Dangerous.
How could I let this happen?
Answers are allusive. And rather than try to explain my current freak-out to Dax, I head toward a cliff overlooking the ocean and wait.
Silence speaks. Beyond crashing water and the rush of wind through leaves, I listen for echoes of long-gone voices in my ear. Every day I hear them, hoping the message will somehow be different. But the past rises to swallow the present, and it starts as it always does. Three vehicles move across Afghanistan . . .
LOSS IS PART of life. It's personal but communal. Once you've tasted death, felt its bone-chilling effect, you know everyone's pain. It's unique yet the same.
But only a small percentage have been to war. Fewer have seen their friends, their brothers, blown to pieces or bleed out from holes that can't be plugged. I've seen both. I remember each man as he lived, his voice and laugh, the last word I heard him say, and then how he died. Constantly.
Most days I can manage my ghosts. Not this day. This day I'm bogged down by memories trying to surface. More than a word or sentence, whole stories rise as I stumble home, thankful the lights are off and the rooms are silent. I've already got too much noise going on inside my mind. Piper and JT won't understand. No one will understand. I don't understand why they want to be heard now.
Kent Williams. Lost in Iraq, 2009. Bad intel and a surprise gunman hiding in a corner. One shot to the head. There was nothing anyone could do, not even me. I gotta call my mom when we get to camp. It's her birthday. He never had a chance to pick up the phone. John Perry and Taylor Lintner. Lost in Afghanistan, 2012. Stepping on an IED is a bad idea. Really fucking bad.
The list goes on as I walk in the shower. Fresh water does nothing but remind me there are men who have very little of it to drink right now, none to wash up in, and that is the least of their worries.
My night with Piper didn't end with a release. It wound me up, got my brain working, and has it twisted tight and cranking out reasons why I shouldn't be here. But one voice is silent, the one I want to hear. The blessing I need to move on never comes. Justin. I grind my teeth and wait for nothing.
Nothing.
Fucking fuck. I clutch my stomach and bend over, dry-heaving over the drain. I fucking stole his girl and took his kid. And it's not enough. I'm obsessed with the life I've lived across the ocean. There's not much I can do but let the howling pain consume me, let the bile rise and pant through the aftermath. I sink to the tile, and the spray washes away my fatigue.
Twenty minutes later I'm on autopilot, tugging on jeans and a T-shirt, then I'm in the kitchen making peanut butter and jelly. Eat. Drink milk. Clean the counter. Grab the buzzing phone. Read through text messages from Cara: Riley's tonight at 7 for my final single swan song. You will be there. No excuses. And then Piper: Missed you this morning. Spending the day with your sis. Tess has JT & Gus. See you tonight. x. And the last one from Dax. Girls are shopping in Brandon. Meet me at Riley's early. I have news from Astra.
Fucking fuck. Riley's. The wedding. Piper. JT. Asil Marik. LIFE screams at me to get out of the gutter and engage. I do the best I can, dragging on boots, grabbing my wallet and cell, and walking the fifteen minutes into town.
Riley's is the best bar in Lilyfalls, no thanks to it being the only one. Low ceilings, dark wood, and stale tobacco are the atmosphere of choice. It has no music, just the muted din of mingled voices and laughter. Add Stan, a bartending staple since he dropped out of Yale in the early 90s with his heavy pour mixed drinks, and it's easy to forget the outside exists. Good people and good food make for booming business. Every table, except those held by a reserved sign in the far corner, is full, with either summer-timers or people I've known since forever.
Dax leans against the counter. And seriously, his ridiculous outfit brightens my outlook by a fraction as I draw near. "You look like a douche. Seriously, Cara let you out of the house like this?" I ask, sliding in next to him.
Dax bends to check out his skinny jeans, plaid shirt and chucks, looking up as he straightens his bowtie. The slicked back, side-parted hair tucked behind his ear is the icing on the cake, and when he smoothes it over, I crack a smirk. "My girl was out getting prettified so I put this ensemble together on my own. Women fawn over this shit, Cade. You'll see. Riley's will never be the same." He points to Kate Weintraub as a case in point. She glances over once and then again before tripping on her shoe.
He forces out my grunt with such bullshit. "One stumble doesn't count. Her glasses are thicker than yours, and based on the tape holding them together in the center, I think she may need a new script."