"A couple guys early on. But not a spouse," he said quietly. "I get that that’s different."
His respectful tone made me feel somber. I looked out the window into the quiet night. There was little noise back here. The streets were illuminated by sporadic streetlights, and the only sound was the quiet rumble of the engine.
"A loss is a loss." I hated the measuring of grief.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"No."
"Seriously?"
"If you have to ask the prefatory question then you already know the follow up is a bad idea."
He’d repositioned himself so his back was resting against the window showing no signs of wanting to leave. Strangely my early frustration had given way and I wasn’t anxious for the loss of his company either. Gray chewed on his thoughts for a moment and then asked his question anyway. "What's the hardest thing about being a widow?"
Ugh, seriously. I didn't want to talk about my sad situation with Gray anymore. I was beginning to feel like that poor young widow again instead of Sam, the girl Gray wanted to have coffee with—if only for a small window of time. Heaving an exasperated sigh, I leveled the most annoying military question ever at him. "Did you kill anyone?"
"Not even on the same level," he argued. I bet if I looked at him he'd have a pissy expression on his face.
Sighing, I gave in. "What do you want to know?"
"A pog in my platoon died during my second year. You know what a pog is?"
"In the rear with the gear. Persons other than grunts," I trotted out. I'd picked up some military lingo while Will was in. I'd wanted to be supportive and helpful even though I hadn't entirely agreed with his decision.
"Right, non-infantry. But damn good guys. Anyway, he had a young wife and a kid. I think she's twenty-three or twenty-four. Older than you, but not much. He died, and she was still around base. Everyone was super careful with her, and finally one day, she broke down at the PX and screamed that she's fine. Only obviously she isn't fine. Later I guess she goes home and swallows a bottle of pills and has to be taken to the ER."
I winced. "Horrible story."
"I knew him. I felt like he was one my guys even though he wasn’t a grunt." A genuine sorrow weighted his words.
“So you felt like she was partly your responsibility?"
"In some ways. I mean, there's a big support network for military widows around the base and I went to visit her, but I felt helpless. I wished I could've done more. Plus, because he died, she was going to have to move off the base anyway.”
His expression of regret tugged at me. "Maybe if you wrote her a letter about how vital a member of your platoon he’d been, she'd appreciate that," I suggested.
"Yeah, maybe." His hand reached up to rub the back of his neck again and he sighed. "Sorry for bringing it up."
"I've always thought that the girlfriends and fiancées had it worse." I wasn't sure why I was extending this topic.
"Why's that?" In the dim light I couldn't see his eyes but I felt them. He was not only listening to me but hearing me, and I understood him in return. My heart stretched toward him.
"Because they don't get the same consideration even though they were in love. I mean the difference between getting the funeral flag and the brass bullet casings was two months for me. Two months earlier and his mom would've gotten those things."
"So you feel guilty because you have them?"
"A little. Like I'm an imposter—like I don't deserve to grieve like others have. But I got the visit, the commemorative things, the people checking up on me." God, I couldn't believe I was sharing this stuff with him—this guy who I'd stared at, kissed, argued with. But he didn't turn away at all. He just kept looking and listening, like what I had to say really interested him.
"I never thought of it that way." He sat up but didn't stop looking at me. We were tethered now, our eyes hooked on each other. "So I shouldn't feel guilty for not following up with one? Or I should've checked up on more of them?"
"I don't think you should feel guilty either way, but if it bothers you, then you can do some things. Is it really your business? I hated it when Will had to explain why I wasn't going to move out to his base with him. I felt it was so intrusive."
"Anytime you have guys under you, their personal life is your business. It's a readiness issue. Is their head in the right frame of mind to go over?”
"That's really weird, isn't it?" I asked.
"Completely." He chuckled and then reached out to rub the worn leather steering wheel. I felt it too, like he was touching me, rubbing my arm in comfort. But it wasn't really enough. I wanted him to touch me again. "I appreciate you sharing with me, even though this must be a tough subject."