by Jay McLean
* * *
It’s ridiculously hard to imagine settling into a routine living in a house that’s not yours, with two women… especially considering I’ve spent the majority of the past year with twelve cursing men who piss and shit in the open.
I feel like I’ll be walking, or limping, or hobbling—whatever—on eggshells.
So I guess it’s kind of a good thing that Holly invites my family to stay for dinner and even a few epic rounds of Battleship. It’s a game Dad taught Eric and Eric taught me, and the only game Eric and I could really play together considering our age difference and his lack of imagination.
I’m assuming Battleship was played quite a bit while I was gone because a notebook that’d been used as a scorecard comes out and the games turn pretty serious. Even to the point where Eric goes over to their house and brings back a bright pink wooden contraption that sits between and around both boards—for extra secrecy, I guess. I’m not really sure what goes on for the four hours they play… but I do know one thing—our families are fucking crazy.
Riley stays by my side throughout all fifteen games, my hand on her leg and her side pressed against mine. We don’t speak, at least not to each other, and when midnight comes around and we all call it a night, I finally get what I’d been craving for since the moment she ordered me to kiss her in the middle of her kitchen.
“Good night, Dylan,” she says, lying in bed, resting her head on my shoulder and her arm on my chest. She leans up, kisses me once on the lips, and then smiles. “Batter up, rookie.”
“Batter up?”
“You gotta earn that home run.”
Two minutes later, she’s out like a light.
And a few minutes after that, so am I.
Fifty-Four
Dylan
“Morning Dylan,” Holly says from behind me. I drop the mug in my hand, coffee spilling, ceramic shattering on the floor.
“I’m sorry.”
I blink hard, the images slowly fading. “No, it’s my fault,” I mutter, turning to her.
She’s on the floor, a dish cloth in her hand as she picks up the pieces of the mug and starts wiping the blood off the floor. “Dylan?”
I can’t take my eyes off the blood.
She stands quickly, reaching for me and I step back, my ass hitting the counter.
“Dylan?”
There’s so much blood. “I fucking failed, Dylan!”
“Dylan!”
I gasp, choking on a breath as her hands find my shoulders, her face in my vision, her eyes like Riley’s—back when she loved me. Before she feared me.
“Hi.”
I drop my gaze. She can’t see me. Not like this.
“Are you okay?”
Another blink. “Yes Ma’am.”
“Why don’t you sit?” she says, guiding me to a seat at the kitchen table. I look at the clock, the sounds of the seconds ticking and our heavy breaths the only thing I can hear.
I sit down, focusing on the grains in the timber of the table as she moves behind me, preparing another coffee. I flinch when she places it in front of me, her hand on my shoulder. “Do you need me to lift your leg?” she asks, her voice calm, just like her eyes.
“No, Ma’am.”
She sits down next to me, cupping the mug in her hands. Smoke rises from the cup and my senses fill with the smell of gun powder. I blink hard again and rub my nose, doing what I can to fight the memories.
“I’m sorry for sneaking up on you like that.”
“It’s not…” I swallow loudly.
“Honey, can you please look at me?”
Slowly, I lift my gaze. She deserves that much.
Her hand reaches out again, soft and warm against my forearm. She glances at the hallway, and then at me, making sure Riley’s not up yet. I already know what Holly’s going to say. I can feel it. I can feel my life falling apart—feel Riley slipping out of my hands.
“I wanted to bring it up last night, but I didn’t think it was necessary to speak about it in front of your dad and Eric.”
I stare at her. Right into her eyes. And I can feel the calm start to take over. My breaths slow. My hands settle. “Okay.”
“One of the other conditions for staying with us is that you speak to someone, Dylan.”
I shake my head, my eyes leaving hers.
“Dylan? Please. I need you to look at me.”
With a calming breath, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Then I look up.
“It doesn’t have to involve anyone else, Dylan. Just you and me,” she says, nodding slowly. “Riley doesn’t need to know. Your dad, the military—they don’t need to either.” She uses the hand not on mine to wipe her eyes, her eyes filling with tears. “I need you to do this for me.” She pats her chest. “I’m a mother, sweetheart, and I worry about Riley.” She glances at the doorway again. “I need to make sure she’s safe.”
I ball my fists, my eyes shutting tight and my heart racing again. “I would never hurt her.”
“I know,” she says quickly, leaning toward me. “I know that. But I’ve read about PTS—”
“Stop!” My eyes snap open, focused on hers. I expect fear. I see calm.
“Okay, sweetheart.” She nods again. “Okay.”
I take a few breaths, my head tilting, completely confused by the way she’s looking at me. After a long moment of silence, I find my voice. “My friend Amanda…”
Holly smiles. “I know her.”
“She’s um… she’s a psychology major.”
“Okay,” she breathes out, nodding faster. “That works for me.”
Riley’s bedroom door opens. Holly drops her gaze and removes her hand from my arm. Then she sits back in her chair. “Ms. Hudson?”
She looks up at me.
“I’m not going to lose her. Not again. She means too much to me.”
