THAT AFTERNOON
OFFICE OF DR. MARGARET EMBRY

I flip through a magazine, not really reading it. I don't even know what magazine I have in my hands. I just need something to keep me busy while I'm waiting to be called into the doctor's office. Eight minutes, thirty-four seconds late and counting right now. Come on. For not the first time, I glance sideways at the door and consider just walking out. Do I really need to do this? After all, haven't I managed to make it just fine before without professional help?

Maybe that's why my life is such a train wreck right now, because I haven't gotten professional help before. When I needed to dry out, Uncle Matt was there to help me pick up the pieces. When I fell off the wagon after ten years of sobriety, Harm was there to talk me into getting back on my feet. But were the deeper issues really dealt with, the whys of the mess that has always been my life? Maybe that's why I keep making the same mistakes, especially in my love life.

"Sarah Mackenzie?" I turn to find an older woman standing over me, casually dressed in jeans and polo shirt, holding out her hand. I take it, surprised. This is the doctor? I don't know. I guess I'd expected someone in a suit. Maybe it’s an image she projects to make her patients feel more at ease. "I'm Margaret Embry. Would you like to come on back?"

"Thanks," I reply, taking a deep breath as I follow her back. Suck it up, Marine. This isn't some medieval torture session. You're just here to talk. Nobody ever died from talking.

As I take a seat in the office, I look around. The office is casual without being messy, a reflection, I guess, of it's occupant. Dr. Embry takes a seat opposite me and clicks on a tape recorder. I start nervously at the sound.

"I record my sessions for transcription later," she explains, noticing my apprehension. "The tapes are erased afterwards."

"It's not that," I reply. "I just. . . .I guess it's hitting me that I'm really sitting in a psychiatrist's office ready to reveal all my secrets."

She smiles warmly at me and I try to relax. Dr. Embry seems nice enough. It's just the whole idea of seeing a shrink that I haven't quite got a handle on yet. If I'm this apprehensive, I can just imagine what Harm's thinking. No wonder he hasn't decided yet whether or not to seek help himself. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't feel comfortable talking about," she tries to reassure me. "Today will mostly be a 'getting to know you' session. You'll give me an overview of what's brought you here today and we'll go back in future sessions and get more in depth about key issues. Do you mind if I call you Sarah?"

"Actually, I'd prefer Mac," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "Mic. . . .well, he preferred to call me Sarah. He didn't really care for calling me Mac after we got involved. I guess it was too masculine for him."

I expect her to ask about Mic, so she surprises me with her next question. "So because Mic called you Sarah and it ended badly with him, it bothers you to be called that?"

I consider the question for a moment. After all, Harm has called me Sarah more than once this weekend – although he still used Mac most of the time – and it didn't bother me, not like it did just now. "Well, I've gone by Mac since boot camp and, except for my uncle, that's usually what everyone calls me. It feels comfortable. I'm a Marine. I like to rock climb and hunt dinosaur tracks. I feel more like a Mac than a Sarah most of the time. Mic not calling me Mac, it's like he was denying a lot of characteristics that make me the person that I am," I explain.

I smile slightly as I continue, "When someone calls me Sarah, it's usually something special. My uncle is like a father to me, more of one than Joe Mackenzie ever was, so it just seemed natural that he would call me Sarah. And Harm – well, when he calls me Sarah, there's so much behind it. It's not just a name. It's as if he's telling me how special I am to him, how much he loves me."

"Okay, Mac," she says. She watches me for a moment, considering, as if deciding on her next question, then says, "Tell me about Harm. Your eyes just lit up when you mentioned him."

"Harm?" I muse, sighing softly. "I'm not sure if Harm can be condensed into a few short sentences. Let's see. My first impression of him was that he's arrogant, conceited, attractive and well aware of that fact, and a know-it-all."

Dr. Embry laughs a little. "Interesting. Okay, so what was your second impression of him?" she asks.

I laugh myself. "Well, Harm is all of those things," I reply, "but he's also the most compassionate, caring, loyal person that I know. He's passionate in his beliefs. If he cares for you, he'll go to the ends of the earth to help you. I guess the best way to explain that is by telling you about an incident that happened a few years ago. I'm an alcoholic and after ten years sobriety, I briefly fell off the wagon after an ex-boyfriend was murdered. I took it out on Harm and said some nasty things to him. He responded that I was a mean drunk. Even drunk out of my mind, that hurt because deep down I knew that it was true. He called me a cab and I curled up at home, determined that I was going to hide until it all went away, as if it was just going to go away by itself. There was a party at our boss' house that evening and when I didn't show up, Harm came looking for me. I had gotten dressed for the party, but I couldn't face going. Harm had been the only one from work who had seen me drunk, but I was scared of facing all my co-workers, afraid that they would find out how badly I'd screwed up. I especially didn't want to face Harm because of what I'd said to him. He encouraged me not to throw away ten years sobriety. I was surprised at his attitude and he brushed it off, saying that he'd had worse things said to him. I hurt him and he still came for me."

