The History in Us Read online

  The History in Us

  Copyright © 2017 Laura Dunbar

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  Cover Design: Shannon Passmore/Shanoff Formats

  Cover Image: Stocksy

  Edits: Vanessa L. Bridges/PREMA

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Katie

  Levi

  Want to read more

  Thank You

  Real Places

  More from L.B. Dunbar

  About the Author

  Connect with L.B. Dunbar

  Dedication

  For Mariela, for planting the seed for this story, oh, so long ago, and every other reader who has traveled this journey with me.

  Thank you for being a part of my dream come true.

  And for military personnel everywhere. Come home safe.

  Levi – Somewhere in Afghanistan

  “I want to live!” I screamed, the pain radiating up my leg and through my groin nearly suffocating me. My body trembled, no, shook uncontrollably, and I vaguely heard the rattle of the unstable, metal medic cart under me. The world smelled of rust, too much rust, bitter and tangy. The fragrance filled my throat. I needed to vomit.

  “Someone help me,” I yelled despite the hurried hands around my body, cutting away already severed pants soaked with so much blood the dusty-colored camouflage only had one color: red. I hated to call for assistance, but I couldn’t help myself. The pain crippled me. I gripped the edge of the metal bed frame, glaring at the hunk of bone protruding from my shin, blood seeping to the floor like a small erupting volcano. My vision blurred, stomach churned. Fuck. Every swear word known to mankind became a litany of harmony in my head, cursing God, and war, and stupid kids used by evil human beings to kill.

  “My leg,” I screamed as if the medics weren’t already aware of the severity of my condition. Red blood. White bone. Blue eyes. The colors I fought for as other images raced through my head. A church. A child. An explosion.

  “Watson?” I choked out, my voice rising in hysteria as my head twisted left then right.

  “Shhh, hush now.” A stern, but patient female voice spoke to me. I couldn’t make out the features of her face, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t want to be quiet. I wanted to shout. I wanted to thrash. I wanted my team.

  “Williams? Murphy? Mont?” I barked out names with no response to my call, knowing the truth, and yet, not fully accepting it.

  “Lieutenant Walker, you need to try to calm down.” A heavy hand pressed on my chest, but I didn’t want to settle.

  “I want to live!” I bellowed again, my voice cracking like a pre-pubescent teen, my eyes blurring at the hot liquid releasing from them.

  “We’re going to make certain we do all that we can to make that happen,” the nurse spoke, her tone growing firmer. More hands fumbled over me.

  “My leg,” I cried out, observing my lower leg again without the ability to control the rattling of my body or the seeping blood. This is my body. This is my blood. Hail Mary, full of Grace…

  “We’re going to do what we can.” Another voice, deep and male, spoke to my left. Those surrounding me grew fuzzy, outlined body images faded and blended together. The brightness dimmed. I tried to move my hand, tried to reach out for the arm holding me down.

  “No, Dad, no,” I cried out as the male at my left morphed in my head to my father. “Let me go, Dad.”

  “Levi.” My name warbled in my ear, a shimmering sound, squiggling and melting like cartoon sounds in my head. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Blink. The brightness faded to dim. Blink. My eyes were so heavy. Close. Must sleep.

  Levi?

  Trent? Trent, is that you? I called out to my long-deceased brother. Am I dead?

  Watson, Williams, Murphy, Mont. The names bled off the figurative page.

  Oh God, I cried internally. Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Katie.

  Guilt consumed me. Katie. Katie. The name whispered in my ear, haunting me.

  Will you be a hero?

  I promised myself I’d be one for her. I’d make her proud and return to her, hoping she’d remember me. That I’d be the hero a girl like her deserved. A vision with straw-colored hair, eyes brilliant as a deep lake, stood before me. I knew her, once upon a time, under an alley lamp.

  Are you a hero yet?

  I wanted to be.

  For you, I wanted to be, I told her in my dream, the dream where she kissed me again.

  A hero-worthy kiss.

  Stay safe, she had said. Come back to me.

  My lips tingled. The brush of hers over mine was a memory held in the blackest of nights, the hottest of desert days, and the cold-evil hell of war against hidden enemies. I wanted another chance to taste those lips, melt against them, and mold her body to mine.

  I wanted to live.

  Katie.

  Katie – twenty-four years old

  “Katie Carter.”

  The sound of my name startled me, and I looked up from reading the syllabus. As part of the one-percent colleges didn’t wish to discuss—the ones who didn’t get their ideal job fresh after commencement, I commenced again. I re-enrolled at Northeast University as a graduate student, and here I sat in the elective course History of Chicago 414. It didn’t match my undergrad major specifically, but Dr. Johnson recommended I take it, knowing my secret dream.

  “Katie Carter?”