* * *
I wait until Riley and Holly have left for work before keeping my promise to Holly. I sit on the couch, my knees bouncing, my phone gripped tight in my hand.
Dylan: How mucg do youxcharge a session?
Amanda: For you? One My Little Pony.
I smile.
Dylan: When?
Amanda: Where you at, Grandpa?
Dylan: Riley’s.
Amanda: I’ll be there in 30.
“So I’m going to tell you how I think this session will go and then we can start, okay?” Amanda says, sitting on the couch opposite me.
“Okay?”
“After I finish with this speech, you’re going to look away, and then sit there grunting at every one of my questions.”
“What?” I ask.
“Yeah. You might just be the hardest client I’ll ever have. You know, considering you actually have to talk to get anywhere.”
“I talk.”
“You talk!?” she shouts.
I roll my eyes.
“Ready?” she asks.
I shrug.
“So talk.”
My eyes narrow. “Aren’t you, like, supposed to ask me something?”
“I don’t know why I’m here, though. So you have to start.”
This was the dumbest idea ever. “How?”
She smiles, lifting her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Why don’t you tell me what you were doing, or thinking, when you decided to message me.”
I nod and drop my gaze. “Riley’s mom, Holly—”
“I know Holly well,” she cuts in.
I nod again. “She said I had to speak to someone.”
“Right,” Amanda says, tapping on her iPad. “So you don’t want to be here. You kind of have to. For Riley?”
Another nod. “Riley doesn’t know, but if it means keeping her…”
“I get it.”
I inhale deeply, looking up at the ceiling.
“So did something happen that made Holly ask you to see someone?”
Shrugging, I roll my head back and forth on the cushion. “I was remembering Dave. And t
hinking maybe I should write to him.”
“Like Riley did with Jeremy?”
My eyes snap to hers. “She talk to you about Jeremy?”
“Not really. She mentioned that she wrote to him, but never really spoke about him. I only knew about it because we all went to the cliff.”
I sit up, raising my eyebrows in question.
“Yeah,” she says, waving her hand in the air. “You know, on the anniversary of Jeremy’s death. We all went there…”
“You what?”
She rears back a little. “We went there because Jake thought she’d be there.”
“And she was?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head. “So you were all there?”
“Not on the cliff,” she tells me. “Not the first time anyway. It was only Jake then. We didn’t want to pressure or overwhelm her to jump.”
“She jumped?” I ask, clearly surprised.
Amanda nods. “A few times.”
“Huh,” is all I say, my mind too busy spinning with thoughts.
“So what would you have written?”
“Huh?”
“In the letter, Dylan. To Dave? What did you want to say?”
“I wanted to tell him that I hated him. Again.”
“Again?”
“Long story,” I mumble.
“It’s valid.”
“What is?”
“To hate him.”
“It is?”
After typing something on her iPad, she looks up at me. “Of course it is.”
“Why?”
She places the iPad on the cushion next to her. “All emotions are valid, Dylan. Regardless of whether you think it’s right or wrong to feel them, they exist because they’re real. I could list a number of reasons as to why I think it’s okay to hate him. Or at least, to be mad at him. But that doesn’t mean it’s what you feel.”
“List them,” I snap. “Please.” Because I need to know.
She inhales deeply, her eyes on mine. “He left you, D. I mean, that’s basic right? When you think someone is going to be part of your life and then all of a sudden they’re not, that hurts. And hurt can easily turn to hate. Because it’s better than the alternative. He probably also made you feel guilty. Guilt can also turn to hate. Again. It’s better than the alternative.”
Even though I know the answer, still I ask, “Why would I feel guilty?”
“Because you feel like you should’ve known something was wrong. He was your friend. And now you’re wondering if the signs were there or if you just chose to turn a blind eye to it. If you were too wrapped up in the joys of your life, you didn’t see his.”
I exhale loudly, causing her to smile.
She continues. “You probably hate him because you feel like you have to live your life a certain way now because of him. You try to justify your life based on his death and you feel like you have to go above and beyond to give value to his death.”
“I don’t feel like I have to.”
She smiles wider. “But you want to?”
I nod.
“And, lastly, you’re allowed to hate him simply because he’s gone now. And there’s nothing you can do to bring him back. And I think, out of all the reasons, that’s probably the one that hits home the hardest.” She pauses a beat. “You miss him?”
I look down at my hands and nod again. “Like crazy.”
* * *
“Holy shit, babe,” Riley calls out, stepping into the house. “Did you fix the air conditioning?”
“Yep!” I remove the pipe from under the Riley’s bathroom sink and move quickly to let the gunk of hair fall into the bucket.
“Where are you?”
“Bathroom!”
Her footsteps near, stopping just outside the doorway. “What are you doing?”
“Clearing your pipes.”
She scoffs. “You wish.”
I replace the pipe and start to screw it back on.
“You got bored, huh?” she asks, kneeling down next to me.
“A little.” Lie. I was bored out of my fucking mind. There’s not a lot you can do in a house that’s not yours with a leg that doesn’t work.
“You went home and got your tools, D?”