"So Harm's been there for you during some rough times," she concludes. I nod.

"Even before I fell in love with him," I explain, "or before I would admit that I was in love with him, he was my best friend. There's no one, except for my uncle, whom I'd trust more with my life. I just. . . . sometimes, Harm and I have problems communicating and it has caused a lot of problems between us. An abbreviated example of that would be a conversation that Harm and I had about nine months ago. I kind of told him that I wanted a relationship with him. He kind of said that he needed more time, but I wasn't listening and took his reluctance as a rejection and. . . .well, let's just say that started off the chain of events that led to this." I indicate the bruise on my cheek.

"So where do things stand between you and Harm right now?" she asks.

"We're. . . .involved doesn't seem to be a strong enough word," I say. "I love him and he loves me, but things are a little tense right now because of everything that's happened this weekend. I'd even wanted him to come with me today, because he feels guilty about what happened and the part he thinks he played in causing it, but he's even more apprehensive than I am about the idea of therapy. He's got some issues of his own aside from what's happened the last few days and that's holding him back. He admitted that much to me."

"One little bit of advice," she says. "Harm needs to make the decision for himself whether or not he wants to seek help. He can't do it because you talk him into it or because he thinks that he has to do it because it's what you want. He needs to want to do it for himself. When you made the decision to come, did someone talk you into it or did you decide on your own?"

"Well, Detective Andrea Summers from the DCPD gave me your card when I was at the emergency room and suggested that I think about it," I reply, fiddling with the zipper on my jacket as I realize where she's going with this. I know she's right, but it's not that easy. "I decided on my own to make an appointment, although Harm was supportive of my desire for help. He's just not sure when it comes to seeking help for himself. But he let me make the decision on my own, so I should extend him the same courtesy."

"Very good," she praises me. "It's a variation on the old saying 'you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink it.' Different people have different methods of coping with life's tough times and what's right for you may not be right for Harm. You have to respect that and concentrate on healing yourself. For your relationship, you need to seek a compromise that works for both of you. Maybe it will involve you continuing sessions with me and Harm talking less formally with someone that he trusts, rather than with a stranger."

"Well, we are leaving for his grandmother's tonight," I tell her. "She lives just outside of Pittsburgh. They're very close and she seems to be the person he usually turns to when he needs to deal with something."

"Then maybe this trip will be a good thing for him," she suggests. "Maybe he'll talk to his grandmother about what he's thinking and feeling."

"That's what I'm hoping," I say, mentally crossing my fingers. I don’t know what to do for Harm, how to make it better for him and that scares me. "That's one of the reasons why I agreed to the trip, aside from really needing to get away from Washington myself right now. We have restraining orders against Mic, but it will be nice to go some place where I won't be looking around everywhere, wondering if I'm being followed or if Mic's going to jump out at me from the shadows."

"Going along with what I was just saying, it's good that a desire for Harm to talk to his grandmother isn't your only reason for getting away," she points out. She leans back in her chair and studies me. "Mind if we back track a little bit? Earlier, you mentioned that your uncle was more like a father to you than your own father. Would you like to tell me about that?"

"So, now we're getting into the tough stuff," I joke without much levity. Good strategy, I guess. Get me feeling relaxed by talking about Harm, then move onto the heavier issues. I've used it in court myself. Get the witness feeling relaxed on the stand by asking the easy questions first. "My father was a Marine, so we moved around a bit when I was a kid. He wasn't abusive to me, not physically anyway, but he did hit my mother. He also drank a lot, which made him even meaner. I guess that’s where I get being a mean drunk from. Anyway, my mother couldn't take it anymore and she fled on my fifteenth birthday. She didn't think she could provide much of a life for me and was afraid that my father would probably come after her if she had taken me, so she left me with him. I guess she thought that I would be safer with him since he didn't hit me. Only I turned into a drunk like him. I was fifteen years old and on my way to becoming an alcoholic."

"So what made you decide to quit drinking?"

"After I graduated high school, I went out and got wasted with someone," I respond. "Eddie was the closest thing that I had to a friend, although our friendship was born of a shared desire for the bottle. We were in a car accident and Eddie died. I spent a week in the hospital, then Uncle Matt picked me up. He took me out to Red Rock Mesa in Arizona to dry out.

