Before she can manage a response, I step into the hallway and shut the door behind me. The last thing I want is for her to see me this way. I’m a fucking mess . . . over a dream.
Granted, it’s a dream that is an exact recollection of the day I was captured, but still. I can’t stand the thought of her seeing me this messed up.
I step outside, onto the front deck and into the vast night. The moon is covered by clouds, making it particularly dark tonight. Not dark enough to hamper my ability to find the bottle stashed behind the patio chair.
I quickly twist the cap off, and take a drink of the only thing that can wipe away the remnants of the dream that has followed me.
I don’t sleep. I can’t sleep. Not after seeing the flash of terror in Ben’s eyes when he woke up. What he doesn’t know is that I tried to wake him long before he woke. For several minutes, after I heard him mumbling in his sleep, I tried to rouse him. He only thrashed harder and moaned louder, until finally he bolted awake.
But the terror of his dream followed him. I saw it, and I know it. What I don’t understand is what brought it on. What I don’t know is what happened to him to cause him to have these dreams.
I’m sure this is not the first. Only the first I’ve witnessed.
I’m here, willing to listen, and he has yet to come back.
I toss the sheets aside, and slip into his discarded T-shirt laying on the floor. It’s big enough that I don’t need to find my shorts, and I leave the bedroom in search of him.
The house is deathly quiet as I make my way down the stairs. I find no lights on, and he’s not in any of the rooms I check. Out of other options, I open the front door and cross the wide deck to the railing. His truck is still in the driveway.
He must be here . . . but where?
When I turn back toward the house, I spot him. Head propped against the back of the patio chair, and his eyes on me, he doesn’t move as I quietly approach him. The stench of alcohol hits me when I’m a few steps away, and I drop my gaze to the deck floor, where an empty bottle rests beside his feet.
“You never came back to bed,” I say softly.
“I can’t sleep,” he responds, mirroring my tone. His eyes hold mine, as if he’s waiting for me to say more. Or daring me to say more.
“How often does this happen?”
“Which part?” His lips curve into a smirk. “The nightmares, the not sleeping, or my getting thoroughly drunk so I don’t have to deal with either?”
“All of it.”
He chuckles humorlessly before admitting, “Almost every night until recently. This is the first bad night I’ve had since you came back. The first I’ve downed one of these . . .” He lifts the bottle off the floor and stares at it.
“What changed?” I ask.
“Hell if I know.” He snorts softly. “Maybe nothing changed. Maybe I was meant to wind up here.”
I drop to a crouch beside his chair, and carefully reach for the bottle in his hand. His eyes drift to my fingers as they curl around the cool glass, and he lets me take it out of his grasp.
“You can do it without this, Ben,” I tell him. “I can help you if you let me.”
His eyes dart to mine, and he shakes his head softly. “I tried to warn you, Ana. I told you once before that you didn’t deserve the shit I’d bring into your life. Now look. Here you are, dealing with my shit.”
“I’m here because I want to be,” I argue.
“I should have tried harder,” he continues. “I was too selfish to let you go.”
I blink back the tears produced by his hurtful words. I remind myself this isn’t him talking. It’s the alcohol. “I wouldn’t have let you,” I tell him.
“Maybe if you knew what was coming—”
“Not even then,” I cut in. “What we had was too special to throw away on a maybe.”
“That maybe has become a reality, Ana,” he reminds me tersely.
My hands slowly lift to cusp his face. “You told me once before that I helped you forget the things you wanted to forget. Maybe I can—”
“You did, until tonight.”
“Let me try,” I plead. “I want to help.”
He studies me for a long time, and I know whatever thoughts are running through his head aren’t good. I can see the sadness in his eyes, and I want to take it away for him, but I’m too scared. I’m terrified of the words he’s not saying.
Finally, he sits forward to take my hands in his. “Maybe you shouldn’t stay, Ana. It’s not too late to—”
“Yes, it is,” I snap. “I’ve made up my mind, and I thought you’d made up yours.”
“I did, Ana,” he insists. “But it was selfish of me to want you to stay here when I’m—”
“Then quit drinking!” He reclines with a low chuckle as if my suggestion is hilarious to him, and I shoot to my feet. “If you would open your eyes, you’d realize I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him. “I realize that what we once had is worth another shot. I’m not going to let you throw it away for the bottle just because it’s easier. Whenever you’re ready, you know where to find me.”
I start toward the house, when he calls out to me. “Ready for what, Ana?”
His head is turned over his shoulder, waiting for my response. There are many answers I can give him right now. Ready for sobriety, ready to let me love him like I want to, ready to fight for the future we were robbed of. I give him an answer that I hope sums it all up.
“To realize, like I do, that we can get back everything we lost if you try.”
He doesn’t offer a reply, and I leave him on the porch with his thoughts. I realize there is nothing more I can do right now. I realize he’s in a bad place tonight, and that now is not the right time to figure it all out, but I have high hopes for the coming day.
Sometime in the early morning hours, I drift off to sleep. When I wake, Ben is gone, but there is a note scribbled on a piece of paper beside me.
