I have absolutely no idea why his letter hit me the way that it has. His words are merely a different version of the same thing everyone else has been trying to tell me, but they feel different. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Devin. There’s a reason he was my best friend for so long. He was the first person I gave my heart and body to, and maybe that’s the reason I haven’t been able to shake this unmistakable connection to him—even after ten years.
There’s also a reason his name was on that pen pal list. I’ve been treading water in a choppy sea of guilt and anger, and he just inadvertently threw me a lifeline. If it were anyone else, I’m not sure it would’ve made the same impact. So, without thinking twice, I make the decision to grab on to that lifeline he tossed me, and I’m going to hold on to it with every ounce of strength I have left.
Something nudges my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts, and I turn around and come face-to-face with Mac. Using his nose, he frisks my shirt for treats and I laugh, patting him gently on the neck. “Sorry, big guy. There’s nothing in there for you.” He lets out a soft huff before dropping his head to graze on the grass. My eyes drift to my bag that is propped up against the tree, and I notice that Devin’s letter is exactly where I dropped it. “There’s one more thing I need to do before we go, Mac.” I give him one last quick rubdown on the head and then make my way to the tree.
Sitting down cross-legged, I grab the letter and read over it once more. This time, however, my heart feels lighter and I can’t help but grin as different parts of the letter begin to stand out.
You know I loved you.
Those moments we spent together are the best memories I have.
Devin’s words slice through me, leaving me feeling more open and vulnerable than I’ve felt in a very long time. He has the power to hurt me again. How is it possible to feel such a strong connection with someone I haven’t even talked to in a decade? I mean, seriously, he treated me like shit, and yet after a very simple apology, I’m dying to reconnect, dying to tell him everything. That should scare the hell out of me, but it doesn’t.
I have no idea who this man is anymore. Sure, I know the boy he used to be, but I have no idea what type of person he’s turned into. What happened after he left Tennessee? What was his life like in Pennsylvania? Did he meet someone else and fall in love? Did he go to college, and if not, why?
Sure he touched on some of those questions in his letter, but the woman in me—the woman who clearly still harbors some sort of feelings toward her first love—wants details. And lots of them.
A slow smile spreads across my face, and when I take a deep breath, I have an unexpected release of tension. There is no doubt in my mind that a higher power is at work here, and I smirk at the thought that I could very well have my dad to thank for this. Shaking my head, I close my eyes. It would be easy to hold on to my resentment and anger toward Devin, but when I look back on our friendship and all the things we’ve been through, I’m grateful to be given a second chance.
I’m not sure why, and maybe it’s foolish of me, but I have a feeling deep in my bones that I can trust him. A tiny voice pops in my head telling me I shouldn’t be feeling this way after everything that happened with Wyatt this morning—especially considering both of our pasts with Devin—but I push it aside.
The need to write Devin back grows with each passing second, so I grab my notepad and pen from my bag, intent on doing just that. He needs to know that I may have lost so much of who I used to be, but one thing hasn’t changed—my ability to forgive. Now, I may not be able to forgive Andrew Drexler, but Devin is a completely different story. I want him to know that the words I wrote, although true at the time, were written out of anger and confusion, but that his words have touched me. The process may be slow, but I will make things right with my family and with Devin.
So as my pen hits the paper, I open up the deepest part of me and let it all out, hoping against hope that I hear back from him again.
“Lover, You Should Have Come Over” – Jeff Buckley
I WAKE BEFORE THE SUN has checked in for the day and scan the tent, noting my men still sleeping heavily. My morning ritual, at least the days I have time to do it, requires a bit of privacy, and I make certain I have it before I begin. Most of these clowns will just jerk it from their cots in the middle of the night with the rest of us passed out around them. There’s always been something odd about that to me. On a regular basis, I've woken up to the sounds of heavy breathing and skin slapping skin, and it pisses me the fuck off. If I’m not dog-tired, they’ll get a boot heaved in their direction, aimed straight for the dick and with the express purpose of putting them out of business for a while.
No, jackin’ the beanstalk in public isn’t for me. Unfortunately, that leaves only one other place to do it—the Drop Zone. Porta-shitters, as we like to call them, sit for weeks without being emptied and capture every bit of the sun’s heat. It’s like a fucking greenhouse in there, and one breath in that motherfucker while beating off and your dick is in full retreat.
So there’s a trick to doing this just right; you have to prep him first. You get him up and going, and then you quickly finish in the shitter. For most of these guys, the bikini-clad chicks above their cots or the porno mags stashed in their bags are a necessity for a proper jerk-off, but I'm an imaginative guy. I close my eyes and my mind becomes like a time machine of fuck. Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot ... bam! … cum everywhere. Farrah Fawcett in her iconic red swimsuit bent over the counter... set the time machine and go.
This time my mind goes for none other than Jackie O. She’s spread-eagle, with my tongue lightly flicking her throbbing clit while she's begging for my dick. And, of course, I’m making her call me Mr. President. I laugh at the last thought but notice it's at least gotten the job started. Since my dick is half-mast and ticking its way to full form, I slink my way to the tent’s entrance.
Stepping out, I’m met by the sun creeping softly over the tops of the barriers, and I hurry toward the porta-shitters, positioned just past the Humvees in front of the eastern wall. This two-hundred-yard walk is the most important part of the process. You have to walk with speed but not urgency, in hopes that you don't attract attention from the few others also awake—all while the imagined porn still reels in your head.
I manage to make it into the shitter undetected and quickly go to work on my shaft while my left hand pinches my nose like a vise and my eyes squeeze tightly shut. Only this time it isn’t someone famous that I picture. It’s Katie.
Even as early as it is, the Drop Zone is like a sauna, and beads of sweat collect on my forehead. I try desperately to hold in my breath as the seconds tick down. Just as my lungs begin to demand air and my body stiffens, I toss my head back with a stifled groan. My body recovers from its high much quicker in this setting, but at least the job is done. Two weeks of combat stress gone, just like that.
I take in a deep breath of the noxious air and regret it instantly. Opening my eyes, I turn to exit but notice that I've unloaded all over the toilet seat. Fuck! Most of these assholes would just leave it, but I think of how pissed I’d be walking in on a jizz-covered seat so I wad up some toilet paper and wipe away the evidence. When I’m done, I toss the wad into the pit and thrust myself through the door, relieved to feel the fresh air again.
Just as I step out, I see Navas exiting the crapper beside me. At first I say nothing, caught off-guard by his sudden appearance and feeling awkward having just shot off a load a foot beside him. He has a curious smirk on his face as he eyeballs the sweat now dripping down my forehead. His gaze drops and he catches sight of my hands fumbling with my belt; his smirk turns into a full-blown grin. He totally knows.