I don’t tell her that I came to the bar hoping to get wasted, but instead, I met a dude who was suffering, forced to separatefrom the love of his life, apparently, and needed to get wasted more than I did. And that I shared my bottle of scotch—the last one in the whole damn bar, if you can believe—with him and drove him home, where I met his love outside his house.
I could tell it was her from her apprehensive eyes as she saw me dropping him off at home. We had a short talk but enlightening regardless. I don’t tell her any of that. It’s a small town, and I know better than to tell her that “the love” was Justin’s sister, a dude I don’t have a good history with.
To be fair, I don’t think anyone does. Besides Alex, my friend and an old team member from our Navy years. He seems to be one of the only people with enough patience to put up with Justin, and the reason I’m in town today: we’re trying to spend more time together since it seems to be helping him with his PTSD and guilt.
Unfortunately, it does nothing for mine.
The silence in the car is suffocating, and more than anything, I just want to jump out of it to be alone, but the raging ball of anger next to me is dead set on delivering me to my car without any jumping involved, so I grind my teeth, praying for the five-minute drive to pass faster. With the heavy snow packed on the road and her driving like a grandma, I’d get to the car faster by foot.
As the lights from the bar come into view, I let out a loud sigh of relief. I canfeelher rolling her eyes next to me. She stops right under the sign and parks the car.
“Thanks,” I mumble, and she grunts something, not turning my way. I climb out of the vehicle, hitting my head on the ceiling in the process. I want to walk away but pause, deciding to say my piece. I bend over the opening of the car, meeting her eyes. “For real, Leila. Don’t stop to help strangers at night. You never know how far they’re gone.”
She turns back, staring ahead without answering, and I shut the door. She puts the car in drive and hits the gas. The rear of the vehicle swivels, and she hits gas harder, disappearing down the road.
I look longingly at the bar, deciding if I should go inside and fulfill today’s dream of getting wasted and maybe take that pretty bartender Rory up on her offer to meet after her shift. But I find myself remembering those big gray eyes looking warily at me on that bridge, in the moment of my lowest low, and I decide that I can’t do either.
I walk to my Rover and climb inside, grateful for the tall ceiling and enough space for my frame without breaking my back.
I’m supposed to meet Alex tomorrow for dinner and a drink, but for some reason, I find myself in Little Hope, Maine, today. Ever since I visited Alex a few years ago, my soul yearns for this place. I don’t have a family or anything besides Alex here, yet I’m earlier than I’m supposed to be.
Since sharing a bed with the bartender and drinking bourbon at the bar are out of the question, I let out a heavy sigh and drive to the bed-and-breakfast I usually stay at. I guess I’ll experience small-town life at its very core by turning in early.
The next day, I do some work from my laptop, move some investments around, and check in with my parlors. I have a few requests about franchising, but I’m not planning on expanding anymore, so I move them to the back of my priority list.
When the evening comes, I shower and head to the local diner where I agreed to meet with Alex. He invited me to his place at first, but I feel like an intruder every time I go to hishappy home. He has a family, and it’s no place for a morose asshole.
So I asked if we could meet at the diner. I don’t know today’s waitress, but Marina, the owner, gives me a wave and goes back to cooking.
I find an empty booth in the corner and take a seat facing the door. A few minutes later, the door chimes, and Alex walks inside. It takes him two seconds to find me, and he saunters toward our seat with a smile on his face.
“Fucker. Took the best spot,” he says with jealousy. Facing the door lets me observe everything happening in the diner. Old habits die hard, and every little comfort helps break the everyday hell cycle. I’m not moving my ass from here.
“You snooze, you lose,” I say with a laugh and push the menu toward him.
“I know what I want. Freya thinks,” he’s talking about his girlfriend, “I like this breakfast, the Lonely Kurt, that she keeps bringing me, but I just want my fuckin’ steak.” His eyes roll back in his head, and I bet if Freya was here, she’d smack him.
I laugh, understanding where he’s coming from. He loves Freya too much to disappoint her, but a man needs his steak.
A young girl comes to take our orders. Alex orders a medium steak with extra sides for himself, and I mimic him, not bothering with being super creative today. When she leaves, Alex leans against the back of his seat.
“So, how have you been?” His eyes narrow.
“Good. You?”
“I’m good.” He chews on his lips. “Have you talked to them?”
“Who?” I ask, confused.
“Their families.”
And here comes the dark cloud, wiping any joy I felt away. I knew he was going to ask about it at some point, but I didn’tthink he’d start off with it. To be honest, I’m surprised he waited so long. And by long, I mean years.
“No.” I shake my head firmly. “You?”
“No.” He taps his finger on the table. “Not since that first time, no.”
When we were both in the hospital after the explosion during our mission, we received calls from the families of two other people in our unit. They wanted to ask how their loved one’s last minutes were, and I couldn’t fuckin’ bring myself to utter a word. I just breathed into the damn phone, listening to one of their mothers crying. Alex got our other brother’s wife, and to this day, I don’t know what he told her. And I don’t think I’ll ever be brave enough to ask.