Ana –
I’m sorry for everything, mostly for losing hope in the one person that has given me more to be hopeful for than I deserve. I will try harder to be the man you once fell in love with. Starting today with this. I hope you remember, like I do . . .
Beside the paper is a freshly picked wild daisy. I lift the flower to my nose and breath in its fresh scent with a smile as I remember the first time he gave me a bouquet of this exact flower.
The night of our first official date didn’t come without obstacles even then. While they paled in comparison to what we face now, we overcame them.
We will overcome them again.
I spend most of the day scrubbing the walls and floors, and picking up around the farm. If I’m going to sell it, I need it to be spotless. Not an easy task after leaving it abandoned for three years, but after a few hours, I notice an improvement.
It also helps kill the time until Ben gets off work.
Later in the afternoon, Jen stops by, and I take a much-needed break to enjoy a glass of freshly made lemonade with her. Since she is the best friend I’ve ever had, I tell her everything that has happened since I last saw her.
“It’s only been a year,” she tells me from her seat on the barstool. “Give him some time.”
“I am,” I assure her. “I just wish he would open up about what happened. There’s something bothering him. I know it.”
Jen nods in agreement. “I ran into him a few weeks after he came back from Philadelphia without you. He was a mess, and it only got worse every time I saw him after that. Got really bad when Tracy started coming around again. I swear she brainwashed him. Probably smuggled liquor out of the bar just to keep him exactly where she wanted him.”
I curl my lips in disgust at the mention of Tracy. “Can we not talk about her?”
“Gladly.” Jen waves her hand dismissively. “I’m just saying, from what I’ve seen, he’s been a lot better since you came back. Even he said he was better.”
We continue to chat over a quick dinner about everything
I missed while I was away, and as always, Jen manages to lift my spirits. By the time she leaves a few hours later, the sun is setting. In her absence, I feel the weight of uncertainty settle into my gut.
Ben never came by, like I expected him to. By the time I’ve cleaned up the kitchen, tears rim my eyes. What if he is drinking right now? So soon after leaving me a promising note? What was the point of leaving the note if he doesn’t intend to see me, to make things right again?
The sun is long gone, and night is closing in fast, when there’s a soft knock at the door half an hour later. I drop the rag I’m using to wipe down the walls into the bucket of soapy water, and swing the door open to find Ben.
My brows shoot up in surprise.
“I’ll leave if you want me to,” he offers softly.
“No. I just . . .” I open the door wide for him to enter. “I gave up on waiting for you.” He stops a few steps into the kitchen and shoots me a startled look. Realizing what I’ve said, I hastily add, “Tonight. I didn’t think you’d come by tonight. Not . . .”
“Not forever?”
I return his timid smile with one of my own, and shake my head. “Never forever.”
He clears his throat before looking to the floor, where our toes are pointed toward each other, mere inches apart. “I don’t deserve for you to promise me that,” he mutters.
“I disagree.” I push onto my tiptoes and plant a fleeting kiss to his stubbled cheek before moving quickly toward the refrigerator. “Lemonade? Sweet tea? I made both today . . .”
“No, I just . . .” He turns to follow me with his eyes. “I’m not going to stay, Ana. I—”
“Why not?” I fail miserably at keeping the disappointment out of my voice.
“I’ve got some stuff I need to do,” he tells me. “Stuff I need to work on . . . for me, and by extension, for you. I just came by to tell you so that you know.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
My heart lurches into my throat when his head bobs up and down.
“For a few days,” he answers.
I swallow down the body-shaking nerves threatening to take over my body, and focus on what’s most important. “Are you going to be okay?”
Finally, he offers me a faint grin. “That’s the plan.”
“Okay.” I take an uneven breath. “Is there anything I can do?”
His grin falls, and he stares at me from across the room. The seconds tick by slowly as I wait for his answer. He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he takes slow and steady steps to close the distance between us. His hand reaches out to brush against my cheek. “I don’t deserve to ask this of you, but . . . wait for me? That’s more than I should ask right now, but it’s all I want.”
I lean into his touch with a nod. “I’ll be here,” I promise.
I know I will be, however long it takes. He’s worth every minute I may have to wait. It’s already been three years. What is another couple of days?
I leave early the next morning, and arrive at the base around dinnertime. Captain Erikson calls me into his office seconds after I take a seat in one of the cool leather chairs in the hallway. Five minutes later, he knows the reason for my impromptu visit, and has the files he needs on the desk in front of him.
“He’s still listed as MIA,” he reads off the paper before glancing up at me. “That camp was searched thoroughly. No bodies were recovered.”
“Sixteen soldiers died in that hole over the course of a year,” I tell him. “I saw their bodies taken away with my own eyes.”
“I’m not saying you didn’t, son,” the gray-haired officer counters. “There’re many we’re still missing. There are many we’ll likely never recover. I’m afraid . . .” He lowers his chin to read from the file. “Luke Davis will be one of them.”
“What about his family? They’ve been told he’s missing in action, correct?”
The officer nods brusquely. “With no body to confirm your claims, that will remain his official classification.”
“Don’t they have a right to know he’s not coming back?”
