Once Burned

by L. A. Witt

  After some more small talk and handshakes, though, Hawthorne and his wife continued mingling, and we returned to our table. I tried to relax, but I couldn’t shake off the weirdness of the conversation.

  I glanced at the CO’s back as I said to Mark, “I have a question.”

  “Hmm?”

  I turned to him. “Why did he act so weird when I said was from Mexico?”

  Mark’s lips thinned, and he put his arm around my waist, a gesture that felt oddly protective. “I was asking him a while ago about, um, Sailors in your situation. Getting discharged without citizenship. I think he just figured out why I was asking.”

  My blood turned cold, and I straightened. “Is he going to report me? Mark, he’s—”

  “Relax.” Mark slid his hand up my back and squeezed my shoulder. “He’s way too political for that, and he knows it wouldn’t look good if he was responsible for a vet getting deported.”

  “Not even someone like me?”

  “No.” He held me closer to him. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. I couldn’t relax, knowing someone in this room knew my status, and the more I thought about it, the more anger boiled inside me. It didn’t even help to tell myself that Mark might very well have been right about Hawthorne. I’d spent enough time around motivated brass to know what he meant when he said the guy was political. At this stage in his career, Hawthorne’s image was crucial. He’d get all kinds of accolades for getting a hundred people like me deported, but deliberately getting a combat veteran kicked out of the country would be political suicide. That kind of shit outraged people. Not enough to actually do anything about it besides a few Facebook memes and strongly worded tweets, but they definitely didn’t like it.

  Something sharp and painful dug in behind my ribs. I’d served my country—it was my country—and the only thing keeping a decorated officer from reporting my ass to the authorities was the damage it could do to his image. If he could get away with it, he’d probably be on the phone right now, having me and half the waitstaff unceremoniously escorted off the premises and out of the country.

  And he knew about me because Mark had told him.

  I glanced sideways at Mark.

  You told him about me. How could you?

  I tried to tell myself Mark couldn’t possibly understand what a betrayal that was, how vulnerable it made me, but it didn’t do a thing to cool the hurt and anger rising in my chest. I thought he’d understood how terrifying it was to live like this. I thought he got it. But now this. Fuck.

  Someone made an announcement that dinner was about to be served, which jarred me out of my train of thought.

  “Ready to eat?” Mark asked.

  Not particularly, no.

  But . . . fine. We’d have dinner. We’d get through the evening. And afterward, when there was no one around to overhear, we’d talk about this.

  “Sure.” I forced a smile. Mark and I joined the CO, his wife, and a few other high-ranking officers and their wives at a table. I regarded Hawthorne warily, but didn’t say anything. Mark trusted the guy—or at least his political ambitions—so I told myself over and over the captain wouldn’t actually do or say anything. Still, I was a lot less comfortable than I’d been when we’d gotten here.

  It only got worse as dinner started. While everyone at the table chatted, I looked around the room, and that painful thing dug even harder into my chest.

  And I realized what it was—this was what I’d wanted. What I’d worked for. A uniform full of ribbons. Sleeves with stripes to commemorate years of service and chevrons showing I’d moved up the ranks. All the pomp and circumstance and ceremony.

  I scanned the room, my heart dropping deeper into the pit of my stomach. Aside from what I assumed were some civilian contractors, everyone here was either military or married to it. The whole spectrum of a Navy career was on display. There were E-3s and E-4s who still looked optimistic and unscathed. The kids with their entire careers laid out in front of them. There were commanders and captains like Mark. People early in their careers, people on the verge of retirement—everyone.

  Some had spouses or partners on their elbows, so it wasn’t like everyone in the room was in uniform, but I felt conspicuous in my suit. Without the stiff material or a row of medals to fuss with. The only evidence left of my career was the pair of shiny black shoes I wore—the one piece of my dress uniform I could still wear. The rest was gone.

  I swallowed past a lump in my throat. I was at a Navy function, and someone had mistaken me for a waiter. Worse, while everyone else only had to worry about keeping food off their uniforms and not drunkenly saying something stupid in front of a superior, I had to worry about someone tipping off ICE. Either because they thought I worked here or because they’d figured out—thanks to my fucking boyfriend—that in the eyes of the law, I wasn’t supposed to be here.

  I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to be here. My knee throbbed. So did my head. It was like being in a room with someone I didn’t want to even lay eyes on, except every single person was that someone. A lot of people didn’t get it when I said the Navy was like an ex-spouse I couldn’t escape, but it was true. I’d given it eight years, and when it decided I wasn’t good enough and kicked me out, it had taken everything. Left me with nothing.

  Coming to this party had been like running into an ex with his new lover. Not someone like Dalton who I loved and adored and wanted to be happy. Seeing him with Chris was sweet, and I was glad they had each other.

  The Navy, though. Fuck. All those people wearing ribbons and insignia I should have had.

  I didn’t want to think about it, but I couldn’t stop myself. Fact was, if things had been different, I’d have been an officer by now. Commander at least. Maybe captain, but it was hard to say.

