Why? Why would I want to go back there and risk my life in a war that has no real objective? A war, with its ongoing shifting battle lines, that seemed to lead to more and more destruction and ruin?
Because I would hate myself if I didn’t.
My men were back there. The infantrymen in my platoon—my brothers-in-arms. And we protected one another. In the army all you’ve got is your squad and your comrades and you accomplish everything together.
It’s the kind of fraternal bond that Hollywood tends to overplay, but to me it was something real. Something important.
And I believed, despite the faltering support for the war, despite the fucked up politics, I believed we were making a difference over there.
Vivian was staring at me, an expectant look on her face, patiently awaiting my answer to her question: Why do you want to go back?
I didn’t want to come across sounding like some self-righteous prick. So I said, “Because the ladies dig the uniform.”
Viv produced her watted smile, easy and bright, and it softened me. “That’s right,” she said, gathering her hair in a thick coil and shaking it out behind her. “The chicks do dig the uniform.”
“See.” I smiled, drinking in the lovely sight of her. “I knew it.”
Vivian’s started to leave again, but then she stopped and turned around. “Is Julian all right? He never writes, never emails, never Skypes—nothing.”
I met her gaze for a moment, weighing the risks of telling her the truth. “He’s on a mission at the moment,” I explained, “which means he can’t contact home with any regularity.”
“I see.” Vivian hedged and seemed on the verge of saying more, but she didn’t. She simply stared at me for a long, hard second.
I looked down and studied my hands. I had no defenses against Vivian’s inquisitive eyes. In truth, Julian wasn’t on a mission, at least not at the moment. He, like the rest of the men at base camp, had access to the Internet, yet I’d never seen him on the laptop. He could call home, yet I’d never seen him pick up the phone.
Vivian and Julian, their bond, it used to be so tight. Then after the tragic car accident that claimed the lives of their parents, they seemed to me like two strangers at a wedding. They never talked about the incident. They hardly ever talked to each other.
The stuff that went unsaid was deafening.
I risked a glance up at her. “He cares about you, you know.” I found myself trying to convince her of this. “He does. He wanted me to stay here so he could check up on you.”
“So you’re Julian’s spy,” she stated.
“Something like that,” I admitted. “But I’m also here to help out around the house. You can’t take care of this huge place all by yourself, Viv. I’m here to help you open up the pool, mow the yard, fix anything around the house that needs fixing. Anything you need me to do.” I dipped my head and executed a gallant bow. “I’m at your service.”
“Thank you,” she said with a tiny quirk of her lips. “I do appreciate the help. That and the company. Sometimes it can get lonely and depressingly empty in this big house.” She stretched her arms, stifling back a yawn. “I’m gonna hit the sack. Don’t stay up too late, soldier.”
“I won’t,” I assured her.
Vivian took one long last look at me before she turned and walked back into the house, sliding the patio door shut behind her.
Her presence gone, I was shrouded in darkness once more.
But I liked it that way.
My thoughts fit better in the privacy of darkness.
Why did I want to go back?
Once again, I found myself asking the very same question.
Because I could help.
And in so doing, I hoped to be helped myself.
Chapter Three
Vivian
I stood on the edge of the plank, looking down at the crashing seas. And for some inexplicable reason, Brody was a sword-wielding pirate.
As I stood there on the plank, looking back and forth between Brody and the vast and open ocean, a wry, deliberating smile touched my lips.
I knew this: I could either jump or I’d be standing on the plank forever.
So I jumped. I was falling. Falling. Falling ...
I awoke with a start, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Oh, thank God. I buried my head in the pillow and let out a muffled sigh of relief. It was all just a bad dream.
Still, my mind wouldn’t stop racing.
In daylight, there was no hiding from Liam’s harsh words: Brody’s verbally abusive.
Now I found myself asking, “Is it true?”
Was I so used to hearing what I was always hearing from Brody that after a while I stopped hearing what I was always hearing?
I tried to stop the inevitable momentum of these thoughts, that same old loop that was circling like vultures inside my head. Shutting my eyes in despair, I pulled the covers over my head.
Sunshine and showers. That’s what Liam had called me.
His words pricked at something achingly tender, something I had not wished to acknowledge.
Some days, I’m bright, cheerful, on top of the world. And other days, dark clouds come storming in against the prevailing winds. The sky descends upon me, the heavens open up and rain pours with no meaning or intent.
Some people walk in the rain … I get wet.
Soaked to the skin. The water, the dirt, the mud … it weighs down on me, like a water buffalo sitting on my chest.
Today, I was having one of those days.
With a deep sigh, I burrowed deeper into the covers. I just wanted to hide.
Oh, how tired I was. I felt so exhausted, like it was overwhelming to be my own person.
For a long while all I did was toss and turn, listening to my own rhythmic breathing. What seemed like hours later, I sat on the edge of the bed and reached for my iPhone.
I had thirty-five missed calls, ten voice mails, and fifteen texts.
All from Brody.
I dialed in to check my voicemails. Brody had left message after message—each progressively more belligerent, and drunk.
