Before She Was Mine

by Amelia Wilde

  For that kiss.

  It would have been a mistake, to be with her then. Wes proved that.

  I thought of her every second. My heart pounds against my rib cage remembering that distance between us, the sun beating down, broiling me inside the uniforms. A bead of sweat gathers at the center of my back and drips down beneath my shirt. This isn’t there. She’s standing right in front of me, her shampoo in the air. I’m breathing her scent. Now. Here. Still that ache, still that hope.

  “I couldn’t believe it. Not after—” She smiles like she doesn’t mean to. “Do you remember the night before you left?”

  “How could I forget?” She opens her mouth to reply and my last defense drops to the ground. “I did this.”

  There’s a sound of metal twisting and breaking, and it’s the sound of all the rules coming apart in my hands. I wrap my palms around her cheeks and her soft skin against mine is a revelation. Boom. For the first time since my boots touched American soil, I am fully here, fully in this moment. I kiss her like I kissed her back then and Sunny might be all grown up but her lips part beneath mine. Her hands are on mine and the rest of her melts, her weight pressing into the kiss. She tastes like peppermint and snow.

  Alexei is looking for you.

  The thought drills in through the sweet taste of her and I break off the kiss. What am I doing? Summer can’t be near me. She can’t be near that. She’s so much better. Jesus, she’s so much better.

  She loses her balance and steps forward, onto my prosthesis, hands going to her face, covering her mouth. “I’m—oh, my god, I’m sorry.”

  I step backward to try and get some space, but the chair is there, so I only gain a few inches. “It’s fine. Couldn’t feel it.”

  Summer laughs and turns away, straightening her shirt. She’s trying hard to get her professional face on, but it’s not working. She clears her throat. “How’d that happen?” Her voice softens again. “Will you tell me?”

  Guilt. Pure and strong and cutting. I can’t get out from under it, from the high color in her cheeks, from this office, and then a surge of anger, red-hot. At Wes. At myself. At the Army recruiter, at the Taliban who buried the land mine. Summer sees it in my face and bites her lip. I try to keep my voice measured. “If you wanted to know about that—” She braces. “You should’ve asked your brother.”

  10

  Summer

  Two Years Ago

  “Dance with us. Summer! Dance with us!”

  Theresa’s voice snaps me out of the thought I’d lost myself in, courtesy of one too many beers, and back into the basement of the biggest house on fraternity row. I knew what the letters where when one of the brothers waved us in through the gate two hours ago. I don’t know them anymore.

  “I’m dancing.”

  “You’re not dancing,” she shrieks, tugging me farther into the crowd. “You’re standing there, thinking about your hometown hero.”

  “I don’t have a hometown—”

  “Army guys aren’t for you.” She waggles a finger in my face, spilling beer from her cup onto the floor in the process. “You can’t spend all of college mooning over some asshole who’s too old for you.”

  Through the drunken sea of my brain I feel a swell of anger. “He’s not an—”

  Theresa isn’t listening to me. “Chris Leavenworth is into you.”

  “What?”

  “The president of the fraternity.” She enunciates each syllable, her teeth glowing white in the black lights. A flash of red crosses her skin and makes her look like she might burst into flame. “Look! He’s the hottest guy here.”

  He’s leaning against the sound system In a polo shirt, blond hair in a neat cut, teeth even and straight. I know about his teeth because he’s grinning at me so aggressively that it’s almost a leer. I can see why Theresa thinks he’s hot. I can see the polo shirt straining to contain the biceps he’s almost certainly spent hours in the gym on. Theresa tugs at my elbow, forcing me to sway with the beat. Beer sloshes in my gut.

  “He asked me about you,” she says into my ear, her breath hot and heavy with alcohol. “He wants to dance with you.”