  The question in my professor’s voice called me out of my reverie, and I looked up from the ultra-thin, university desk. I didn’t respond with the typical here. I waved my hand instead. I’m not one to draw attention to myself. An observer by nature, I’m quiet, and it’s part of the reason I selected the seat in the back of the room. When you spend a portion of your life in silence, you use other senses to learn things. I had developed the ability to watch and listen.

  My eyes returned to the syllabus, and I skimmed the requirements, uncertain how this course would contribute to my dream of writing mythical tales of fantasy with strong girls in shining armor. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved fairy tales, but I liked my twist even better. Girls with swords. Princes who needed saving. Worlds that deserved a hero.

  As an humanities major, my former creative writing professor recommended this class. My eyes scanned the assignments.<
br />
  Interactive blog discussions.

  Field study, i.e. field trips.

  Partner research project.

  Ugh. I hated projects with other people. As the soft-spoken one in a group, my ideas were often ignored. My partners would smile hesitantly, like I was an imbecile when I interjected, and then dismiss me. I didn’t like confrontation, so I often let others speak over me and then redid their portions to improve the group grade.

  “My name is Professor Wayne Erickson. I know many of you are here because you’ve heard this class is easy. It fulfills the elective for your liberal arts graduate degree and you think touring Chicago might involve bar hopping.” The older gentlemen’s smile twisted while his tone teased. Blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses peered out at the class of no more than twenty. His eyes narrowed behind the lenses.

  “Well, it isn’t a breeze, even if we are studying the Windy City. It involves tons of field work, and no drinking. Welcome to Prohibition in my class.”

  Somewhere to my left, someone snorted. “Well, there goes my grade.”

  “Nate Reynolds, is it?” Professor Erickson glanced down at his roster.

  “Yes, sir.” I glanced subtly over my shoulder, not intending to stare. I’d encountered Nate a few times in my college experience. Entitled attitude, too-perfect hair, dreamy eyes that froze my tongue whenever he looked at me. He was magazine model swoon worthy, and just as arrogant as one would imagine a prince to be.

  “Is there a problem?” our professor asked, peering at Nate over the frame of his glasses.

  “No, sir.” Nate smirked, sliding down in his seat.

  “Good.”

  Nate’s head rolled to see if anyone noticed him, typical of an attention seeker. He winked at me, and I blinked, breaking my star-struck gaze. His chin tipped, acknowledging I’d been caught staring, but he recognized the attraction to him. And that was the most attention Nate had ever paid me. I turned away quickly, feeling the heat of my skin as an after-effect. This man should come with a label: warning, may cause side-effects of racing heart, sweating palms, and pinking skin. My shoulders fell as my finger ran the length of the spiral on my notebook. I willed myself to get a grip.

  “I like to begin each semester with an ice-breaker. Turn to a fellow classmate and learn three things about each other that you can share with the class as a whole in a few minutes.” People around me groaned. It was a standard get-to-know-you introduction, better suited for high-schoolers than graduate students.

  “I’d like to remind you, participation is ten percent of your grade.” Professor Erickson’s teasing warning prompted people to turn to those around them.

  I hated these things. I wasn’t good at small talk in general, let alone speaking with strangers. It rattled my quiet persona. Keeping my head lowered, I looked left then right through my veil of dirty-blonde hair. I didn’t recognize any other faces in the class, and I didn’t dare make eye contact again with Nate.

  A gentle tap on my shoulder caused me to spin and come face-to-face with the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. My breath hitched and I gasped, embarrassing myself as my mouth dropped open, but it couldn’t be helped. Behind me sat a set of barn-roof brown eyes barely covered with dark-rimmed glasses. Eyes that hinted at a memory. Could it be? His white-toothed smile fell instantly at my surprised response, my mouth gaping too wide, but I hadn’t missed the dimples that parenthesized the corners of lush lips. Lush, red lips surrounded by dark scruff. It couldn’t be him. Lips that had once tasted mine.

  Blinking a few times, the recognition on my part came into focus. I knew this man, although he looked very different from the boy I’d encountered in my past. I blinked again, narrowing in on his eyes—deep, murky, haunting pools of chocolate. A few things were evident immediately: his expression said he knew he was good looking, deeper inspection proved those eyes hid dark secrets, and finally, he had no recollection of me.

  I don’t know why I didn’t expose myself and remind him of our past indiscretion, but I didn’t. If small talk was difficult, any speech with this breathtaking creature of masculinity was going to be impossible. His head twisted left and he cracked his neck before returning those delicious eyes to me. His face wasn’t chiseled, not sculpted either, but rounded, like it was made for teasing. His dimples enhanced the jovial appearance. With the sudden sour expression, though, finding me as his partner must have seemed like a cruel joke. His appearance transformed before me. As much as his face seemed playful, his eyes held mischief.

  “Hey, so why don’t you interview me first. My name is Levi. Levi Walker.”

