by L. A. Witt
Now, it was all raw and burning again like fresh wounds.
If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would have stayed awake, but I couldn’t. I could barely stand up. After my shower, I stripped the sweaty sheets off the bed, put some fresh ones down, and collapsed for a few more restless hours of sleep.
It didn’t help. Coffee didn’t either. Days like this, I missed when I could go running. I needed to run until I was too tired to think—maybe even too tired to dream. Kind of ironic I’d lost that ability around the same time I’d started needing an outlet.
Without those options, I’d found from experience that the best way to get a handle on things was to do as much normal, everyday shit as I could. Clean the apartment. Take care of my landlady’s to-do list. Go grocery shopping.
That last option turned out to be a bad idea today. It was a Wednesday, but for some reason everyone and their mother was at the store. It was mayhem.
I needed to get a few things, though, so I knuckled through as best I could.
Someone knocked something over, and glass shattered. One of the employees shoved a shopping cart into the back of a row so it would tuck in like the others, and the metal clang almost sent me out of my crawling skin. An unhappy child shrieked, oblivious to the half-demolished Afghan village he was sending me back to.
That was when the shaking started—when the shrill cry hit a nerve and filled my mind with images of destruction and violence. I could taste the sand. My fingers moved back and forth on the handbasket’s handle, same as they always had on my trigger guard when I’d been nervous. When we’d been walking through buildings that might or might not have been full of people who absolutely wanted us dead.
Shaking beside the bread aisle, trying to keep my breathing even, I closed my eyes and focused. Here, not there. Now, not then. Stay here. I just had to stay here, and I’d be okay. I’d—
Someone bumped into me.
I startled so bad I had to grab the bread shelf to stay upright, and I nearly knocked a couple of loaves onto the floor. A middle-aged couple eyed me in surprise but then scowled, shook their heads, and kept walking.
“Drug addict,” the woman muttered.
“Fucking wetback junkie,” the man grumbled. He shot me a glare over his shoulder. “Probably on food stamps and everything.”
Food stamps. Fuck, I wished.
I closed my eyes. I’d heard some outrage over undocumented immigrants getting food stamps, but hell if I knew how they actually did it. I was too scared to apply for anything because . . .
Because I’d fucking get deported.
I cursed out loud, not caring who heard. It always came back to that, didn’t it?
I could apply for food stamps . . . and get deported.
I could go to the VA clinic to get my knee and head checked . . . and get deported.
I could apply for a real job with a real visa . . . and get deported.
Or I could keep flying below the radar, working a job that barely made me enough to stay alive . . . and get deported.
I shook myself and pushed those thoughts away. I had the job right now, and I had enough in my wallet to pay for some groceries. I looked into the basket I was carrying. It wasn’t everything I’d come for, but it would be enough to tide me over until I could handle being around people again. Or until my next shift at the bar.
Half the reason I kept my job at the High-&-Tight was the kitchen in the back. A perk of employment was one free meal per four hours on the clock. That was also why I volunteered for every extra shift I could get my hands on. My knee didn’t like it, but it was one less meal I had to pay for with my rent money or the meager cash I’d scraped together to send to Mexico. Sometimes I even came in to do unpaid prep work, cleaning, and maintenance around the bar. I knew my boss was exploiting the shit out of me, but what was I going to do? Call him out on it? Report it? Fuck that. I did the work, and then I shut the fuck up and ate the free sandwich and fries. And sometimes I slipped out to my truck to stash a second one no one had noticed me or one of the sympathetic cooks making.
But I still had to keep some food around the house, and this was enough for now, so I went to the express checkout and paid.
Then I headed home, leaving all the noise and people and panic at the grocery store. I needed to pull it together. Today. Before I saw Mark again. No, now. Because even if I didn’t go out with Mark tonight, I still had to go to work.
Work. Oh fuck. Work.