"We spent a month up there. The first week and a half, I alternated between cursing him, begging for a drink or demanding a drink, all while I was sick as a dog from withdrawal. When I was feeling better, we left the caves and went hunting for dinosaur tracks. At night, we would sit by the fire and talk about what I wanted to do with my life. My uncle was a retired Marine Colonel and a Medal of Honor winner in Vietnam. He was everything that I wanted to be in my life. When the idea of my joining the Marines was first mentioned, I didn't know if I could do it, if I had the discipline to make it. Uncle Matt suggested that if I could survive drying out, then I could handle anything the Marines could throw at me. He put me through college – because I decided that I wanted to be an officer like him instead of enlist like my father – then I joined the Marines after graduation. I started out in administration, then my CO in Okinawa recommended me for law school on the Marines' nickel. Each year, the Navy selects thirty-five sailors and Marines to put through law school. The competition is fierce and when I got one of the slots, it was one of the proudest days of my life, even more than the day when I had graduated from OCS and was commissioned as an officer. After law school, I spent six months in Bosnia, then spent a few months at Quantico in the local JAG office. Then I got what was supposed to be a temporary transfer to JAG HQ here in Washington for one case. *That* was four years ago."

"Some temporary assignment," the doctor muses with a smile. "So you dried out, went to college, joined the Marines, then went to law school. Where in all this did you meet Harm?"

"Now there's a story," I laugh, feeling more relaxed. This isn't so bad, but then again, we still haven't gotten to the incident – or maybe more accurately, the series of incidents - that has brought me here today. "Harm was an F-14 pilot, but he was in a crash and ended up grounded. Remember when I mentioned that he often turns to his grandmother? That was one of those times. He spent a lot of time at the farm after his crash and seriously considered leaving the Navy. He finally decided to apply for the Navy's Law School Program, the same program I went through. After graduation, he was assigned to JAG headquarters and had been there a little over a year when I transferred in. Except for six months when his flight status was restored and he returned to being a pilot, we've been there together ever since." I lower my eyes, remembering that time was when I'd started getting closer to Mic. I'd felt bereft without my best friend and I see now that Mic was just a poor man's substitute for what I couldn't have. I know that really wasn't fair to Mic, but after everything that’s happened, I can't find it in myself to feel any sympathy towards him.

"Mac?" Dr. Embry asks and I look back up, shaking my head.

"Sorry, I just got lost in thought," I say, not quite convincingly.

"It bothered you when Harm left JAG," she states.

"Not exactly," I say without thinking. "I mean, yes it did bother me, but that's not really what I was just thinking about. It's just that's the time when I'd started getting closer to Mic and when Harm returned, he assumed that Mic and I had become involved. We hadn't yet at the time, but I didn't exactly fall all over myself denying it. I don't know why I did that, or maybe I do. It sounds petty, doesn't it, trying to make Harm jealous?"

"Had you and Harm been involved before he left?" she asks, seemingly ignoring my question. Or maybe she just thinks that I need to answer that one for myself. Or maybe she realizes that I already know the answer.

"No," I reply sadly. "Although I think that we were close to taking that step when he decided to leave. Or I was close to admitting how I felt. I've never really discussed it with Harm, so I don't know what he would say to that. In the months before he left, we had been the closest that we'd ever been, but everything was so tense when he'd returned. There was a part of me that felt betrayed when he'd left, that felt if he'd really cared about me, he would have stayed. But I know intellectually why he felt he had to find closure as a pilot. It just wasn't so easy convincing my heart."

"So you and Mic did eventually become involved for real?"

"Through a series of misunderstands," I tell her, "Harm was convinced that I was involved with Mic and I thought that Harm was getting serious with this woman that I couldn't stand. She was so different from the other women I'd seen Harm date over the years, but I have to admit, after this weekend, that she's a lot better person than I gave her credit for being. They weren't really involved yet, but I didn't know that at the time. Anyway, Mic really had been chasing after me, but I kept resisting him, mostly because of Harm, partly because Mic could be kind of annoying with his attentions. Even after Mic went back to Australia, he sent me e-mails daily trying to convince me to go there to visit him, even offering to pay my way. He'd also send me postcards of the beaches there. It was driving me crazy. This guy just didn't know how to take 'no' for an answer. That probably should have been my first clue to stay as far away as possible."

I stop as I remember the debacle that was Australia, rubbing my temples against an imaginary headache, and Dr. Embry has to gently prod me to continue. "And then what happened?"

