Free What I Love About You by Rachel Gibson

squeezing the back of his neck as he stowed the rest of his gear in his tactical rucksack.
    His flashbacks had started several months ago. Before today, the last one had happened while he was staring out at Lake Mary when he’d first moved to Truly. The one before that in rehab. The first in his brother’s Escalade in Nevada. Beau had taken him to his home in Henderson to sober him up before the trip to California. They’d been driving through the desert town, arguing over who was the biggest badass superhero, Batman or Superman, when he glanced in his side mirror. Within the reflective glass, a confusing image of a white Toyota filled with Iraqis sped toward them. They wore ski masks and keffiyeh, and dust rose from the truck’s bald tires. The image wavered like smoke, and adrenaline shot through Blake’s veins as he reached for a grenade in his chest gear and his SIG Sauer on his hip. Innocent men did not wear ski masks in a hundred and thirty degrees.
    “What are you doing?” Beau asked.
    He looked at his brother looking back at him from the driver’s side of the SUV. It was like staring at his own reflection. “Bad guys on your five.”
    Beau glanced into his rearview. “What’s going on Blake?”
    He looked back into the mirror and the image of the truck shimmered and disappeared. It had seemed so real. So real it spun his head and he grabbed the door handle. “Not sure.”
    “Do you have PTSD?”
    “No.” Jungers did not have PTSD.
    “No shame in it.”
    “I don’t have PTSD. Let it go.”
    A few silent moments passed as they sped across the Nevada desert. “One punch from Superman’s powerful fists, Batman’s head rolls like a gutter ball.”
    Blake had tried to laugh. Thinking back on it now brought a smile to his lips. “One punch from Batman’s kryptonite boxing gloves,” he’d said, “and Superman crumples like a pussy.”
    Blake missed his brother, but he wasn’t going to call. Beau would want to talk about Blake’s sobriety, and Blake didn’t want to talk about it right now. Not when it tugged at his gut and whispered in his ear.
    The drive home took ten minutes because of the rough terrain. Ten minutes of puppy barking, tail wagging, and window licking. To anyone else, this might seem normal, a man and his dog, but this wasn’t normal. Not for him.
    His head ached from the flashback. His hands griped the steering wheel a little too tight. He needed a drink. A couple of shots of Johnnie to blunt the sharp edges. The bottle was in the wine cellar. It would be so easy to pour it back.
    No one will know , his addiction whispered.
    Giving in would be so much easier than white-knuckling his way through it.
    One drink. You can stop after one drink .
    He’d never stopped after one drink. One drink led to two. Two to three. Three to a bottle and a shitload of beer. A bottle and a shitload of beer led to waking up with raw knuckles, a split lip, and a killer hangover. At the moment, a good old-fashioned bar brawl sounded like a good time.
    Charlotte ran across her front yard as he pulled into his garage.
    “Blake!”
    He left the garage door up and climbed out of the truck.
    “Blake!” She stopped at the rear of the truck, breathing hard. “It’s my night for Spa-ky.”
    “I know.” The dog jumped across the console and Blake lifted him from the driver’s seat. He set Sparky on the ground and the dog barked wildly, then shot across the floor toward the little girl. He tripped on the leash and slid on his belly.
    Charlotte laughed and picked up her part-time mutt. “We got Spa-ky a name tag,” she said as the dog licked her face. He wiggled and squirmed and slipped out of her grasp. “It’s purple. My favorite color.” She tried to pick up the mutt up again, but he jumped and barked and bit the hem of her coat. “Stop, Spa-ky.” She reached for him but he jumped back and barked.
    Blake watched the dog’s shenanigans for several more moments before he shut the truck door and