A sick feeling burned in the back of my throat. I wasn’t out of the woods for a panic attack, but I didn’t dare call in sick unless I was dying. Even then, I’d have hesitated. No tips if I didn’t show up. I couldn’t afford to let a panic attack or a barrage of violent flashbacks keep me from working.
Plus, while my boss was a decent enough guy, we both knew he could fire me for anything, although he’d never given me a reason to think he’d can me the second I messed up. Hell, he even let me take the same state-mandated breaks as everyone else—not to mention the free meals—and he didn’t skim off my tips like the last guy I’d worked for like this. But every time he cut me slack, I was even more convinced the other shoe would drop. Like he was keeping a tally of every time he could have fired me so he’d have plenty of ammunition when he finally did.
I gripped the wheel tighter as I steered my truck toward home. I’d always known working illegally would be a blow to my pride. I’d come to the US legally, I’d worked legally, and I’d had every intention of continuing to work legally. When I’d had to bite the bullet and take any employment I could find, I’d expected to feel like a failure. And I had. I’d been a failure who couldn’t crack it in the Navy or keep the menial job I’d found afterward.
What I hadn’t expected was the constant stress. The fear that I was one dropped glass or late arrival away from having nothing. I’d even tried using an American accent at work so nobody would realize I was Mexican, but I couldn’t keep it going for hours. Or I’d let the accent slip, and then people would really look at me weird. And I’d fucking hated it anyway. I was proud of who I was, damn it.
At least at the High-&-Tight, most people were there to get drunk and/or laid. The bar I’d worked in before had been more of a blue-collar place, and I hadn’t gone a week without some drunk redneck going off on me about how I was stealing an American’s job and he should report me. There’d been plenty of other racist shit in there, but it was the part about reporting me that had scared me shitless.
It had also ultimately been why that boss had fired me. After helping himself to his usual forty percent of my tips—to make up for what I wasn’t giving Uncle Sam, he’d claimed—he’d casually told me not to come back. He’d had a few threats about ICE and couldn’t risk getting busted with an undocumented immigrant on the payroll. Thank God one of the bartenders had been leaving to go work at the High-&-Tight, and he’d put in a good word for me with the sympathetic owner. Hank hadn’t been keen on hiring someone without a green card, but he’d taken pity on me because I was a veteran.
“Ain’t right for a man who’s been shot at for his country to be screwed by it,” he’d said.
I agreed, even if we seemed to be in the minority.
“I can do this,” I murmured to the steering wheel. “This has happened before, and I got through it, and I’ll get through it again.” It always felt like more than I could handle, but I got through it. Every time.
Thank God it was a weekday. Fridays and Saturdays, the club would be packed and the music would be loud and the lights would be flashing so much that just thinking about it made me break out in a cold sweat. On a Wednesday, it would be more like a normal bar—fairly quiet with people just hanging out and drinking, maybe shooting some pool or dancing. I’d gotten used to the crack of pool balls. It was a distinctive sound, and over time, I’d convinced my fucked-up psyche to tune it out. Now if I could just do the same thing with slamming doors or someone dropping a heavy box, maybe I could get through a shift without losing my shit.
I’d go. And I’d be okay. Somehow, I’d fucking be okay.
The day had dragged as only a day packed with staff meetings could drag. It was finally over, though, and I didn’t even bother changing into civvies when I left—uniform and all, I was out of there.
I had just stepped off the quarterdeck when my phone buzzed in my pocket. For a second, I hoped it was Diego calling about seeing each other tonight—we hadn’t made plans after he’d canceled last night—but it wasn’t him. It was my ex-wife.
“Hang on,” I said, and I lowered my phone while I took the ramp the rest of the way down to the pier. Once I was landside and out of the noisy throngs of everyone else trying to leave for the night, I put the phone back to my ear. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Hey,” Angie said. “I just wanted to let you know we got an offer on the house. It’s a few grand under the asking price, but the realtor says it’s probably the best we’re going to get in this market.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled. One step closer to our married life being dissolved. “Okay. Good. Can you email the paperwork to me?”