"Harm and Bud, another co-worker, were sent to Australia on a case," I reply after another moment. "I later followed to take care of something related to the case. Harm and Bud weren't at the airport to meet me. I suspect now that Mic had subtly manipulated things so that they wouldn't be available. At least he wasn't exactly happy when I'd mentioned Harm's name and he seemed to think that it was some kind of joke that Harm was stuck with his client. He took the day off and convinced me to go to the beach with him. I didn't see the harm in that – that pun is intentional – so I agreed. Then he tried to talk me into going topless, like many of the other women on the beach. I wasn't comfortable with that, so I had him tie the strings of the bikini behind my back. Then who should come by but Harm and Bud. I had been reading a magazine, kind of holding it in front of me, so from where they were standing, it looked like I was topless. Then I really screwed everything up."

I can tell by the look in her eyes that she's taken note of the bitterness in my voice at that last bit, but she doesn't comment, merely asking, "How?"

"Instead of dropping the magazine so they could see that I wasn't topless," I explain, my voice still with a hint of bitterness at myself, "it was almost like I was playing a game with Harm, goading him. Mic didn't help matters any by antagonizing Harm over the fact that I was at the beach with him and apparently topless. Then I really compounded things by choosing the next night to try to kind of tell Harm how I felt about him. Needless to say, he didn't react the way I had wanted and I saw it as a rejection, even though I know now that wasn't what he meant. Then came the whopper. Although we'd never really dated, Mic asked me to marry him a few nights later. I'd tried to tell him that I couldn't, but he suggested that I wear the ring on my right hand until I decided. He had the ring on my hand before I could protest and. . . .I guess I felt trapped. Another example of his not being able to take 'no' for an answer. He kind of steamrollered me before I could think to protest. Then, when I showed up at the airport and Harm saw the ring, he barely said anything, but looking back, I could see it in his eyes. I couldn't have hurt him more if I'd stuck a knife in his back. In a way, I guess you could say that I did. And the rather passionate goodbye kiss that I exchanged with Mic didn't help. I guess I'd wanted Harm to wake up and sweep me off my feet, begging me not to marry Mic. But as long as I've known Harm and as well as I know him, I should have known better. If he thought Mic was what I'd wanted, he wasn't about to ruin my happiness. He cared too much about me to do that."

Without a word, Dr. Embry hands me a box of tissues and I pull several out, wiping away the tears that have started falling. "I'm sorry," I say. "I know that I've done some stupid things. But even I'm surprised at my reaction. I'm not usually like this. Friday night and Saturday morning, Harm and I finally cleared the air about what we'd said and what we'd meant in Australia and it didn't hit my like it is now. For several months, I was here and Mic was still in Australia, so I could avoid making a decision. This is when Harm got seriously involved with Renee, because he thought that I was lost to him. Then Mic shocked the hell out of me by going into Australia's Navy Reserves and moving to Washington 'to be near the woman he loves'. And still I didn't do anything. Without going in depth into everything – that would take more time than we have here today – Mic was subtly pressuring me to move the ring to my left hand. He could seem so sweet and charming so that it was easy to miss the emotional blackmail, like the subtle remarks about what he'd given up for me, even though I hadn't asked him to. And we fought – a lot. And I was always the one apologizing, even if he was just as much, if not more, at fault. He kept surprising me, like being involved with a JAG case that I was prosecuting. He never told me he was representing a military contractor involved in the case until he showed up at JAG for a meeting about the case. I felt so humiliated in front of my co-workers. He even gave an interview with a national magazine when a case I was prosecuting was televised. First, it was without my permission even if he didn't say much. Second, he told them that I was his fiancée when I hadn't agreed to marry him. He was out of town, so I couldn't have it out with him. I left an angry message on his answering machine. But through all this, I still didn't tell him 'no, I can't marry you'. There was even this picture of me from Australia circulated at that time that could only have come from him. I never even called him on that one." Maybe I hadn't seen the point. After all, he hadn't cared about the other times that I'd been mad at him.

"That was just two weeks ago," she says, while I shake my head. I guess everyone really did get caught up in all the publicity surrounding the trial. She notices my expression and adds, "I have a subscription to People and remember seeing the article. So did you have it out with Mic in person?"

"We did have another argument," I reply with a heavy sigh. "It was election day, in fact. I went to vote when I got off work and ended up getting home late and he was there waiting for me. He kept going on about how we were practically living together, even though he has his own apartment, and how I'd been wearing his ring for nine months. He didn't care that I hadn't actually said yes. But still, I did the stupid thing and didn't return the ring. I just let things go. I guess it was easy to do that since he went on another trip the next day. And then came Friday night."

