Free Bittersweet Symphony (The Damaged Souls series Book 2) by Belinda Boring

in his sixties—his hair peppered with silver. One of the first things I noticed when he’d introduced himself was his eyes. Up close now, my impression was the same—he looked like he’d lived his life fully—glimpses of stories peeking out from behind his kind gaze.
    I liked him, a lot. The experiences he shared brought each lesson to life, vivid examples to whatever the current discussion was about.
    “Ms. Sawyer, yes. Thanks for waiting.” Gesturing for my assignment, he placed it in the pile he was gathering. “I won’t take too much of your time but I thought you might like to know . . . while it won’t be official until you get the formal letter, but the social studies department would like to extend to you the scholarship. Your essay was very impressive and moving.”
    A lump formed in my throat at the mere mention of the thoughts and feelings I’d included in my paper. At first, my intention had been to skim lightly over my losing Owen and the devastation it left in its wake. I’d felt it was a very thin line between being genuinely honest and using that dark time to pluck at the committee’s sympathies.
    In the end I simply had to trust my motivation—that I didn’t do it to claim some unfair advantage . . . the poor-Caylee-lost-her-soldier-husband card. People resonated with those they deemed heroes and the reality that the war made me a widow amplified that sentiment.
    But I couldn’t worry about that anymore. I’d written from my soul and that was all that mattered. Judging from the compassion shining in Mr. Chisholm’s eyes, it had also left an impact on him.
    “I just tried to answer the question as truthfully as I could. It kind of wrote itself, actually. Once I started, the words poured out.” My voice caught as I remembered the tears I’d shed.
    “Well, congratulations. I can’t think of anyone more deserving than you. I know you’ll make good use of the funds.” His lips parted again, ever-so-slightly, the inhalation of breath signaling something else was on his mind, but he wasn’t sure whether to speak it.
    Owen. While it wasn’t the time and place for such an emotional conversation, there were other insights I could offer.
    “I want to help others like me . . . those who’ve suffered a great loss and don’t know how to bounce back from it,” I added, the beginning of a sincere smile forming. “And veterans. While Owen was killed, I know there are countless others who return home feeling lost, unsure whether they can fit back into the world they left. War changes our military—exposes them to things that forever alter them. Some are able to integrate into society again, others struggle being regular citizens.” It was Cooper that I thought of as I shared my passion with my professor—the way I still caught a glimmer of something . . . old in Cooper’s gaze. Like serving had aged him considerably.
    “Post traumatic stress disorder,” he murmured, nodding his head in agreement. “It was something I saw a lot of in my practice. I must say it’s commendable, Caylee.”
    His response made me snort. “I actually think it’s a little selfish, if you ask me.” When his brows furrowed, I smiled. “Part of me thinks that by helping others, it actually helps me. Getting over Owen’s death has been one of the hardest and most painful things I’ve ever faced. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with it, but as each day passes, it gets easier to breathe.”
    Man, I was a regular chatty Cathy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d shared so much with a stranger, other than the essay. That wasn’t as difficult, though. Typing had always been easier than speaking those feelings out loud.
    “And you don’t think that’s noble? To find meaning in your own suffering by helping others process theirs?” My answer had obviously surprised him.
    Shrugging, I fiddled with my messenger bag strap currently slung over my right shoulder. “I guess, but I don’t see it that way. I