him help her out from under the table, and she leaned against his side as she turned to face the window, cringing. "He's gone." She slumped sideways into his shoulder, her face hot with unshed tears through his thin jacket. "He's not there."

~*~

They mopped up the coffee spill with napkins, and then Wendy excused herself to the restroom to compose herself. She'd left her phone beside her plate, and the second she was out of sight, he scrolled through her contacts list and found Tate's number. He punched it into his own phone and tapped his boot against the tile as he waited for the call to go through. People were still stealing glances at him, but he'd stopped caring. He was in combat mode now. He could handle this.