Before She Was Mine

by Amelia Wilde

  Setting Wes off is the only danger. He has my back no matter what. We’re brothers-in-arms. But on American soil, he distances himself from me. No surprise. He still hasn’t gotten over the one time I kissed his sister. I get it, on one level. My dad did not do our family reputation any fucking favors.

  But I haven’t lived there since junior year. Wes knows that.

  “Guess.”

  Wes sighs. “They’re kids running.” His face is tanned from the constant exposure out here in the sun, but I know that under his goggles the skin around his eyes is white. I’ve seen more of Wes Sullivan on this deployment than I ever wanted to see in my life. I keep waiting to find out if we’re still friends or just battle buddies. He’d have my back in a firefight—I can count on that—but the days of playing video games in his bedroom and joking around about girls are long gone. “They could be running to alert the local cell, or running because a Humvee’s about to drive through downtown.”

  “Maybe both.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” He exaggerates a Midwestern accent. We’re from New York, but it gives me a twinge of nostalgia for literally anywhere in the United States of America.

  Or anywhere other than here.

  “Fuck.” Wes taps at the GPS unit in front of him on the dash, hard, like he’s giving it a piece of his mind. “I just lost our waypoints.”

  This is the last backwater village we’re visiting on this mission. This is the last group of civilians we’re going to intimidate into naming names. The names we get are almost never worth it. I’ve matched up more Taliban to houses in these windswept villages than I can count. I’ve thrown more flashbangs into empty buildings than you want to know about.

  “They’re gone.”

  “That’s what I just said, asshole.”

  “The kids.”

  The last one disappeared around the curve of a path leading into the foothills, his feet kicking up dust that rises and then settles.

  “Do you have the map?”

  “Ready and waiting, sir.”

  “Double check that next waypoint.”

  Another layer of sweat beads up on my neck and starts dripping down my back. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve sweated through the t-shirt underneath my uniform. I bang my elbow against the door of the Humvee trying to open the fucking map. Wes jiggles his knuckles against the GPS unit and radios into command that we’ve lost it. They confirm what he wants me to do—check the paper map.

  “Right up ahead.”

  He pulls the Humvee farther up the road—a piece of shit dirt road in the middle of nowhere in Afghanistan. Small houses, muted gray from weather exposure, line the road. There aren’t more than ten of them. Wes slows down.

  Adrenaline dumps into my veins and my vision sharpens. No signs of life in this place, but that doesn’t mean anything.

  “Can’t wait to get out of this shit.”

  Wes laughs into the rumble of the Humvee skirting over the dry, dusty road. He doesn’t give a fuck. “Yeah. You know what Summer was telling me when I talked to her on Skype? Jesus, that computer’s a mess. She said the first snow is falling at home.”

  I’ve been trying not to think about her. The mention of her name is like a hand gripping my shoulder, yanking me straight back to that kiss. The kiss and everything before that—Summer tumbling off that saucer, trying to be brave. Another bead of sweat drips down my back. It’s a thousand degrees in the shade, and I miss her. “That girl loves winter. She’s so fucking cute about it.”

  Wes whips his head around, jaw working. “What the fuck, man? How many times do I have to tell you?” He turns his head and spits onto the dirt. “That’s my sister. Stay the fuck away from her.”

  We might as well be on the moon. Why the hell is he being such a prick about one offhand comment? “Why the fuck should I stay away? Explain it to me, Wes.”

  His smile is mocking, taunting. “Do you need a reminder? We both know this hero shit is all an act.” He laughs out loud. “You’re only delaying the inevitable, you criminal piece of shit.”

  I turn to face him, to tell him that he’s done almost as many shit things as I have.

  That’s my mistake.

  I feel it before I hear it—sheer destructive hellfire, blooming up from the wheel well right under me. I thought the sun was hot—this is a million times hotter, searing, tearing, a black smoke that tastes like gasoline and regret.

  Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

  My ears ring, the sound interrupted by shouts—that guy Powell is shouting something, his raw voice cutting in and out—and I can’t tell if I’m making any sound or not. I’m choking. I’m choking to fucking death.

  The pain centers into my left leg and detaches neatly from my mind, so intense I can’t let it into my brain or I’ll go crazy. My vision is the next to go, flickering on the edge of black oblivion. Wes was right. I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve to talk about her. I don’t deserve to see Summer, ever again, the way her smile lights up her blue eyes, the way that sweet smile of hers settles into something soft and willing when she’s looking at me. I don’t deserve to see her, and now I never will, because I was supposed to be looking for IEDs along the side of the road and I let that fucker distract me. I got distracted. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I got distracted, Summer. It’s all my fault. I was thinking about you.

  15

  Summer

  Having sex with Dayton was the biggest mistake of my life.

  I shuffle a stack of papers off my desk and there he is. His name is there, anyway, right there spelled out in big bold letters on a folder. It’s the same kind of folder I put together for all of the no-shows. Once the folder has been in the no-show pile for a month, I’ll move it to a filing cabinet where he can join all the other people for whom we’ve previously provided services.

  He’s scheduled for a follow-up appointment today. In thirty minutes, actually, but I know he won’t be here.

  He hasn’t shown up for any of his appointments over the past three weeks.

  He won’t answer my emails. I have no phone number, and that asshole—he never even gave me his real address. All I have is the IHOP. Do you know how desperate I am? I called the IHOP to see if maybe that’s where he hangs out. And it’s not because I’m a crazy stalker. It’s because I have a lead for him. On his way out of my apartment, I questioned him about the firms he’d be most interested in working for and I submitted his resume. I have an offer. If he’d only show up. Or call in. Anything.

  I’m tired.

  I’m so tired.

  It’s not even ten-thirty yet.

  I click over to my scheduling system and scroll aimlessly through the appointments. I can’t believe he ghosted me like this. And for what?

  For what?

  A tear slips from the corner of my eye, hot and shameful and stupid. I’m not a crybaby. Why do I feel like such a basket case?

  I get a receptionist at the VA hospital named Kathy on the line and speak in my most professional voice. “This is Summer Sullivan calling from Heroes on the Homefront.”

  Kathy takes in a breath and I can practically see her putting her hand over her heart. “Oh, you have a wonderful organization. Absolutely wonderful, what you’re doing for these veterans.”

  At least the ones that show up. “That’s actually what I’m calling about.” I inject a note of professional concern into my voice. “One of the veterans on my caseload hasn’t been showing up for appointments, and I wanted to know if you’d been experiencing the same.”

  “Oh, my.” We’re teetering on the edge of a lot of different laws here, and I know it’s a long shot. “I’m not supposed to give out any information about—”

  “His name’s Dayton Nash,” I say. “I don’t want to know any private information. I certainly don’t want to get you into any trouble. All I’m asking is—” I swallow a lump in my throat. “Has he been checking in for his appointments there?”

  There’s a pause, a muffled clicking sound, and
then Kathy says, “Let me see, let me see.” Fear and hope twist together into a knot at my core. Should I be worried about him? Is this about something more than Dayton being a scumbag? I can’t bring myself to actually believe he’s a scumbag, but if something’s wrong—

  “No.” Kathy’s voice is firm. “He hasn’t checked in for any appointments since January 8.”

  The day we slept together.

  That’s not accurate. The day he pinned me up against the wall and fucked me like he’d been waiting all of his life to do it.

  Which he had.

  “Thank you so much, Kathy. I’ll make a note of that.” I hang up before she can say another word, dread making the bones of my wrists tingle.

  “Knock, knock!”

  Hazel stands in my doorway, brandishing a bright pink box. A bakery box. My stomach growls so intensely that we both hear it.

  “Whoa,” she says with a laugh. “I have really good timing. Doughnut? I picked them up fresh on my way in.”