"What happened Friday night?"

"Harm and I were working together on a case," I explain, studying the zipper of my jacket again. "We got together at his apartment to work on the case, because we'd been having trouble coming up with a defense angle. We got tired and decided to take a break and go get something to eat. When we returned. . . .I can't explain it. There wasn't really a catalyst, one thing that opened our eyes, but suddenly. . . .we just looked at each other and everything fell away. We just couldn't pretend or hide anymore. I finally took off Mic's ring and Harm and I made love. It was like a dream, finally being with him, telling him that I loved him, hearing him tell me the same thing. And we finally opened up to each other and cleared up so many of the misunderstandings that had torn us apart. It was a dream come true that quickly turned into a nightmare."

I look up, but Dr. Embry's just watching me, letting me continue at my own pace. I take a deep breath and add, "I knew Mic was returning on Saturday, so I'd planned to stop at home to change then go over to his place and return the ring. Only, when I got to my apartment, he was waiting for me, having decided to surprise' me again. First, he tried to get me into bed, but I insisted that we needed to talk. He was a little mad because he didn't think it was too much to expect his *fiancée* to spend time with him when he had just returned from a trip. I pushed him away and insisted that we talk, but I could tell he wasn't really interested in what I had to say. He was just humoring me until he could convince me to go to bed with him. When he wouldn't listen, I blurted out that I didn't love him and couldn't marry him. Then he tried to beg me to give him a chance. Then he said that after all he had given up and all the months that had passed, I couldn't just declare our relationship over. It was all about him. He didn't even care about what I wanted. Then he noticed that I was wearing a Naval Academy sweatshirt, which he'd assumed – accurately in this case – belonged to Harm and he assumed that Harm was the reason behind my decision. Eventually, I managed to calm him down, but then the phone rang. He ordered me to let the machine get it, but I let that slide, just wanting to deal with Mic and get it over with so that I could get back to Harm."

I dab at my eyes again with the balled-up tissues still clutched in my hand and take a few more deep breaths before continuing, "It was Harm on the phone, asking if I had a file pertaining to our case at my place, reminding me that we'd never gotten back to the case the night before. Then he said 'I love you' and Mic lost it. He'd already grabbed my arms before, but when he heard that message, he hit me before I could say anything, knocking me against the door. He accused me of cheating on him with Harm the entire time, grabbing me and shaking me. I kneed him and tried to get out the door, but he pulled me down to the floor. . . .I think he would have tried to, um, but I managed to get away again and grab my gun from my desk. After he left, I called Harm. They finally arrest him yesterday morning, after he slashed the tires on both our cars, vandalized my apartment and lured Harm into meeting him with the intention of killing him."

She waits patiently again while I succumb to tears for a brief moment. My voice is shaky as I say, "I'm sorry. I've been dealing with everything pretty well. . . ." I trail off, not sure what to say.

"Mac, before we call it a session, I have a couple of observations to make," she says. "First, you have nothing to apologize for. You are entitled to your feelings and you don't have to justify them or apologize for them to anyone. Second, I've heard you use the word 'stupid' several times. Personally, I hate that word and think it should be banned from the dictionary. It's an abusive term."

"My father used to use it a lot," I say in a faraway voice, remembering the sound of his drunken voice raised in anger. "It was actually one of the nicer things that he would say about me."

"People make bad decisions," she continues. "Even the smartest, most well-adjusted person on this planet can make bad choices. Those decisions aren't stupid, no matter how ill-advised they may be. When you made them, did you think that you had valid reasons for making them?"

"Most people wouldn’t think so," I reply, shrugging.

"We don’t care about what most people think," she counters firmly. "Did you, Sarah Mackenzie, think that you were making a valid decision at the time?"

"I guess."

"Then they're not stupid," she tells me. "There are a lot of factors that can go into making decisions. Sometimes you don't have all the information necessary to make the best decision. Sometimes outside factors are affecting your ability to make a decision. None of this makes you a bad person or a stupid person. It just makes you human."

"Intellectually, I know that," I say. "But my heart and my head don't communicate very well at times." I laugh a little. "Kind of like Harm and me."

"Well, we can get into more detail about some of these things the next time I see you," she says. "How long will you be in Pennsylvania?"

"We're coming back Sunday morning," I reply. "We have to get back to work next Monday."