  It didn’t matter, though. I hadn’t stayed in long enough to go to Officer Candidate School. Or hell, even finish my degree. I’d had to put that on hold so I could go to combat. Then on hold again while I’d been on my second tour. I hadn’t been able to pick it up while I’d been recovering, and I’d been too busy healing to even think about my naturalization paperwork, especially since I’d taken for granted that I’d be reenlisting. I’d had no reason to believe that reenlistment was off the table until it was too late. Until all of it was gone.

  Until I had . . . nothing.

  These people had—and undoubtedly took for granted—the career and the education I’d been working my ass off to have. Some of these people probably hadn’t even been seaman recruits or ensigns back when the Navy had washed its hands of me.

  There was a senior chief at another table with red stripes and chevrons instead of gold. From the stripes on his sleeves, he’d been in at least twenty years, but he still had red stripes.

  So this was someone who had fucked up. Probably gone to Captain’s Mast at some point. Maybe even lost rank along the way. He’d done something, somewhere, and it was enough to keep his stripes red instead of turning gold after twelve consecutive years of good conduct.

  He’d fucked up, and he’d still made senior chief, and he’d be able to retire with full benefits whenever the fuck he felt like it because he was already past twenty. He might even make it to thirty. He might even make master chief.

  The really shitty part? If he’d been in that long, he’d been in when PTS was in effect. Which meant his career had survived the program that had caused the Navy to show me the door.

  What did the computers see in you, and why didn’t they see it in me?

  A lump rose in my throat, and I had to take a deep swallow of my drink just to tamp it down. That senior chief had done something to warrant red stripes, but he still had stripes to wear. I’d busted my ass, done everything I was supposed to do, and even volunteered for two fucking combat tours because everyone told me it would be good for my career. Now Senior Chief Red Stripes was sipping a high-ball in dress blues while I had a fucked-up brai
n, a fucked-up knee, and a fucking good shot at being deported if the wrong person noticed me.

  Or if someone at my own damn table noticed me. Because someone here knew. Because Mark had told him.

  I let my gaze slide toward Mark, and for the first time, the sight of him hurt. It wasn’t just an ache in my chest either. Every scar itched, and my knee throbbed, and my head thumped from too many thoughts trying to crowd their way in. Mark was sexy as fuck in that uniform, but that wasn’t why I wanted to tear it off him right then. I wanted it gone so he wasn’t Navy anymore. So I could look at him and see the man I was in love with, not all the reasons why my life had gone to shit.

  But taking his dress blues off wouldn’t matter. Yeah, I could have him naked or in civvies for a while, but come Monday, he’d be in uniform again.

  And even if he wasn’t in uniform, could I trust him now? Could I even fucking look at him?

  Maybe.

  But not tonight.

  I pushed back from the table. “I need to go.”

  “What?” Mark straightened. “Why?”

  I didn’t answer.

  I just got up, walked out of the ballroom, and kept right on walking.

  “Diego, wait!” I called after him.

  He spun around, and the tears in his eyes stunned me.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as I caught up. “What’s—”

  “I can’t do this, okay?”

  “Do what?”

  He clenched his jaw and swiped at his eyes. “Look, I tried, all right? I really thought I could handle this. But everything in there?” He pointed sharply at the room. “All of this?” He made a sweeping gesture at my uniform, his lip curling with disgust like he couldn’t remember telling me two hours ago how badly he wanted to fuck me in this. “This is what I wanted, Mark. It’s all I wanted. Everyone in that room has it, and what do I have? Not a goddamned thing.”

  I stared at him, too stunned to speak for a few seconds before I managed, “Then we can go. Let me get my jacket, and we’ll—”

  “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I’ll go.”

  “But we—”

  “Mark.” He pressed his lips together and pushed his shoulders back, but he avoided my eyes. “And it’s not just the fucking Navy, okay? It’s you.”

  My knees almost wobbled out from under me. “What?”

  He looked at—no, glared at me, and his voice was even shakier as he said, “How could you tell your CO about me?”

  “I didn’t tell him it was you! I—”

  “Oh, yeah. That makes a huge difference.” He rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw. “Don’t you get it? He can put two and two together, and if he does, I’m fucked. I trusted you, Mark. I didn’t think I had to spell out that you can’t fucking broadcast my—” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “It’s not something you can just throw out in a conversation. Not with people getting deported left and right.”

  “I’m . . .” I exhaled. “Jesus, Diego. I’m sorry.” Showing my palms, I added, “You’re right. At the time, I didn’t think you’d ever meet him, because you didn’t want to come to military functions, so it didn’t seem—”

  “And look at us now,” he growled. “But it doesn’t fucking matter. There’s someone in there”—he gestured sharply at the ballroom we’d abandoned—“who knows what I am, and even if he didn’t, I can’t stay here. I can’t . . . I can’t fucking do this, Mark. Whether either of us like it or not, being with you means being with all this shit.” He cleared his throat. “Being with you means constantly being around reminders of what I had taken away from me, all because I had the audacity to get hurt doing my job in a fucking war zone. Now I can’t even live here legally.” He paused, pulling in a deep breath through his nose. “I did everything and gave everything so I could have the career that you and everyone else in there have. Now I’m somebody who gets mistaken for a waiter and probably would get picked up if ICE did a raid. And since someone in there knows what I am . . .”