The Captain’s eyes flash with something that resembles sadness, but his terse stature behind the desk doesn’t change. “Without a body, there’s nothing we can do. He can legally be declared dead in five more years if he doesn’t turn up alive.” His head nods at me. “I’m sure you can understand, after what happened in your situation.”
The only thing I understand is that the Army royally screwed up . . . and they are still screwing up over stupid policies. Even with common sense under their noses. “So his wife will get nothing for five years,” I conclude.
“I’m afraid not.”
As the officer stands to dismiss the conversation, and me, my eyes drop to the opened file on his desk. The photograph of my friend is upside down, as is everything listed alongside his ornery grin, but I mentally file away one vital piece of information before I stand.
When I leave the base, I know exactly where to go. I drive through the night to get there.
Luke only lived an hour from Stone Creek. Perhaps our geographic likeness was why we bonded in the first place. I like to think that it was our mutual dislike of the officers in basic training, the extra time we spent together doing extra push-ups while the rest of our unit was dismissed to their bunks, and the fact that we both left behind the loves of our lives that drew us together in the midst of hell.
The only thing I never knew was his address. There was no need . . . until now. But my photographic memory comes in handy now, as I pull up to the mailbox with the same number, on the same street, as what was listed in Luke’s file on Captain Erikson’s desk.
A single rusted, black car sits in the dirt driveway in front of the small house. I hear the unmistakable sound of a child crying as I take the weathered porch steps to the front door. Posted to the side of the house is a faded yellow paper stating “EVICTION NOTICE.”
With a shaky breath, I knock and wait. Moments later, a rattled woman with blonde hair pulled up into a messy bun swings the door open. I recognize her instantly. Though I only met her once, I saw the picture of her that Luke carried with him dozens of times. Seeing her now only reminds me of why I am here, and suddenly I can’t find the words I need to say.
She shifts the screaming boy from one hip to the other as she waits for me to say something. Looking at the child, and seeing his father’s eyes staring back at me, I snap out of my daze and remind myself that I am here for a reason. One I have avoided long enough.
“Beth Davis?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Yes.” She shifts the toddler again, obviously tired from holding him up in the doorway while I try to pull myself together.
“You don’t know me,” I start uneasily, “but I knew Luke. We served—”
“Sawyer?” she cuts in. At my blink of surprise, she gushes, “He told me about you. Sent a picture back of the two of you standing around, uh . . .”
“The sand bags,” I provide softly when the memory hits me—the hours we spent stuffing those bags with sand, punishment for something stupid we did. Hard to remember exactly what now. All I know is that it was one of the last few easy days we had before we got sent into the thick of it.
She nods with a smile, and I’m sure Luke wrote her his version of the story. “Come on in,” she offers as she holds the door open. “I just need to get Junior here down for a nap.” She points toward a chair in the corner of the living room. “Make yourself at home. I won’t be long.”
I start for the chair, but am drawn toward the opposite side of the room, where there is a collection of pictures displayed on the fireplace mantle. Mostly photographs of Luke’s son, spanning from his birth nearly three years ago until now, and several of Luke and Beth together, including one wedding picture in the center. On the end, tucked into the frame of Luke’s Army portrait, is the photograph he sent back of the two of us in front of the sand bags.
I’m still staring at it when Beth returns a moment lat
er.
“He told me a lot about you,” she says softly to announce her presence. “I was hoping to meet you someday. Of course, I’d hoped for better circumstances.”
I clear my throat as I turn to face my friend’s widow. “That’s why I’m here.”
She settles onto the arm of the chair with a sigh. “You know what happened to him, don’t you?”
My throat tightens, so I answer with a nod.
Her eyes drop to the floor between us. “He won’t be coming home, will he?”
I finally manage to say, “No. I’m sorry, but I thought you should know. Luke wanted you to know.”
At my words, her eyes dart up to mine. “You were with him?”
Again, I nod. I’ve dreamed the events that I need to tell her about, but I’ve never said the words out loud to anyone. The mere thought of having to say them now causes small beads of perspiration to pop out on my forehead, but I have to do it. There are two people in my life that I need to tell this story to, and one of them is sitting in front of me now.
“The day Luke was listed MIA was the day we both were captured,” I start slowly.
Beth gasps. “Captured?”
“That day, our platoon was sent out to look for signs of a particular enemy division causing some trouble. We’d had a few skirmishes in the weeks before that, but nothing major. It was around noon when we stopped for a break. We’d just gotten the postal bag that morning before we left, and I had a letter I hadn’t had a chance to read yet. When I was digging it out of my bag, the chain holding my dog tags came undone.”
I chuckle humorlessly at the small detail that led to the huge mistake the Army made in declaring me dead. So trivial at the time, I had no idea the mess it would cause.
“The damn thing was breaking at least once a week at this point, so Luke decided I didn’t know what I was doing in repairing it. He took the chain, with my dog tags, and sat down with his lunch while I went off to read my letter in peace. There was a small stream not far from the group, and I sat down there. I was nearly finished with it when I heard Luke coming through the brush behind me.”
What Comes Next Page 31