"Do you think you can come in next Monday after work?" she asks. I nod, starting to feel better about the idea of therapy. Then again, we've just scratched the surface. It's probably going to get harder from here. "In the meantime, I have an assignment for you. You said that Mic seemed to have no regard for your feelings and it seems that you have had a tendency to bury them, knowing that they wouldn't be validated by him. I want you to look back at those times when he felt that he wasn’t considering your feelings and write down what you were feeling deep down. You can pick one incident or you can pick more than one. It's up to you. I want you to focus on yourself. Try to block out how Mic was acting or how you think he wanted you to feel. I want to know what was going on in Sarah Mackenzie's mind absent all the outside influences."

"Okay," I say, maybe a bit reluctant. She might have a point there. Mic's just the latest in a long line of men going back to my father who has had little, if any, regard for my feelings. Maybe I have gotten used to burying my true feelings, used to them being disregarded. I've done well throughout my life building walls around myself. My uncle and Harm are probably the only two people who've really gotten a good look at what's hidden behind the walls.

She smiles as we stand and I try to force a smile myself, but it doesn't quite come off. "Enjoy your time in Pennsylvania," she says as we walk back out to the waiting room. "And I'll see you next week." We reach the reception desk and she turns to the woman behind the desk. "Sandy, would you make Ms. Mackenzie an appointment for late next Monday."

"Yes, Doctor," she replies.

"Goodbye, Mac," Dr. Embry says, holding out her hand. I shake it, feeling less apprehensive than I did an hour ago. "You have one of my cards?"

"Yes, Detective Summers had given me one," I reply as the receptionist hands me a card with the information for my next appointment.

"Good," she says. "My office and answering service numbers are both on there. Feel free to call me if you need anything or just need someone to talk to, no matter what the time."

"Thank you, Dr. Embry," I say. "I wasn't sure about this, but I'm feeling better."

"It won't be easy," she reminds me. As if I had any illusions that one session would make anything okay. "But eventually everything will be okay. You will have good days and you will have bad days, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Just try to keep it in sight."

HARM'S APARTMENT
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER

When I enter the apartment, Harm's in the kitchen, struggling with a jar of salsa, holding it against his body with his right arm while fighting with the lid with his left hand. I drop my jacket and purse on the counter and walk around, holding out my hand. "Need some help?" I ask.

He struggles for another moment before handing me the jar with a frustrated sigh. "I couldn't get a good grip on it with my right hand," he says. I look at his hand and notice his fingers are still a little stiff and swollen, purple and blue with bruises. The doctor said the stiffness would probably go away in a day or two. I open the jar with a snap and hand it back to him. He pours some salsa in a bowl and replaces the lid. He then opens a bag of tortilla chips and pours them in a larger bowl. "You want to take one of these?"

I grab the bowl of chips and we carry everything into the living room, setting the bowls on the coffee table and sitting on the couch. "So how was it?" he asks as I dip a chip in the salsa.

I shrug. I'm touched that he asked, but it's exhausting telling your life story to a stranger. I don't really want to talk about it right now. "It was okay," I reply, "but a little tiring. Do you mind if we talk about it later?"

"Sure, if that's what you want," he replies. We're both silent for a moment, munching on chips, then he says, "I talked to the tire place. Both cars should be ready in about two hours."

"Hmmm," I murmur, not really paying attention to the last part. He said he was fine with not discussing my appointment now, but I couldn't read the tone behind the words. Is he really fine with not talking about it or is he just saying that because it's what I want? He's so good at doing things because it's what he thinks I want.

I shake my head when I become aware of him calling my name. "Sorry," I say, smiling weakly as I rub the back of my neck, "my mind was wandering a bit. I'm a little worn out."

He gives me a grin, but it's not one of those ones that always makes me weak in the knees. It's a sad grin, weighed down by everything that's happened. "I'd give you a shoulder rub," he says, holding up his cast, "but I'm kind of handicapped."

"Poor baby," I tease, trying to lighten the mood. We need to do something before we get bogged down by everything. "Too bad I can't kiss it and make it better."

I laugh at the mock crestfallen look on Harm's face and brush my lips against the bruise on his forehead. "Feel better?" I tease.

He grins at me, less sorrow in his expression. "I could use some more of that," he replies.

"So could I," I agree as I lightly press my lips to his. I need this right now. I'd needed this last night, but with everything that happened, Harm had spent most of the day dozing on and off and I'd felt the exhaustion that comes when the adrenaline wears off. We'd been too tired to do little more than crawl into bed and curl up together.

I keep the kiss soft, barely brushing my lips over his before pulling away slightly. I want to keep this gentle and loving, not like. . . .

"Hey, what is it?" Harm asks, concerned. I wasn't aware that it was so obvious on my face. I pull back further and look down at my lap.