  I had no idea how to respond. Nothing he’d said was wrong. Well, it was wrong, but factually incorrect? No. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to change it. He was scared. He was hurt. He was angry.

  And there was nothing I could do.

  Before I could come up with a response, he stepped back. “I can’t do this. It’s just too much.”

  My heart fell into my feet. “What . . . what can I do? There’s—”

  “There’s nothing you can do.” He sounded exhausted. Like a man who’d been treading water in rough seas for so long, he had no fight left in him. Tone wavering and heavy, he said, “You’re Navy. I knew that from the beginning, and I thought I could handle it. I thought—” His voice nearly broke, and he cleared his throat. “Give me one good reason why I should spend another fucking minute around all of that.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of the party. “Especially when your fucking CO knows about me.”

  “I told you—we can go.” I put up my hands. “We don’t have to stay here. Just . . . I don’t want to lose you.”

  He sighed, shaking his head again. “I’m sorry. I need—”

  “I love you, Diego.”

  He flinched and looked away.

  “I mean it,” I said. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it, or when, and I—”

  “Don’t.” He faced me again, and the shine of tears in his eyes hit me hard. “What do you want me to do? Even if I could ignore the fact that you told someone about me, the military is . . . it’s too . . . Look, I almost got fucking killed for a country that will kick me out the second they realize I’m here illegally. Why would I want to be surrounded by people wearing the same uniform I wish I was still wearing? And the same uniform as the people who said I wasn’t good enough while I was still recovering from a fucking explosion?” A tear slid free, and as he sharply wiped it away, he muttered something in Spanish.

  I cleared my throat. “I don’t even know what to say. I’m . . . God, I’m so sorry, Diego.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “That part isn’t your fault. But I just . . . I can’t.” He swallowed, and after a moment, he whispered again, “I’m sorry.”

  And then he turned to go.

  He didn’t stop this time.

  Jaw hanging open, stomach churning, I stared at his back as he strode down the hall. Jittery panic shot through me as he neared the door, but what could I say? I wasn’t going to physically block him from leaving, especially if it hurt him this much to be here. To be with me after I’d inadvertently—but unmistakably—betrayed his trust.

  The door shut behind him. I couldn’t hear his footsteps, and suddenly it was like he’d never been here at all. Like I’d been standing out in this hallway alone, and the last few weeks of falling in love with him had all been in my head.

  Except he had been here, and those weeks had happened, and . . . Fuck.

  What do I do? What can I do?

  Nothing. I couldn’t go after him. I couldn’t go back to the party that had salted his wounds. I couldn’t fucking move.

  Because Diego was gone.

  I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t do much of anything the next day. Had I been this shell-shocked and lost after Angie had dropped our divorce papers? Christ, no. I vaguely remembered getting choked up when I’d realized what they were, but it had been more relief than sadness. It had been like being handed a cease-fire after fighting for too damn long.

  Last night had come out of nowhere.

  Except . . . it hadn’t.

  Sitting back in my La-Z-Boy, feeling anything but relaxed in the comfortable chair, I swore into the silence of my empty living room. I was too restless, and I desperately needed some air, so I went outside. I leaned on the deck and stared out at the ocean. The Pacific was rough today, with whitecaps dotting the gray water from the shallows all the way to the horizon. A thick blanket of clouds halfheartedly dropped some misty rain. This was what everyone had told me to expect when I came to this part of t
he country, especially this time of year, and yeah, it was depressing as hell. Kind of fitting for my mood. A bright, sunny afternoon would almost be insulting at this point.

  The cold, salty air was pleasant, but it didn’t make me feel any better. As I stood there and let the mist settle on the back of my neck while the wind played in my hair, my mind kept going back to last night.

  I should’ve let him tear off my uniform and take me to bed. Yeah, it would’ve been bad form to miss the party, and Monday might’ve been a little awkward at work, but I’d still have Diego.

  But . . . for how long?

  My heart fell. It had only been a matter of time. Sooner or later, he’d have realized Hawthorne knew about him. Even if that hadn’t been an issue, there was still the Navy. If the Navy was that big of a sticking point for him, we could only avoid it for so long. If it hadn’t been last night, it would’ve been . . . well, sometime in the future when I was even more attached to him. When watching him leave would have hurt that much more.

  This couldn’t be how it ended, though. Maybe he’d slept on it, and now I could properly apologize and we could adjust some boundaries a little, and—

  That would explain why he hadn’t called.

  My heart sank even deeper into the pit of my stomach. If things were okay, or at least not as bad as they’d seemed last night, he’d have called. Right? Unless he really was that angry. Which . . . fuck. Could I blame him?

  Fuck. I needed to talk to him. Now that we’d both had a chance to clear our heads and get some distance between us and last night, we needed to talk. If he was still firm and this was still over, then . . . then I’d figure out how to deal with it. But first I needed to know.