I finish my task and start to sit up, taking her offered hand half way. “I got Eric to get them for me when he got some other shit.” I run my hands down my shorts. “Hi.”
She smiles. “Hi.”
“How was work?”
Shrugging, she says, “You had me looking at the clock, Banks.”
I attempt to stand but she places a hand on my shoulders, keeping me down. “So…” She lifts a leg and straddles my lap and I’m instantly hard.
I bite down on my lip, my dirty hands itching to touch her.
“What have you been doing?”
“Missing you.”
“Yeah?” she whispers, her hands on my neck, her eyes searching mine.
I nod.
She dips her head, her mouth finding my jaw. “I missed you too. All of you, babe.”
“Ry.”
“What?”
“Your mom’s going to be home any minute.”
Her lips move, hovering an inch in front of mine. “She’s not home now.”
Our mouths crash together, our kisses desperate. God I missed her. All of her. Her smell, her kiss, her taste. I use my hands to remember her, ignoring how dirty they are. I run them along her sides, down her waist and to her ass—forgetting where we are and what we’re doing. I get lost. In her. In the memories of her and the lust building inside me. Her hips push down, pressing into me, a moan escaping her lips and landing on mine.
“Whoo!” Holly sings, shutting the front door. “Dylan fixed the air?”
Riley backs away quickly and stands to my side.
I cover my cock when Holly appears in the doorway of the bathroom. “What are you doing?” she asks, pizza boxes in her hand.
“Clearing Riley’s pipes,” I answer.
Riley chokes on air.
“The sink!” I rush out and point to the sink. “Not Riley—not her—this!”
Holly presses her lips together, nods once, and then leaves.
Riley shakes her head, her eyes filled with amusement. “You suck at talking, D.”
“No shit.”
I hear the front door shut. “I heard there was pizza!” Eric shouts.
Dad grunts.
Holly calls out, “Let’s eat.”
My phone rings on the bathroom counter and Riley reaches for it. She hands it to me, still standing above me, her legs toned and tanned beneath her skirt. “You going to answer?”
I kiss her leg. Just once. Then answer the call and bring the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Lance Corporal Banks?”
I instantly recognize the voice on the other end. “Yes, First Sergeant?”
“Conway and I are in town on a recruiter visit. Thought we’d come see you. We’re at your house but no one’s answering the door.”
“I’m at my girlfriend’s house, First Sergeant.”
“I thought she lived with you?” he asks, his tone more casual.
I look over at Riley, her brow furrowed. “It’s a long story.”
“Can we come by, Banks? There’s something we’d like to discuss.”
“Yes, First sergeant.”
“Send Conway the address. We’ll be there soon.”
I hang up and look down at my phone, knowing full well it’s bullshit. There’s no recruiter visit. They’re here for me.
“What’s that about?” Riley asks, helping me to stand.
I wash my hands, my eyes on her through the reflection of the mirror.
“They’re coming by.”
“Why?”
“To discuss the disciplinary action for my DUI.”
Fifty-Five
Dylan
They show up fifteen minutes later to a waiting audience. I guess no one wanted to leave.
Dad and Eric helped move the furniture in the living room so we could accommodate their visit.
Riley helps me to stand when First Sergeant Fulton and Conway enter the room. I shake hands, make the introductions and offer them a seat on the couch opposite us.
“How’s the leg?” First Sergeant asks.
I tap it twice. “It’s getting there.”
He nods. “Listen,” he says, holding the brim of his cap in his hands as he rests his elbows on his knees. “This wasn’t a casual visit, Banks. I’m here to discuss—”
My throat clearing cuts him off. I glance at Dad quickly and then at Eric. There’s no other reason for a First Sergeant to make the trip out to my home unless it’s something dramatic. “I know why you’re here,” I tell him.
“So you’ve thought about it, Banks?”
My brow furrows.
He sighs, taking the folder that Conway hands him. “We got word of your DUI, Banks.”
I nod, glancing at Dad again.
Riley takes my hand in hers.
First Sergeant continues. “You have four weeks left until your contract with the United States Marine Corps is up.”
Everything inside me stills. Everything but my heart, racing, thumping hard in my chest.
He opens the folder in his hands, his eyes shifting from left to right. “You have four weeks of leave accumulated?”
My gaze drops. I know what’s happening. And the thought of it turns my stomach to stone. “Yes.”
“It’s under recommendation from the Sergeant Major that you use your leave, Lance Corporal.” He closes the folder and holds it above the coffee table between us. “We have all the paper work to begin the out process. Anything else we can get to you? I assume all your gear is still at the barracks rooms?”
I stare at him.
“You happy for Conway to go through your stuff and send you your personals?”
I look at Conway. He’s looking down at his hands. He won’t make eye contact. He’s too goddamn nice.
In the corner of the room, Dad grunts.
And the walls—they start to close in. Like a cave, trapping me.
I look over at Dad and Eric. They won’t look at me either. Shame can do that to people. I attempt to swallow but my mouth’s dry. I reach for the glass of water on the table, my hands trembling.