  “Yes. Yes.” I jump out of my seat and Hazel meets me halfway, holding the top of the box open.

  They all look so good. Glazed twists. Long Johns. Classic cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles. I hesitate between the twists and the cake doughnuts. I want that chocolate. But I want that glaze, too…

  “Go ahead.” Hazel clicks her tongue. “I brought more than enough for everyone to have seconds.”

  “You’re an angel.” I mean it. My voice wells with emotion. I take a glazed twist and one of the cake doughnuts, my heart swelling in my chest.

  “I know,” she says breezily. “But cool it, okay? I don’t want everyone else thinking I’ll always bail them out with doughnuts.”

  I return to my desk and devour them both, one after the other. I never eat doughnuts. I don’t think about them. I don’t love them. But they’re both gone in a matter of bites, little slices of heaven melting between my lips. Holy shit, they’re so good. I want more. I want a half dozen. I want a dozen. Two doughnuts haven’t touched the pit in my stomach, or woken me up.

  I’m exhausted, and it must be because of Dayton, but I can’t explain the force of it. I fell asleep on the couch at seven-thirty last night. Whit woke me up at eleven and sent me to bed.

  I dreamed about him.

  I’ve seen him more in my dreams than I have in real life the last three weeks.

  My frown turns to a scowl. Wes was right about him, clearly. I should have taken him at his word. Even if my brother is one of the world’s largest assholes, he is occasionally right about something. I always hoped he wasn’t right about Day, but—

  I scroll through the schedule again. One no-show on top of another.

  What a jerk.

  I’m stricken with the powerful need for another doughnut. The craving is so powerful and urgent that it propels me right out of my seat.

  Next door, Hazel has the pink box propped near the edge of her desk. I’d bet anything she means to take it down to the break room, but I’m so relieved at the sight of it I could start crying again.

  The thought of which is absolutely bananas, but I brush it aside.

  I knock perkily at her doorframe. “Hey, friend. Do you have any more of those doughnuts?”

  If she says no, I will cry.

  “More than half the box,” she says without turning around, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Nobody else is as hungry as you are, it seems. Take as many as you want.”

  “Bless you.”

  I approach the box with a paper napkin in hand. There is still quite a selection. God, how do I choose? How do I choose?

  A deep red catches my eye. “Is that red velvet?”

  “You know it is.”

  “I didn’t even know they made red velvet doughnuts.” I lift it out of the box. It’s lighter than air, but there’s a weight to it even in my hand that makes me feel almost giddy.

  Then, because if Dayton is going to be like this, then screw everything, I reach for a glazed twist.

  Hazel turns in her chair. “Girl, that’s four doughnuts.”

  “I can put one—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She waves me off, laughing. “I get that way, too, when it’s my time of the month.”

  “For real.” I head to the door. “For real.”

  Only…

  Only it’s not my time of the month.

  I do some quick math in my head.

  That can’t be right.

  I do the math again.

  Then, clutching the napkin-covered doughnuts safely in my fists, I run to check my desk calendar.

  16

  Dayton

  This ice pack is a piece of shit.

  I press it down harder into my knee, trying to salvage every last bit of the cold that’s supposedly going to cure me. That’s what they said at Killion. One wrong step during a transfer. That’s all it took. I saved the window. I fucked up my knee.

  It’s going to be a real treat going back to work tomorrow, but if I lose this job, I’ll never get out of this hellhole with Curtis.

  At least he’s mostly sober today, and recently showered. He got a night shit job at Killion, cleaning the floors, so he can’t be high all week. Sometimes that’s an improvement. Sometimes it’s not.

  This TV show is a piece of shit, too. I don’t care about British detectives, but it was on when I got here with the ice pack, my missing foot in just as much pain as my knee, and I’m not hopping around the living room to find the remote.

  It’s all pain since I walked out of Summer’s apartment.

  By choice.

  That’s what I keep telling myself.