Voicemail #1
Why aren’t you answering your phone? Pick up, pick up, pick up!
Voicemail #2
You better pick up your phone now! Or you’re gonna fuckin’ regret it.
Voicemail #3
You better be dead.
Voicemail #4
I hooked up with Jenna. You know why? Because you’re fucking frigid in bed.
Voicemail #5
Why aren’t you picking up? I told you you’d regret it.
Voicemail #6
Not only are you frigid, you’re boring ol’ vanilla!
Voicemail #7
I’m sorry babes. I love you. You know I didn’t mean what I said.
By the eighth voicemail, I had been reduced to tears. I pressed my palms to my ears to drown out his voice. I could no longer listen to the rest of his messages.
It was when I started deleting all his voicemails and texts that I realized that not all the texts were from Brody. One of the texts was actually from Liam.
Blinking back the tears, I read his text:
Respect exists only on the basis of freedom, for love is the child of freedom, never that of domination.
p/s that was one of my mom’s favorite quotes from some dude named Fromm.
That quote in itself shifted everything so sharply. Slowly, I set my phone down on the bed and made my way to the bathroom. I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face. The hiss of the water was a welcome distraction from the incessant ringing of my phone.
It was probably Brody again but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him. I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Liam was right, I thought. No one—no one—should be saying such hurtful things to me.
And who was it that was saying these hurtful things? It was the man who said he loved me. And why did I feel so bereft, so alone, even in the midst
of his love?
Squaring my shoulder blades, I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Is this who I am now?
Though I stood staring at my reflection, it was almost as if I could no longer see myself.
I felt so unsure of myself, the doubts inside me splintering me into a hundred broken pieces. Just like my reflection in the mirror in front of me. It looked cracked. Fragmented.
Like a desolate mosaic.
Narrowing my gaze at the shattered reflection, I searched for a name for that feeling I felt deep inside me.
I felt … disintegrated.
Slowly, as if in a sepia-toned dream, the fragmented pieces, the arguments, the fights, the accusatory words, the criticisms, the hurtful remarks, the humiliation, it all became part of one proper, cohesive, imposing, ugly whole.
A crippling knot twisted in my chest as the truth hit me.
I turned off the faucet. I knew what I had to do.
Expelling a long and cleansing breath, I strode purposefully out of the bathroom in search of my phone. When I picked it up off my bed, I paused just long enough to compose myself.
Then I started texting. Despite the fact that my hands were shaking uncontrollably, I somehow managed to get my thumbs to work in tandem.
It’s over, Brody. Please don’t call me. I don’t ever want to see you again.
After I clicked Send I flopped onto my bed and curled up into a tight ball, asking myself how my own moral compass could be so broken. So dismantled.
The compass that had once told me what was right for me, and what was wrong for me, the compass that had always worked with such Germanic precision, it seemed to have stopped working at some point. It had failed me.
I turned on my side, staring at the wall where Dad had penciled in the date every year on my birthday to chart my growth.
What would Dad think of me now? I wondered.
I smiled to myself. A smile with little humor in it.
Dad probably wouldn’t even recognize me. He wouldn’t recognize this girl who had no spine. This girl who was so stunted.
How? I asked again, feeling so ashamed of myself. I used to be so intuitive. How could I let this happen to me?
My heart thudded painfully in my chest. The answer didn’t come to me in a rush.
It came to me, bit by bit, as I curled up in bed, hugging my knees to my chest, staring at my fading growth chart on the wall.
The answer was this: a little piece at a time.
Brody had taken bits and pieces of me: my self-confidence, my free spirit, my passion, my fierce independence, and my trust.
Bit by bit, he’d taken them away from me, and with each passing day, the memory of who I had once been became more and more distant.
All the constant criticizing, the blaming, the cruel remarks … over time, it broke the needle on my compass. I lost track of who I was, what I wanted, how I felt.
If Brody had hit me, if he had physically hurt me, I’m a hundred percent sure I would have left him. But instead I allowed myself to be berated, I allowed my self-esteem to be shot down, I allowed my spirit to become paralyzed, I allowed him to build a fortress around my mind.
Or as Liam had so eloquently put it—I allowed Brody to fuck with my mind.
And he did. He fucked with my mind so much that I undermined what I thought about myself.
For that I took full responsibility, but never again I told myself.
Never again.
Like water through a dam that has broken, I started crying. And I let myself cry, no longer hiding the pain as though it were something shameful.
Chapter Four
Vivian
Chelsea raised her glass in the air. “Tonight is just what you need to take your mind off everything.”
“I’ll drink to that.” I took another swig. Just in case I wasn’t drunk enough.
As the night wore on, we had drunk three bottles of sangria. Chelsea had mixed in vodka to add some kick to the sangria, and between the alcohol and the sugar content, all three of us were very drunk and very silly.
Not a good combination.
Katie clapped her hands and announced cheerily, “Let’s play truth or dare.”
“Ah. Yes!” Chelsea turned to me, slurring her words. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare,” I said, staring absently into my glass. The sangria was so sweet, and so delectably fruity that I hadn’t even realized I was drinking until it snuck up on me, and clobbered me with little to no warning.