  My heart stopped beating. His voice rumbled, filling the space between us. A distance that spanned not a few inches, but years of memory. The simple statement stretched toward me, like his mouth once had, and I flinched. It didn’t seem possible, after all this time, and yet, here he sat. Levi Walker. My eyes squinted as if I could better assess the man he’d become through the slit of a memory.

  I’d known a Levi Walker once. Once. Not likely a common name, the man behind me was no longer that boy from ten plus years ago. This was a man, close to thirty. His chest solid in his Ben & Jerry T-shirt, his arms brightly tattooed, his face held too still, his jaw clenching. It just couldn’t be him, I told myself while every fiber of my being hummed. Again, I don’t know why I didn’t introduce myself, why I didn’t blurt out my recognition of him, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the thought that I didn’t really know the man behind me. Maybe it was his eyes, which roved over my face before drifting to my notebook, where I unconsciously tapped my pen against the blank page.

  “So, Levi Walker,” he offered, speaking slowly, tapping his chest. Me Tarzan, You Jane, drifted through my thoughts. It snapped me out of my memories, and I wrote as he spoke. I stared at his name on the page as another image floated along the lines of my past. Letters I wrote to him, but with no address to receive them, were written on lines like these. An awkward pause forced me to look up. I was struck again by a passive attempt on his part to smile, dimples peeking out, and deep eyes snaring me like a timid mouse caught by a taunting cat. His face was definitely playful, but I didn’t want to be played.

  “It might help if you asked me a question.” His eyebrow rose, hinting, prompting, but my mouth refused to work. My tongue felt thick, caged in by my teeth. I couldn’t form the question burning inside me.

  Are you a hero yet?

  I remained silent. He sighed and looked left again, scratched under his chin at the scruff along his jaw. The scratching sound sent scintillating shivers slithering down my skin. Thoughts of that rough, coarse hair rubbing over my sensitive thighs or tenderly tickling my neck flitted through my mind. My face pinked, and I lowered my head. I had an over-active imagination, which could be a blessing and a curse. In this instance, it was definitely a misfortune.

  “Anyway…” He elongated the word before continuing. “I’m ex-military. U.S. Army. Served two tours before…returning to the States.”

  My head shot upward, eyes opening wide at the admission. The pause in his speech hinted at something hidden, purposely left unsaid, but I remembered the rest. It explained his older age for a graduate student.

  “I like photography and whiskey, not necessarily in that order,” he teased, wiggling a brow and setting the full wattage of those dimples on me.

  My eyes shifted to his ring finger. Empty. My roommate Penelope Duncan would swear it was intentionally misleading. She’d warned me about men without rings in their thirties. Having experienced a man of that age while only eighteen, I took her word for it. She considered it one of the low points in her history of indiscretions. I nodded, sitting up straighter in my seat. Gorgeous probing eyes or not, this man was off limits to me, I cautioned. Internally, I laughed. A man who looked like him would never be on-limits. I didn’t attract men. I attracted boys. Silly, heartless boys.

  “So, that’s three things. Now, it’s my turn.”

  I cleared my throat and nodded for him to
begin.

  “Katie, is it?” he questioned, tipping his head to the side in hesitation, almost poking fun at me as if I didn’t know my own name. “I’ve seen men go into battle with more pleasurable expressions on their faces.” He stopped himself from speaking as if he had more to say and his eyes widened as he stared at me. My bottom lip curled before I bit the corner.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you don’t have to look so frightened. It’s only an introduction, not infantry.”

  My shoulders lightened and I huffed a small acknowledgement of his teasing. I wasn’t frightened. Frightened involved, oh my gosh. I was petrified. A state of peeking-through-the-fingers-yelling-don’t-open-the-door scared. Suddenly, I didn’t want him to remember me.

  “Katie Carter.” His voice lowered, confirming my last name. His eyes peered at me through lenses reflecting the fluorescent lighting of the room. The sound of my name was a tease, like he didn’t believe it was me. Did he recognize me? I scolded myself, realizing the Levi Walker I knew, never knew me anyway. Not to mention, there was a strong possibility this Levi Walker didn’t remember the boy hidden inside the man.

  “Yes.” The word a sigh, breathless and exaggerated, reached out for him.

  “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”

  “I like to read,” I blurted, the squeaky sound evidence of my lackluster conversational skills. It was an honest answer, though. I read. The experience was a one-way conversation, and I was much better at the single participant dialogue.

  “What do you like to read?” His mouth curved at one corner, a hint of a dimple growing.

  “Fairy tales. Romance novels. Medieval history.” The excitement in my voice betrayed the dullness of the answer. The dimple curled to full exposure, mocking me. His cheek caved, and I knew he bit the inside to prevent from laughing.

  “What exactly do you read?”

  “Jane Austen,” I offered, pride in my tone, but the mockery of his eyes told me he’d heard it before.

  “Let me guess, your undergrad major was English Literature.” An eyebrow rose, while he tapped his chin, teasing confirmed, boredom setting in.