"It's. . . .I'm just thinking too much," I say quietly. I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him everything, how I keep coming back to the early hours of Sunday morning and my fears of the possible consequences of our impulsive actions. How do I explain when I haven't sorted out for myself everything that I'm feeling about those moments. "So much has happened and talking to the doctor. . . .we didn't even really get into what happened this weekend aside from a general overview, but. . . .I don't know. There's just so much that I need to sort through and acknowledge, and not just about the last few days. I think she's right. I do have a tendency to bury my feelings and I need to learn to express them more, or maybe to express them better."

"Come here," he says, patting one of his legs. I climb into his lap, resting my head against his shoulder while he wraps his arms around me. I close my eyes and relax into his embrace. Too bad I can’t stay in his arms like this and just forget the rest of the world forever. "I want you to know that you can always tell me what you’re feeling. You don’t ever have to hold back with me."

"I wish that it could be that easy," I murmur, burying my face against his shirt, willing the tears not to fall.

"Sarah?"

See, it doesn’t bother me when he says it. In that single word, I can hear all his concern and love for me. I shake my head, trying to clear the other, more negative thoughts that I can’t banish. "There’s just some things that I have to sort out in my own head before I will feel comfortable discussing them, even with you. How can I explain to you what I’m feeling if I don’t completely understand myself?" My voice rises at the end and I’m instantly contrite for my tone. No matter how easy it might be to say that Harm drove me to it, I can’t blame my lousy decision-making skills on him. His actions were just the excuse that I used to justify running away from myself. Ultimately, I am the one who kept making stupid decisions. "I’m sorry. . . ."

Harm tilts my chin up, forcing me to look him in the eye. "Please don’t apologize for being confused or. . . . for anything else you’re feeling," he says sincerely. "I don’t want you to be afraid to tell me what you are feeling, even when you disagree with me about something."

I nod slowly, cursing myself again for nearly throwing away everything my relationship with Harm for a man who didn't deserve the time of day from me, much less my love. "Sarah, please tell me what you’re feeling," he says, noticing the clouds passing over my expression.

As I look into his eyes and see all the love there, I make a decision. I’ve had a rough day and I want to concentrate, even if only for a few all-too-brief moments, on all the wonderful things that I feel every time Harm takes me into his arms. I want to forget, for just a bit, all the dark clouds that don’t seem to want to go away. I climb off his lap and stand in front of him, holding out my hand to him. "Come to bed with me," I request softly. "Right now, I need you so much."

He hesitates for just a moment and I wonder if this is wrong, if all I’m doing is trying to hide from my life again, even if I find a few moments of bliss doing it. But then the hesitation is gone and he stands, taking my hand in his, his fingers gently massaging mine. I shiver involuntarily at his gentle touch and find all the bad memories beginning to recede.

LATE THAT EVENING
SARAH RABB’S FARM
BEALLSVILLE, PENNSYLVANIA

"Turn right here," Harm instructs me. "It’s about a quarter-mile up to the house." The SUV is jolted when it hits a particularly rough spot on the gravel road. Harm groans in pain and I turn my head, concerned.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he replies, grimacing as he lays his arm across his lap. "I know how rough the driveway is and should have known better than to rest my cast against the door. It bumped the door when we hit that pothole just now."

"You’re sure you’re okay?" I ask again as I slow down just a little. His arm is no longer against the door, but I don’t want to take any chances. He’s in enough pain already because of me.

"I’m fine," he replies. "Just keep your eyes on the road. It’s rough and it’s dark outside."

I turn back to the road, watching him out of the corner of my eye. I can tell from the way his mouth is tightening that he’s in more pain than he’s letting on. He must have it the door pretty hard. There are two kinds of men – those who stub a toe and act like they’re dying and those who could be bleeding to death in front of you while insisting that they’re fine. Harm definitely falls into the later category. I learned that early in our relationship, after he almost single-handedly brought down a terrorist group while in the hospital after being hit by a car.

I smile at the memory. "What are you smiling at?" Harm asks.

"Just remembering the good times," I reply sadly. He covers my hand resting on the gear shift.

"We’ll have good times again," he vows and I laugh lightly at the declaration.

"When did you become such an optimist?" I tease. When Harm doesn’t answer, I look over at him. "You don’t have to answer just to make me feel better," I tell him, my tone sadder.

Harm turns away and looks out the window, murmuring, "Maybe I’m trying to convince myself."