We were sitting on the patio deck, and under the twinkling stars Chelsea’s eyes were glinting with mischief. “I dare you to walk into Liam’s room and hit on him.”
“Hit on Liam?” It came out like a frog’s croak. “But he’s Julian’s best friend.”
“So what?” Chelsea countered. “Your brother’s not even here. For all we know, he could be embedded in the Tora Bora cave as we speak.”
“The Tora Bora cave is in Afghanistan.” I leaned forward in my chair, slurring my words. “Julian is in Iraq!”
“Iraq!” Chelsea amended. “Julian is far, far away in Iraq … which means the mice can come out and play.”
“Ohhhhh weeeeeee,” Katie started squealing like an overwrought mouse. “Play with Liam. I like the sound of that. Let’s face it, he’s not just hot. He’s crazy-bangable-hot.”
Chelsea was just as smitten. “Liam is muy, muy, muy caliente.”
Goodness. Liam was still wreaking havoc amongst my friends. Earlier tonight when he’d stepped out onto the patio deck to say hi, Chelsea and Katie suddenly stopped what they were doing and stared at him with open mouths, putting on a full display of unbridled lust.
I swear I’d even heard their panties hitting the deck.
Nothing had changed much since high school. Liam had pretty much the same effect on every girl I knew. And he still had.
But I got their obsession. I got it.
My heart, too, had leapt at the sight of him.
He was extremely easy on the eyes. Tall and broad shouldered, with sandy brown hair, hazel eyes and a rugged tan that only deepened with the hot and dry California winds.
While my brother had always been outgoing and perhaps a bit too impulsive, Liam was quieter, more reflective.
And although Liam had the surfer good looks, washboard abs that looked as if they had been carved from marble, and cheekbones so prominent they could likely cut glass, he seemed entirely unaware of the affect he had on women.
He never came off as self-absorbed, smug or arrogant. He had an open, honest face and a carefree, laid-back charm about him.
Now, after serving three tours in Iraq, he looked a little different.
I couldn’t quite place my finger on what it was, but he looked like he had lived a little, seen too much, was perhaps battle hardened by the war.
“Not to mention,” Katie continued in a dreamy voice, “have you actually seen the size of Liam’s hands? He looks like he can fix things.” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me. “And Lord knows, Viv, after what Brody has put you through, you can surely use some fixing!”
“Oh!” Katie started finger jabbing my chest. Jab. Jab. Jab. “Now that we’re sharing, I’ve never liked Brody.”
“Me neither,” Chelsea added with distaste. “That slithering snake in the grass! That lying, cheating, controlling bastard!”
I stared into my glass, surprised at the magical way it seemed to have emptied itself. “He wasn’t always like that, though. Brody was a good person.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. “He was good to me.”
Perhaps I should have kept that to myself because Chelsea and Katie were now looking and me with that strange combination of pity and panic.
When they exchanged a glance, I was almost certain an unspoken message passed between them.
“Here!” Katie said too cheerfully as she picked up the pitcher and refilled my glass. “You could use another drink.”
Chelsea dragged her chair across the patio deck and
came to sit closer to me. “There, there,” she soothed, rubbing my back. “I know you still love him but he’s not worth it. You can do soooooooooo much better.”
“Yeah.” Katie nodded her assent. “Look at you now! You look fine, gurrrrl! You’re dressed to kill. To slay. And you’ve even got on some lipstick.”
“Bright red lipstick,” Chelsea pointed out. “That used to be your trademark. I was so convinced you came out of the womb wearing red lipstick. Then after you started dating Brody—WHAMO! No more red lipstick. It’s like you had morphed into a Stepford Wife.”
“Really?” I had something else I wanted to say, but I was so drunk I lost my train of thought.
“Reaaaaallllllly,” both Chelsea and Katie slurred in unison.
“What you had with Brody was a sham,” Chelsea proffered in a relaxed and fluid voice, clearly buzzed from the sangria.
“A travesty of a mockery of a sham,” Katie added. “A traveshamockery.”
“A facsimile of a sham of a fax machine.” Chelsea nodded sagely. “A faxshamachinery.”
Discombobulated, I blinked, trying hard to follow the thread of their conversation.
Chelsea drained her glass in one gulp. “Me and Katie had a nickname for him, too. We used to call him The Angry Rooster.” Then she began crowing like a rooster at the break of dawn.
Katie gave a short hiccupping laugh. “You know, you hardly ever hung out with us when you dated that angry, angry rooster.”
“I know.” I pursed my lips and sent her a rueful look. “I’m sorry, guys. Trust me, I’m so mad at myself for neglecting you.”
“Tsk-tsk.” Chelsea made a clucking noise. “Don’t be mad at yourself! Be mad at Brody!”
“Nooooo.” Katie shook her head fiercely. “Don’t get mad at him. Just get even.”
“Yeah!” Chelsea punched her fist in the air. “Get even with that bastard! Even Steven! That’s what I always say! That bastard!”
Vivian's List (Vol. 1) Page 3