“Already did. If it looks good as is, I’ll sign everything and submit it tomorrow.”
“Perfect.” Since I was so far away, Angie had a limited power of attorney and could sign on my behalf for anything relating to selling the house. Our lawyers and realtor had raised a few eyebrows over it, but I trusted her, and it would make things a hell of a lot easier this way. “Are we actually going to make money on the place?”
“Oh yeah. Not as much as we’d like, especially once we split it, but enough to pay for the divorce and still have enough left for down payments on new places.”
“Good. Just keep me updated, okay?”
“I will,” she said. “How are things otherwise? How is . . . what’s that town called?”
“Anchor Point. It’s nice, actually. Pretty quiet.”
“So you’re not bored?” There was a note of teasing in her voice. She knew how restless I could get in sleepy little towns.
“Not as bored as I thought I’d be, no.”
“Really?” Angie paused. “So what’s her name?”
I almost choked. “What?”
“Oh, don’t try to bullshit me.” She laughed. “Come on. Spill it.”
“Um.” I cleared my throat. “There’s no ‘she.’”
“Uh-huh. Sure there’s— Ooh. So what’s his name?”
It was my turn to laugh. “You’re good at this. And his name’s Diego. I met him a couple of weeks after I got here.”
“Yeah?” There was a bright smile in her voice. “And it’s going good?”
I couldn’t help smiling myself. “Yeah, so far.” My smile started to fall. “He’s got some hang-ups with the military, though. Didn’t even want to go out with me at first.”
“What kind of hang-ups?”
“I’m still kind of getting that out of him. When he’s ready to tell me, he will. For right now, I’m trying to be . . . cautiously optimistic, I guess? Like it’s a good sign that he’s still seeing me?”
“Or he’s really enjoying the sex.”
Heat rushed into my face, and I glanced around as if one of the Sailors nearby might’ve overheard.
Angie giggled. “I can hear you blushing, you know.”
“Of course you can,” I grumbled.
Another laugh. “Seriously, though—maybe he just wants to get laid and move on.”
I tried not to be disappointed at that thought. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, I’m enjoying it too, so there’s that.”
“Well, see how it goes,” she said. “And maybe, I don’t know, talk to him if you’re not sure?”
“Yeah, after I bench press the ship, right?”
She laughed. “Oh, come on. You’re not that bad at communicating. Not anymore.” A few months ago, there would have been some venom behind the words, but her voice was light and warm. We had gotten better at communicating, after all. Both of us. Now I just had to apply that to Diego somehow.
I cleared my throat. “What about you? Met anyone yet?”
“Meh. I’ve been trolling around on Tinder, but apparently the only thing that’s good for is amassing a collection of dick pics.”
I snorted. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. And guys really don’t appreciate it when you message them back with advice on how to angle the camera or use lighting to at least give the illusion of some size.”
I laughed again. “If it were anyone else, I’d ask if you really did that, but knowing you . . .”
She giggled wickedly.
We chatted for a few more minutes before she said, “Okay, I’ll let you go.”
“All right. Take care. I’ll look over that paperwork as soon as I can.”
“Perfect. Good night, Mark.”
“Good night.”
After we hung up, I stared at the darkened screen of my phone. It still blew my mind that we’d managed to end things this peacefully. In fact, from the moment she’d dropped the divorce hammer, all the conflict between us had seemed to evaporate. Sure we were both bitter about things, and we’d both done things we couldn’t come back from, but the divorce petition had been like a cease-fire. Now that we weren’t fighting to keep our marriage from collapsing, we weren’t fighting at all.
On one hand, we should have done this years ago. It would’ve saved us both a lot of heartache and wasted time. On the other, if we’d gone our separate ways back then, we’d have hated each other. By the time we’d finally separated, we’d matured, and we’d also exhausted ourselves, and neither of us had had any fight left at all. The discussions about dividing things up and selling the house had been civil. Those conversations had been the calmest parts of my life over the last few months, and when all was said and done, we’d buried the hatchet enough to be friends.