  A strobe light flashes off to the side of the crowd and in the burst of light I see what a pretty picture Chris Leavenworth thinks we’d make. He’s tall and blond and I’m....not tall, but I have the kind of blonde hair that makes Theresa frown when she thinks I don’t see her in the mirror, like she did when we were getting ready to come to this party. She’s the one who thought I should wear the red dress that comes down one single inch beneath my ass and four-inch heels.

  He wants to dance with you. Chris lifts his chin, sets his drink on the speaker next to him, and steps into the crowd. My heart leaps into my throat. I could do this. I could make out with the president of this frat, I could wrap my body around him on the dance floor and later in his bed, I could let him fuck me, take me, parade me around campus on his arm.

  It would be a nice distraction.

  I would be his distraction, too. Half of my sisters are dying to date Chris Leavenworth, and all of them might get their chance. He’s like that. He uses women until they bore him and then he tosses them to the side. Done. Gone.

  The floor tilts up toward me and I turn away, leaning toward the edge of the crowd. Theresa’s grip tightens on my elbow. “What are you doing? He’s coming over here.” I shake her off. I need air. I need space. Theresa catches up. “Are you leaving? What the hell, Summer?” She’s drunk and so am I, and I’m not having this fight with her. Not right now.

  “I have to go.”

  “Because a hot guy is interested in you?” Her face twists into an exaggerated parody of disgust. “Fine. Go home and get yourself off thinking about some solider who’s probably fucking somebody else halfway around the world.” My mouth drops open and drunk Theresa wilts in the face of my shock. “Summer,” she says, and drops her half-empty Solo cup to the floor so she can press her hands together. “I didn’t mean it. Stay at the party. Talk to Chris. He’s coming to talk to you. Stay. Please?”

  She’s begging me to forget about Dayton and I won’t do it. I might be drunk and dressed to be seen, to be swept up by Chris Leavenworth, but I won’t. I won’t. “No,” I tell her. My balance is too shaky for heels. As soon as I’m out on the sidewalk, I can get rid them. “No. I’m going home.”

  The screaming sound happens again and again and again, close to my ear. Too close. Who’s screaming and why is it so loud? I twist away from the sound and my cheek connects with a cool section of pillow. Please. Please go away and let me sleep. My head throbs. Turning over in bed is all it’s going to take. I never should have gone to that party.

  The sound curls in on itself and I reach for whatever, whoever is screaming. My hands make contact with my phone, shoved halfway under my pillow.

  It’s ringing.

  The sound resolves into my ringtone.

  Shit.

  Is it an alarm? Am I missing something? Did I sleep all weekend into Monday?

  I scramble for the phone, my stomach lurching. Way too much beer. Way too many dreams, the frat house becoming the mountains in Afghanistan, where my brother and Dayton are on their third deployment in six years.

  It’s my mom.

  The ringtone cuts out, showing the alerts on my screen. Twelve missed calls in a row, all of them from my mom’s phone.

  My fingers are slow on the screen and it rings before I can call her back.

  “Hello?” Saying the word makes me want to throw up.

  “Summer, I’ve been trying to call you.” Her voice is frantic. “Where have you been?”

  “I was—I was asleep, Mom, I’m sorry.” My mouth tastes horrible. I don’t know what’s more urgent—brushing my teeth or throwing up.

  “Get up, Summer. I’ve been trying to call.”

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Another mistake. It’s my fault I feel this way. I should have been more responsible last night. “I’m up. What’s wrong, Mom?”
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  “There was an accident.”

  “An accident?” My mind is still flooded with beer, with sleep. “Who was in an accident? Was it Dad?”

  “No. Your brother. He and Dayton were in a Humvee, out on some mission, and—”

  I’m going to throw up. My mom lets out a sharp breath. “Is he—”

  There’s a low murmuring in the background of the call, and then my dad is on the line.

  “Summer, this is your father. There’s been an accident involving your brother.”

  My lungs are tight, compressed, and I can hardly draw a breath. This is why I’ve been forcing myself to talk to Wes when he’s on leave. This is the only reason. In case... “Is he—”

  “He’s all right. Cuts and bruises. It was a near thing.”