  It’s too much of a risk for her to get involved with me. I shouldn’t be fucking around with her.

  My thoughts veer too close to that afternoon, and I force myself to stare harder at the TV. The volume is too loud. I wish it’d drown out the pain in my knee, in my foot, arcing across my chest, but it does nothing.

  It does nothing because Summer has always been the one for me, even if it never made sense. The connection we had—fuck. It was the kind that overrides everything, even what should have been an unbreakable bond with my best friend. That piece of shit.

  I ruined it all, letting my guard down in that Humvee. Maybe Wes was right. Maybe I’m a fuckup who should stay away from her, permanently. He’s winning on that front. I press the ice pack down harder, though it’s hardly frozen, hoping to numb the memories of finally claiming Summer, finally feeling whole again, if only for a few minutes.

  A jolt of shame rushes through me, a stranglehold of panic gripping my throat so tight my vision goes black at the edges. I can’t waste Summer’s time. I can’t ruin her life. I’m not good enough for her. I never have been, and I never will be. Staying away from her is the right thing to do.

  There’s a noise at the front door, but I don’t turn to see Curtis going to answer. Probably one of his friends, looking for drugs.

  “Day.” I ignore it. He’s not talking to me, unless he’s mentioning something about me. I don’t care.

  “Day.” His voice is closer now, next to the arm of the couch. “There’s some hot chick at the door for you.”

  “What?”

  He grins, eyes alight. “Hot chick. At the door. Asking for you.”

  “Jesus.”

  I wrench myself up from the couch. I can’t bear to shove my stump into the prosthetic, but I do catch the ice pack before it falls to the floor. I keep it pinned to my leg while I hop for the door. My heart pounds. If it’s Summer—and I don’t know what other hot chick would be looking for me—then she’s seeing this place. This place where I currently live. Fuck. It’s mortifying. We’re out in the direct aftermath of a party, so at least there’s not open garbage everywhere, but everything is threadbare, singed somehow.

  I hobble to the door, my knee pulsing with pain. It swung shut again when Curtis left, so I yank it open.

  She’s still standing out there.

  My stomach does a double tur
n, and there it is—that deep at the center of my chest. I want to be closer to her. Preferably in a location that isn’t this one. I don’t want her to see this. There’s a warmth at the center of my core. I never told her about this place. She still found it.

  She turns toward me and gives a little shrug, and that’s when I see them—the tears gathered in the corners of her red-rimmed eyes.

  “Hey.” I step out into the hallway, my gut plummeting down to my feet. “Is everything okay?” I shrug toward the door. “I’d invite you in, but it’s…not good in there.”

  “No need.” Her voice is clipped cold. “You haven’t come to any of your appointments.”

  “I have a job. You know that.”

  “How’s that working out for you?” Her eyes flicker down to the ice pack.

  I don’t need this from her. I take a half-step back and end up against the door. “What are you doing here, Summer?”

  “I wanted—” She swallows hard. “I wanted you to know I found a lead. One of the firms called me back on your resume, if you’re still interested.”

  God. She’s been out there, working for me, working to make my sad little life better, and I’ve been—what? Fucking myself over at the factory? The shame is like a black oil spill in my throat. The best thing I can do right now is to get her to stop wasting her time on me. That’s all I can do.

  “I’ll get back to you on that.” I angle myself toward the door and rest my hand on the doorknob. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  Hurt flashes in her eyes at the dismissal, but she lifts her chin.

  “Is there something else?”

  Summer looks away, at some faraway space over my shoulder. “Do you remember what we did?”

  What we did when? I’ve made a lot of mistakes with her, but I assume she means the most recent one. The memory sweeps over me again—the curve of her hips as I fucked her—and it unlocks something at the center of my chest. “Yeah.” She’s looking at the floor again, and I ache to see her eyes. I don’t think about it. I raise my hand and brush my fingertips against the line of her chin. “I remember.”