I don’t know what to say. Today, with my appointment with Dr. Embry, I’ve been so wrapped up in what I’m going through that I nearly lost sight of everything that Harm’s going through because of this. But I am saved from coming up with some lame reply by our arrival at the house. In the dark, I can just barely make out a figure standing on the porch. "It looks like your grandmother’s on the porch waiting for us," I say.

"She usually is when I come up here," he replies, still staring out the window. "I asked her about it once and she said that it was because she is always anxious to see me because I don’t come up here that often. I wish I could get up here more, but. . . .well, you know how busy everything is at JAG."

I smile sadly, wishing that my family could be like that. But my grandparents are all long dead and Uncle Matt is still in Leavenworth. My mother – I haven’t been in contact with her since my father’s funeral and I honestly don’t know what I’d do if I were to ever see her again. "Mac?" Harm asks and I look over at him, realizing that I had spaced out, my hands on the keys in the ignition, the car still running.

"I’m sorry," I say quickly, turning the key and pulling it out, handing the ring of keys to Harm. "I’m just tired, I guess. Now, didn’t you say that your grandmother was going to have dinner waiting for us?" Aside from a quick snack just before we left, we haven’t really eaten since lunch, since Harm said that his grandmother always has a meal waiting for him when he arrives, no matter how late.

Harm studies me for a moment, looking like he’s about to say something, but he shakes his head, apparently changing his mind. "Come on, Marine," he says. His words are teasing but his tone isn’t and that saddens me. "Let’s take care of your stomach."

We both get out of the car, Harm waiting for me as I walk around. I smile, leaning against him as he puts his arm around my shoulder. As we walk up to the porch, I study the woman waiting for us. She’s a small woman, at least compared to her six foot, four inch tall grandson. She smiling warmly at us as she waits, her arms holding her sweater tight around her in an attempt to ward off the cool November air. "Harm," she says in greeting, holding her arms out to him as we step onto the porch. He releases me and steps into his grandmother’s arms as I hold back, allowing them a private moment together. I watch Harm’s expression as they embrace and it makes me happy and sad at the same time, for reasons that I can’t really explain.

"It’s good to see you, Gram," Harm says as he steps back, motioning to me to come forward. As I step forward, the next words out of his grandmother’s mouth startle me.

"Harmon Rabb, what happened to your arm?" she asks, concerned as she stares at his right arm. "Why are you wearing a cast?"

I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as he replies, "I broke my wrist, Gram. It’s kind of a long story and we can discuss it later." Why is his grandmother surprised at Harm’s injury? Didn’t he explain to her exactly why we were coming up here?

I hesitate and Harm puts his arm around me again, pulling me to him. "Gram, this is Sarah Mackenzie," he introduces us. I should smile, but I can’t force myself to. I’m still reeling from what I just heard. If she didn’t know about his broken wrist, then. . . . "Mac, this is my grandmother, Sarah Rabb."

"It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Rabb," I say, trying to brush aside those thoughts, holding out my hand. But she will have none of that and pulls me into her arms for a hug, tears springing to my eyes at the warm greeting. "Harm’s told me a lot about you."

"It’s about time we got to meet," she says firmly as we step back. "And it’s Gram around here, not Mrs. Rabb." She gives Harm a stern look, almost as if she’s taking him to task for not bringing me up here sooner. "You’re just about all my grandson talks about."

Normally, such a statement would bring some good natured ribbing from me about why he talked so much about a woman who was supposedly ‘just a friend’, but I can’t bring myself to find the humor in the situation. Gram studies me for a moment, then suggests, "Why don’t we head inside and get some dinner? I’m sure you’re both hungry, as late as it is. We can worry about your luggage later."

Harm puts his arm around me again, but this time I don’t relax against him. It’s dark on the porch, so although she’s noticed the cast – kind of hard to miss it – she hasn’t seen the bruises yet. I suddenly feel dizzy and pull away. I can feel their eyes on me, questioning me. "Um, do you mind if I stay out here for a minute?" I ask nervously. "After being cooped up in the car for over three hours, I need a little air."

"Just come in when you’re ready, dear," she says patiently, patting my arm. "Dinner will be waiting for you when you’re ready to come in." She heads into the house, leaving Harm and I alone on the porch. I ignore him, sitting down on the front step and leaning forward, resting my head on my knees, breathing deeply as I try to will the nausea away.

I hear the creak of wood planks as Harm sits down beside me, rubbing my back gently. "Mac? Sarah?" he asks, his voice heavy with worry. "What is it? Please tell me what’s wrong?"

I lift my head, blinking back tears as I wrap my arms around me, holding my stomach. Taking a deep breath, I ask in a shaky voice, "Why didn’t you tell your grandmother what happened?"