  “Oh, my god.” The relief is so strong I almost puke from that. Dread comes fast on its heels. “Dad—”

  “He’s going to be fine, honey. He has enough time to call you, but not much more.” He says something about international calls, the Army—I don’t hear any of it. “Stay by your phone.”

  He hangs up.

  I stare at the phone in my hands. My bedroom at the sorority house rocks from side to side. I can’t run to the bathroom. I can’t be back in time for my brother’s call. I stay where I am.

  The phone rings in my hand, a strange number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Sunny, it’s me.”

  His voice is rough, a little broken by the connection. “Wes.” My throat closes and I swallow, clearing it. “Mom and Dad said—”

  “Yep,” he says, as if this is no big deal, as if this happens on a daily basis. “We had an encounter with a land mine. My knee got pretty fucked up by the shrapnel, but it’ll be all right. I’m in the hospital. Surgery—in three weeks—and back to the—”

  “I’m so glad you’re okay.” Hot tears slip down my cheeks. I can’t stand Wes. I can’t stand what he did to Dayton after he kissed me. But he could have died. Horror builds in my gut, mixing with the beer, and goosebumps spread like wildfire along my shoulders and arms.

  “I’ll be just fine,” Wes says. He sounds like he did when we were kids. He’d protect me from spiders I found in my bedroom, and when nobody else was watching, he was sweet to me. Strong. “There’s no need to worry, Sunny.”

  I gulp in a breath. “I’m really hungover, Wes.”

  He laughs out loud. “Party hard last night?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t think—I didn’t know—”

  “No way you could have known. It’s all going to work out anyhow. I’ll be out of here in no time and back running missions.”

  “Wes?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What about Day? Mom said—” My hands are shaking so badly I can hardly hold onto the phone. “She said Dayton was with you in the Humvee.”

  He laughs again, all sharp edges and ridicule, and every shred of sweetness is gone. “With me? Yeah, that asshole was with me. If he hadn’t been with me, that would have been something. A completed mission, more like.”

  I am speechless. What do I say? There isn’t enough air in the room.

  “Wes—” I croak out his name. “You’re—you’re in the hospital.”

  “Damn right I am.”

  “Is Day there? Is he with you?” Every word I say to him digs deeper into the rift between us. I know it and I can’t help it. I have to know. “Is he okay?”

  There’s a silence so long I wonder if he’s hung up on me.

  “Wes?”

  “I have no idea,” he says flatly. “If he got hurt, that’s his problem not mine.” I close my eyes. “I told you to stop asking about him.”

  11

  Summer

  “—Hazel was her name, wasn’t it? She seemed nice.”

  I force my attention back to the man sitting across the table from me.

  It’s supposed to be Dayton, sitting there.

  It’s not him.

  Dayton and I had a follow-up today to finalize plans for one of the firms and work through his application.

  He didn’t show up.

  I’m so pissed at him. How dare he? How dare he kiss me like that and then hide from me like this?When he didn’t show up for his eleven o’clock, Carla brought me a walk-in, and I took it.

  “She’s very good at her job,” I say briskly. I’ve got to steer the conversation back to our services and away from how nice everyone is, which has been the bulk of our talk thus far. “So....Logan.” His name comes to me at the last possible moment. “I’d love to talk about what we at Heroes on the Homefront can offer you.”

  He leans toward me, green eyes oddly pale in the light coming from my window. “What about Hazel? I’d like to see more of her.”

  I look across at him.

  Wait a beat.

  Smile.

  Then I grab some informational pamphlets in a holder on the side of my desk. “Here’s the plan.” He takes the pamphlets. “You look through these and figure out whether any of our supports might be a good fit. Once you’ve done that, you can call Carla at the front desk and schedule an appointment.” Not with me.

  He has the grace to look sheepish. “Sounds great. That’s a great plan.”

