“I can’t be in a relationship. I’m not—”

“Ready? If you’re not ready, that’s okay.” Charlie moved closer to her. “I told you I’d wait. I’m not looking for a romantic fling, Lane. I want someone forever—”

“That’s not me.” She closed her eyes. “I’m not forever material.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There are side effects to my illness.” Her thoughts tumbled to the day on the bridge. “It’s not fair to you. I’m not worth the risk.”

“I’ve faced a lot of risk in my life.” He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “But I can’t believe you’re not worth it.”

The soft touch of his skin against hers sent her heart soaring. He was making this harder for her. She pulled away even though everything inside her wanted him to take her into his arms and protect her. Possibly love her.

“I’ve tried to kill myself.” Her admission came out as a whisper, barely audible over the strained beating of her heart echoing in her ears.

Charlie pressed his lips together and searched the skies . . . for what? An answer? He wouldn’t find one there. She’d looked. Prayed. Searched for an answer to why God would make her broken.

“I lost a good friend in Afghanistan. We were battle buddies. Met on the flight over. Both scared out of our minds. But we had each other’s backs. Trusted that if one of us ran into something, the other would fight with everything they had to get us out of it.” His voice was low, and just like Pops, she could see that Charlie’s mind had transitioned back to the battlefield. “There was an ambush. The attack was brutal and most of my team didn’t think we were going to make it out of there. My buddy, Tate, was already whispering prayers and giving me his list of farewells. He was inside a building when a rocket-propelled grenade was launched at it. I thought we had lost him, but as a team we fought our way in and pulled him out.”

Charlie turned to face her and she could see the moisture in his eyes. “When he woke up in the hospital, he was ready to get back to the field, but it didn’t take long for us to realize something was different. Nightmares. Aggression. He went home a different man. Two months after our tour ended, I got the call that Tate had killed himself.”

“I’m sorry,” Lane said over the lump in her throat.