by Lizzy Ford
“Fuck the food here,” he grunts.
I smile. What tastes like shit to those stationed on bigger bases is gourmet compared to what we eat on operations and at the FOB.
“How’s life?” he asks gruffly.
I know what he’s asking. Even less of a warm, fuzzy type than I am, Colonel Howard rarely talks about anything aside from missions and duty.
“Maintaining mission readiness and taking care of the personal thing,” I reply.
“Good. Dr. Gomez seems satisfied with your progress.”
“It helps being able to stay active in command.”
“She says the same. Routine and discipline make for a quiet mind.”
“They do, sir.”
“Whatever it takes to keep you out there. You make my life easier,” he says with a rare smile. “You’re always on target and ahead of schedule. Doesn’t hurt that you can string a sentence together with proper grammar. I’m not embarrassed to send out your reports like those from some of my captains. Can’t ask for more.”
I snort. “Thank you, sir.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen. Package, Captain Mathis.”
I glance up at the Army specialist holding a few boxes in his arms. He sets them down on the desk nearest the door.
“Santa’s late this year,” Colonel Howard says. “Give that shit to Marines, and we’ll make sure it’s on time with a pretty fucking bow.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” The specialist tosses me a small box.
I catch it, not recognizing the return address. “Why the fuck does it take so long to get here?” The postmark is four weeks ago. I set it on the table and return my attention to the boss.
“Because you’re in the middle of nowhere,” Colonel Howard replies. “Too small to be cookies.”
“Yeah.” I glance at it again, not sure who would’ve sent me anything. I keep in contact with one of my foster families and the widow of the Marine who mentored me when I was a teenager. No one else, outside of military channels, sends me boxes. “Thanks, Smith.”
The specialist gathers his boxes and leaves.
“Dr. Gomez recommended a couple weeks off at some point,” Colonel Howard continues.
“Staffing is low over the holidays,” I reply. “I can wait, sir.”
“Don’t wait too long, or I’ll have to order you to take it.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Last convoy to Baghdad leaves in two hours, if you change your mind.” He rises. “Happy holidays, Marine.” He claps me on the shoulder.
“You, too, sir.”
I wait until he’s gone to pick up the box again. I’m not exactly excited about the idea of taking time off. Dr. Gomez has been telling me I should for a month. Guess she got tired of me brushing her off and went to my boss.
Damn civilians. I pull the knife on my belt out of its sheath and slice the tape on the box. Not sure what to expect, I replace the blade and open the package. A ring-sized jewelry box is inside, and my brow furrows. Did someone send me the wrong thing? Sometimes, we get care packages shipped to us by charity or volunteer organizations Stateside that collect donations and send everything from candy to socks to deployed service members.
Every once in a while, one of us will get something odd, possibly shipped by mistake.
I’m convinced this is the case, until I open the box.
For a moment, I stare at the golden Ruptured Duck nestled in the black velvet interior. There are only two people in the world who know the significance of this little pin to me, and one of them is deceased.
It doesn’t seem likely that Katya sent this, not after the exchange of letters we had weeks ago. It seems even less likely that a dead man sent it, though.
I pluck it out of the box and study it. The one given to me ten years ago was beat up and worn with a colorful patina, an heirloom in every sense. This one is in mint condition, polished to a soft shine. I’m not a collector by any means, but I can assess that finding a flawless, nearly one hundred year old gold Ruptured Duck probably wasn’t cheap.
Its light weight is familiar. I missed my good luck charm. My mentor gave it to me as a reminder for me to stay on the straight and narrow. I was not happy with myself for losing it. I always treasured it for what it symbolized – selfless, honorable, brave service. I understand the concepts better now after losing men and having my own command for close to a year. I think, somehow, it means more to me now than it did before that night that changed my life in so many ways.
There’s only one person I know capable of the level of thoughtfulness it’d take to track one of these down and pay what I would consider to be a small fortune to buy it. Katya is many things; superficial will never be one. Even if I want to deny it’s her, I’ll always know it is.
Don’t let her get to you.
It’s too late. My insides are already growing warm, the hot emotions I feel any time I think of her trickling into my thoughts. In a blink, she takes away the quietness in my mind.
“Fuck, Katya.” I can’t help saying the words aloud. The tiny gift stirs me in ways I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get over. It’s not only what I feel for her but the newfound appreciation I have for those men like her brother, who didn’t even flinch when he volunteered to sacrifice himself for others.
This pin represents everything I’ve learned and gone through since that night.
Katya has a way of provoking emotions when I want to be numb. I set the golden duck on the desk.
There’s still something there between us, something more than the emotions both of us feel surrounding Mikael’s death. I don’t know what it is or how deep it might run, but it’s not going away. Neither is it to the point where I can determine if and what either of us actually feels towards one another. It’s like walking blind folded into enemy territory without knowing how many weapons are trained on me.
This can’t be healthy.
I have no fucking idea what to do about it. Usually, staying away solves problems. It’s not working this time. With no operations planned for the holidays, I’m not certain how I’ll be able sit here for two weeks and not think about her.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and glare at the Ruptured Duck.