  I stand up, shoving my chair back from the desk, and stick out my hand for him to shake. “We’ll be looking forward to your call.”

  I let him find his own way out.

  As soon as I hear Carla calling goodbye in the front office, I shrug myself into my coat and wrap my scarf around my neck. It’s sunny today but bitter cold, and I’m going to be walking a bit. I can sense it.

  At the doorway to my office I turn back. The stack of papers with job openings for Dayton is out in the center of my desk—I trusted him to be here, damn it. I fold them in half with a vengeance and stick them in one of the big pockets of my coat. Wallet and phone. I don’t need my purse. I won’t be gone that long.

  Carla raises her eyebrows at me from her ergonomic desk chair. “You headed out early?”

  “I have a client meeting.”

  She purses her lips, but her expression turns into a smile. “Which client? The tall, dark, and handsome one?”

  “I—”

  “You don’t have to tell me, sweetheart. I already know.”

  I roll my eyes at her and go out into the winter.

  Maybe this isn’t professional. Maybe this is a dumb idea. I don’t care. I’m going to find Dayton and talk to him about these jobs if it’s the last thing I do. No, we don’t normally do home follow-up visits with our clients, but this is a special case. He needs this.

  I need this.

  Why? Because I spent all weekend thinking about him. About how it felt to stand in the same room with him after all these years. About how clean he tasted, exactly the same as that first kiss at Applebees. It’s shitty that Friday’s kiss also ended in silence between us, a cold front building on the horizon, but I’m not in high school anymore. I’m not letting him get away without a real conversation.

  I don’t.

  I dig out the first paper from the stack in my pocket. It’s got Dayton’s address on it. No phone number. Did he leave it off on purpose? There’s an email and a physical address. That’s it.

  On the corner I step into the doorway of a Duane Reade and put his address into my phone.

  Shit. It’s going to take almost an hour to get there. I’m going to have to get the subway at 50th, and then—

  Wait.

  I zoom in on the map on my screen.

  What the hell?

  Maybe I put in the address wrong.

  I double-check with the paper. It’s right there in Day’s handwriting. 9801 Liberty Ave. Ozone Park? That’s not in Queens. I know he said he’s living in Queens.

  This address is for an IHOP.

  He lied to me.

  12

  Summer

  Inside the Duane Reade I stalk back and forth in front of the magazine racks, my heart beating fast. A fake address? A fake
address? Who does Dayton think he is?

  I take a calming breath in and let it out to a count of one-two-three-four while I stare at England’s favorite royalty in bright, glossy colors. I repeat the process. I don’t feel calm, but I have to act calm. I’m in a Duane Reade. I can’t be the woman freaking out in the Duane Reade because her client stood her up.

  God, that’s why this stings, isn’t it? Because I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t think of him as just a client when he walked into the office, and I can’t do it now.

  Treating him like any other client would be the right thing to do.

  And yet—

  I pull out my phone and the paper and tap out a furious email, then delete the whole thing and start over.

  Dear Mr. Nash—

  Delete.

  Dear Day—

  Delete.

  Hi Dayton,

  I’m writing to check in because I had you scheduled for a meeting at eleven this morning. I wanted to make sure you’re all right.

  Summer Sullivan

  I’ve sent this kind of email a thousand times before. Most people never answer. The rest tell me that they forgot, or they couldn’t get out of the house, or they swear they had the date down for next week.

  I shove my phone and the paper into my pocket and leave Duane Reade. The wind is at my back on the way to the office, prodding me along, pushing, pushing. It’s annoying, how insistent it is.

  I’m about to cross in front of the windows when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  Incoming emails.

  It’ll be the regular work back-and-forth, of course—emails from everyone else in the office, triple confirming things we confirmed yesterday, emails from different firms around the city for different clients, emails, emails, emails.

  The fifth one down is from him.

  My heart skips, stops, rears to a start.

  I open the email.

  Hi Summer Sullivan,