It was probably a better outcome than either of us deserved, given how terrible we’d been to each other during certain periods of our marriage, but I was grateful for it.
Phone in my pocket, I continued down the pier toward the parking lot. I hurried home from the base, stripped out of my uniform, and showered. Then I left again, stopping at a burger joint some guys at work had recommended, and picked up a takeout order.
When I walked into the High-&-Tight, it only took a second to find Diego, and the instant I laid eyes on him, all my thoughts about the house and the divorce were gone.
His face lit up when he saw me. When he saw the bag in my hand, I thought I could hear his mouth start watering.
“Hey,” I said when I was close enough to be heard. “You have a break coming up?”
He glanced at the bag, then at me. “Yeah. I . . .” He looked around. “Let me check with my boss. I can probably take off for a few.”
Just as I’d hoped, his boss let him slip out. We went into the bar’s back room, which was half storage and half break room.
“Oh, man, that smells great.” Diego peered into one of the bags. “Is that a bacon cheeseburger?”
“No.” I pulled one out and handed it to him. “It’s two bacon cheeseburgers.”
He laughed softly as he took one of them, and I sat down with the other. We didn’t talk much while we ate, which normally didn’t bother me. He wasn’t just quiet, though. He seemed . . . distant. And kind of edgy. If he wadded the burger wrapper any tighter in his hand, he was going to turn it into a diamond.
What the hell was going on?
“Maybe,” Angie had said, “I don’t know, talk to him if you’re not sure?”
Okay, so she hadn’t been talking about this exact scenario, but the advice worked here. I wasn’t going to figure Diego out just by watching him.
I washed down a bite with my soda and ignored my sudden nerves. “You okay tonight?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Diego waved a hand. “I’m good. Why?”
“I don’t know. You just seem kind of . . . tense?”
He chewed his lip, staring down at the wrapper he was compr
essing. His hand loosened, tightened, loosened again. Then he shook his head. “I’m good. It’s . . . just been a long day.”
Why did that sound like an understatement? And if he was understating it, then maybe that meant he didn’t want to talk about it. I was concerned, but I didn’t want to be pushy. Finally, I settled on, “How’s your knee?”
He cut his eyes toward me, and weirdly, his posture relaxed. Like he was relieved by the change of subject. “It’s good. Better.” He extended his leg, then bent it again, as if to prove it. When he met my gaze again, a smile—a shyer one than I was used to seeing on him—came to life. “I can move it enough to do everything I need to do tonight.” He followed it with a playful wink.
I grinned back, but it felt kind of . . . weird. “Are you sure you’re game for tonight?”
“Yeah.” He tensed. “Why wouldn’t I be? I told you, the knee’s fine.” He bent and straightened it again.
“I know, but . . .” But something doesn’t feel right. “You said yourself you’ve had a long day. We can always take it easy tonight.”
His forehead creased. “You don’t want to fool around?”
“I didn’t say that.” I put my hand on his thigh. “I just want to make sure you want to.”
Diego held my gaze for a moment, and when he smiled this time, it seemed more sincere. He covered my hand with his and leaned in a little closer. “Don’t worry about it. If I don’t want to, you’ll know. Promise.” He kissed me lightly, then scowled at the clock on the wall. “Damn. I should get back to work.”
Disappointment mingled with uneasiness in my chest. “Already?” I glanced at the clock. We’d been here almost half an hour. “Wow. Time flies.”
“Yeah, it does.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Did you want to meet up tonight? After my shift?”
“You tell me.”
“Of course.” He touched my face and moved in for another light kiss. “After the day I’ve had? You’re exactly what I need.”
That settled some of my nerves. He’d sounded like he meant it, and even though his eyes were tired, they gleamed with lust.