There’s no way to know what Katya intended when she sent it, if she meant this as a something more than friendship.
Shit, we aren’t even friends. We aren’t anything that I know of.
She knows what this means to me.
I close the box and absently reach for the dog tags around my neck. I’ve got Mikael’s with me still. I intended to give them to Riley or one of the others before they left.
I didn’t. I’m not sure why. It’s not like me to forget something that important.
Katya should have them.
Five minutes after receiving her gift, and I’m spiraling into an emotional firefight that I absolutely hate. I can’t not know what’s between us after this, and it’s clear that, four months after I last saw her, I’m no closer to getting her out of my head than I was at camp.
There’s a completely innocuous excuse for me to find out – the Christmas party the Khavs throw every year. Petr wouldn’t turn me down, if I showed up on his doorstep. It’s not the way we do things in spec-ops. Our team is our family. I can go, realize I’m not interested in her but have been obsessing over the unknown or a memory or regret or other emotions associated with her bother, and then leave.
“How do you do this to me, Katya?” I growl. “Halfway across the world, and I can’t fucking think straight.”
I will fix that. Somehow. I’m going to go crazy if I don’t just end this. I definitely can’t spend months, years, wondering what could be between us.
With a sigh, I send Petr a quick email, snatch the duck and trot through the compound to tell Colonel Howard that I need a few days off after all.
***
Forty hours, six flights, an eight-hour snow delay and a three-hour wait for my luggage later, I’m finally walking out of
the Logan International Airport in Boston. By now, I’m tired enough to be thinking two completely opposite trains of thought: first, that this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done and I need to go back to Iraq. And second, I’m not getting on another fucking plane again. Ever.
The chilly night air is flecked with white snow. I’d forgotten what snow and winter were like. After being away so long, it’s almost pleasant. The night is quiet, aside from the crunch of tires on snow from the cars picking up passengers outside of baggage claim. I’m in my fatigues, which offer some protection from the gusts of wind. The pickup area is well lit with taxis and hotel shuttles waiting, their exhaust curling into the air behind them.
As soon as I touched down in Boston, I messaged the team. Petr wouldn’t hear of me catching a cab and volunteered to make the hour long drive to get me. It’s nearly two in the morning, and I’m feeling the travel.
Ten minutes pass before Petr’s black, top of the line Range Rover slides up to the curb. He pops the hatch, and I lift my bags into the trunk before getting into the passenger’s seat. Petr grins, his strong features awake and alert.
“Sawyer Mathis!” He sounds much more cheerful than I could ever muster, let alone after the two days of traveling. “How you doing?”
“Hungry,” I respond.
“You’re in luck. I brought food.” He stretches to reach the backseat to retrieve a plate wrapped in tinfoil. “I grabbed shit on the way out. Not sure what’s there.”
I accept it, not caring what’s under the foil, so long as it’s not moving. Right now, I’d probably eat it even if it was. There’s a cold cheeseburger, egg rolls, what might be chicken nuggets and cookies.
“Awesome,” I say and dig in, taking a huge bite out of the cheeseburger.
“Good trip?”
I shrug.
“Yeah usually sucks.” He’s smiling, chipper enough that I’d be annoyed, if he was anyone else. Petr has a way of putting people around him at ease. I never could pinpoint what exactly it is about him that does it, but it works, even on someone as tightly wound as I am.
I wolf down everything and then take a bite of a cookie and freeze.
Petr laughs hard.
Setting the cookie down, I dig a bottle of water out of my bag. I swallow and drink then glare at him.
“How does your sister not know how to make cookies?” I grumble.
“I’ll never understand it either.”
Removing my cap, I set it on my lap and rest my head back. There’s a knot in my stomach that has nothing to do with eating too fast and everything to do with the woman who can’t cook. I’m not certain what to expect: either I’ll see her and realize I was somehow romanticizing everything or I’ll realize there’s something between us that won’t go away.
For once, I’m not planning either way. I’m going to wait to see, because there’s one element of this that’s absolutely beyond my control: her.
I’m going to enjoy the first recreational leave I’ve taken since joining the Corps five years ago. From the texts Riley sent me tonight, there’s tons of food, alcohol and people around, so I’m pretty sure I can relax in the Khavalov mansion and let things unfold.
It’ll be nice to take a break for once.
“I’m surprised you came,” Petr says. “Thrilled but surprised.”
“Colonel Howard was about to order me on leave,” I reply vaguely. It’s mostly the truth. I’m not going to tell him about the gift his sister sent, not until I can determine her intentions.
“Baba will be happy to see you. He always asks how you are.”
“You have a great family.” Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and relax. The car is so quiet and warm that I know I’ll be dozing by the time we get back. “How is he? Healthy?”
“Strong as an ox, as always.”
“Good.”
“Harper’s supposed to be by on Sunday.” The way he says it makes me think one of the guys told him about the casual relationship I have with her.
“Everyone will be back together again,” I say.
