My phone buzzes on the end table next to me. Looking down, I see Wyatt’s name pop up on the screen. I tip my head back and groan. Something has shifted between us over the past several months, and if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’ve felt different about Wyatt for quite some time. As to what exactly has changed, I’m not so sure, but things are different … I’m different.
Before the accident, I seriously thought that it was all in my head. I figured I had just gotten too comfortable in our relationship and it was a phase that I would have to work through. After the accident, I began to realize that the love I feel for him is no different than the love I feel for my mom and Bailey. Now the love I felt for Devin ...
Whoa! Where the hell did that come from? Hell no, Katie, I tell myself. Not. Going. There.
My phone continues to buzz so I push the green button to answer the call. “Hello?”
“Hey. Did you make dinner tonight? I just got off work and can head over.” His voice sounds hopeful, and something about that just pisses me off. Hell no, I didn’t make him dinner. I didn’t even make myself dinner.
“No,” I snap, dropping my head into my hand. It’s been a long-ass day and I’m beyond exhausted, but I don’t need to take it out on Wyatt. “I’ve been busy all day, and I just got done at my appointment with Dr. Perry and now I’m—” I quickly cut myself off. Do I really want to tell Wyatt about the letter I’m going to write? He and Devin were never really on friendly terms, and I’m sure it would only create more waves in our already churning ocean of problems.
“Now you’re what?”
“I—uh … now I’m getting ready to make dinner. So if you want, you can give me about an hour and then head over. Is that okay?” Son of a bitch. I don’t want him to come over tonight. I don’t want anyone to come over tonight. I want to write this stupid-ass letter and then go to bed, dinner be damned.
“Are you okay, babe?” I can hear the concern in his voice and it annoys the hell out of me. I don’t say anything though, because I know Wyatt and he won’t pursue it. Hell, maybe it’s not even concern in his voice, maybe it’s agitation. Wyatt doesn’t understand what I’m going through and he’s done a good job at pushing everything under the rug. As much as I’m annoyed at everyone’s obsessive worrying, his lack of concern has put a huge strain on our already strained relationship.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. See you in an hour.”
“If you’re sure.” And that’s his go-to … if you’re sure. He never pushes for more; he’s just always happy to take the easy way out. Typical man. “See you soon,” he says.
I hang up the phone without saying goodbye. Pushing all thoughts of Wyatt out of my head, I turn to the notepad in my lap and stare at it … and then stare at it some more. I tap the pen several times against my mouth. I have absolutely no idea how to even start.
Do I tell him how I feel? Do I speak my mind, and if I do, will it offend him? Do I really care if I offend him? Nope, can’t say that I do. He left me, remember? Plus, it’s not like we’ll ever be friends again, especially after the way we he tucked tail and ran. It’s likely that he won’t even respond.
I situate the pen on the top line of the paper and decide to go for broke. I mean, seriously, what do I have to lose?
Not a damn thing.
“Warrior” – Evans Blue
THE MORNINGS HERE ARE WHEN I’m most at ease. The sun scrapes the horizon, teasing the leaves of palm trees with flickers of life. The air is at first cool and light before making way for the broil of midday, and I do my best to enjoy every bit of it. I find that the eastern boundary of our small compound, which is no larger than an elementary school campus, is the best place for catching the sharp, early morning rays. I patiently wait here for them to breach the massive walls, our only defense against a harsh reality on the other side.
I slept like shit last night thinking of Jax—or Sergeant David Jackson, as the etched stone now reads.
My thoughts have strayed as of late, reaching deep, dark places they’re not meant to go. To him … to our first deployment in Afghanistan, which was cake compared to this.
Jax was like a big brother to me there, taking me under his wing. We grew close fighting an enemy that came with tenacity. But at least we knew who we were fighting because they’d bring the fight to our fucking doorstep. It wasn’t like this bullshit here, bombs buried around every turn.
I vividly remember watching the planes barrel into the Twin Towers. It stuck with me, and serving my country was always something I thought about. So after years of dicking around and a failed attempt at community college, I joined the Army pissing vinegar and ready for a fight.
The notification that I’d be shipping right out to meet an infantry unit in mid-deployment was of no concern to me, and Afghanistan was exactly what I’d hoped it would be. We spent many a long night after a mission was complete talking under the bright desert stars, keeping each other’s hopes up with stories of college, girls and beer. Discussions so vivid, you could almost taste the hops.
But this deployment … this is so much different. I didn’t sign up for Iraq. I didn’t even really agree with it. Hell, I even had ‘Fuck Bush’ written in white window paint on the back of my mom’s ’95 Dodge Stratus in high school. That shit was on there for like two years. Mind you, that was mostly because pissing off Tennessee rednecks gave me a hard-on. I never really belonged there.
As a soldier, I took my doubts about Iraq in stride, but with explosions every other day and the enemy camouflaged so thoroughly within the public, it’s made for hard time served. With each passing day, these thoughts have become more frequent, pulling at my attention, taking me to places I know I shouldn’t be going but can’t seem to help. They burrow into my brain and have their way with me.
I think of what stage of decomposition Jax would be in as visions of blood seeping through the material of his uniform flash through my head.
God, please save me from these thoughts.
It’s been three months to the day since Jax was shot. With his head resting in my lap as we waited for the med chopper to arrive, his chest bled out from where the sniper’s bullet sat, warm and still. Before taking his last breath, he reached his trembling hand into a pocket and pulled out a letter. His fluttering eyes demanded I take it. I knew all too well what was in that letter, and whether I wanted to or not, I pulled the letter from his hand just before it slumped lifelessly to his side. Every day I ache for him, and with that pain comes the insomnia.
I’m perched on a concrete jersey barrier, sipping black coffee as thick as tar while my squad preps the Humvees for a mission. I let the rumble of the engines soothe me as the sun finally starts to bathe my face in warmth. Throwing my head back, I breathe in slow and deep, the wind whipping my face as I wait for the caffeine to do its job. I take a long sip of coffee, letting it rest in my mouth for a moment before drinking it all down.
This spot, this sunlight, this coffee — it’s my release. I often wonder when it will no longer be enough. My eyes are tightly closed, and I feel a single tear roll down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. Not here. Not now.
My thoughts are interrupted by my driver, Private Blake Thomas, shouting from one of our four Humvees idling a hundred feet away. I shift my focus and catch sight of one of my other soldiers, Specialist Jace Elkins, as he thrusts a boot into Thomas’s ass each time he attempts to pull the dipstick from the receptacle. I pull a tin of chewing tobacco from my pocket and pack a pungent wad behind my lip. I cup my other hand to my mouth and yell, “Elkins! Don’t you have some fucking radio frequencies to be dialing into?” I pocket my tin as Elkins swings around and snaps to attention. Thomas chuckles and resumes his duties undisturbed.