There’s a pause, then, “Is it serious?”
“No. We both needed the companionship.”
“She on board with that?”
“Yeah.”
He’s quiet again. I’m not sure what he’s looking for. He likes Harper; we all do. Maybe that’s why. He’s worried about there being hurt feelings or a nasty break that will interfere with our missions.
“It won’t affect the team,” I assure him. “It’s sort of petered off the past month when she got transfer orders to Germany. Nice girl. Just not looking for anything serious. She’ll be out of Iraq by mid-January.”
“Understood.”
Petr is quiet long enough for me to start drifting off. I can’t quite get the drone of the aircraft out of my mind.
“You didn’t ask about Katya,” he says in an even tone.
My jaw clenches. Hearing her name reminds me of how crazy it was to leave Iraq on a whim like this.
“How is she?” I respond.
“Great. She’s been managing the charity organization my dad set up. She’s loving it.”
“Seeing anyone?” Fuck. Why did I ask?
“Not seriously. There’s a guy. Too boring for her.”
My heart somersaults. I start to think I need to focus on drinking and relaxing and not her.
“He’s not an issue, if you’re interested,” Petr adds.
“Your sister and I are not on best terms,” I reply.
“Shame. You were good for her.”
I say nothing, not wanting to read anything into his words. At all. Ever. I’m too tired for an emotional rollercoaster.
“You, uh, have any advice for dealing with her?”
I lift my head and open my eyes, looking at him to see if he’s joking. I spent a few days with her, and he’s lived with her for a lifetime.
He’s serious.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I’m trying to figure out how to put up some boundaries before she drives me fucking insane.”
“I understand.” I want to laugh but don’t.
He shakes his head.
“You want my advice? Sit down and tell her. Be direct, firm and consistent. Don’t let her lay any mines,” I respond. “If you give her the chance to set the stage, she’ll walk all over you, and you’ll let her. You’re a doormat with women.”
“She says the same, and yeah, she does that all the time.”
“Wait until she’s tired or something,” I advise with a laugh. “She’ll listen if you’re upfront and honest. It’s the approach I took with her.”
“She listened to you. I want to figure it out before I tell her my news.”
“Riley says they’ll let you stay in?”
“Won’t be going back to my group,” he says. “I’ll be working as a spokesman. Recruiting in inner cities and shit.”
“Right up your alley. You’re great with people. We all miss your stories.”
“I was a little disappointed,” he admits. “I understand you can’t send a one-legged Green Beret into combat. I get to stay in the military and do something worthwhile. This is a happy medium, I think, until I tell Katya I’ll be recruiting for the war effort.”
“You may be surprised,” I say quietly. “Katya loves you. Even if she doesn’t agree with the war, she knows people like you fight it.”
“True.”
I settle back and close my eyes.
I don’t notice that I doze off, until the car comes to a stop. Rousing myself, I take in their home. It’s a legitimate castle, a mansion made of stone. I’ve seen it once before, but I still find myself mystified why someone who lives here would be in the military when he had a clean, solid out.
We get out of the car. The house is quiet and dark, and he takes me in the back. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised to see a kitchen staff already at work in the large space. People who own a house like this don’t cook their own food.
P
robably why Katya’s cookies are so awful.
We go up a service stairwell to the third floor. Wide hallways are well lit, the thick planks of wood flooring covered by a plush runner. Wrought iron chandeliers hang far overhead from wooden beams.
The interior is how I imagine a ski lodge. This kind of wealth is so beyond me …
I shake my head. It’s a mistake to be here. There’s no way Katya could be interested in someone like me.
The fleeting thought doesn’t stick.
Petr stops and points to the room across the hallway. “My room. Katya’s is one down.”
I glance the direction he indicates, my heart quickening. It’s almost four in the morning. I’m not about to knock and wake the dragon.
Petr opens the door to a chamber much larger than any I’ve stayed in. The massive sleigh bed faces a cozy living room with its own burning hearth. Large windows overlook the back lawn. The furniture is heavy wood, the rug deep blue and the trophy case opposite the door filled with everything from red ribbons to military mementos.
My gaze settles on the hearth once more. I love a fire and have never lived anywhere with one. The triangular, wooden case holding a flag above the hearth makes me pause three steps into the comfortable room.
“Petr, are you sure?” I ask, surprised. “This is Mikael’s room.”
“It’s yours for however long you want to stay.” His back is to me. He’s crossing the room to lower the drapes on either side of the windows.
There’s a sudden lump in my throat. I’m not usually at a loss for words like this. The meaning behind letting me stay here runs soul deep.
“Baba and I talked about it,” he says, glancing at me. “It only seemed right.”
“It’s an honor,” I manage. “Really.”
“I owe you everything. The least we can do is give you a place to stay whenever you come back to the States.”
I’m so accustomed to being alone, to having nowhere but my rack in whatever country the Corps sends me to, to a childhood where I was moved around every year at least …
The idea of having a real home, one I can always return to, isn’t one I can really digest after the long day.
But I like the idea. A lot.