“Sorry.”
“You know if it’s a boy or girl yet?”
I shake my head. “No. We’re letting it be a surprise.”
“Gotcha.”
There’s a radio suspended from underneath a cabinet beside the stove. It’s always on, the volume turned low, tuned to the local country station. I always thought I hated country music, but it’s just a part of life here somehow. I don’t even think about it. It’s just there, background noise. Sometimes I’ll find myself humming along to a song, but usually I hardly notice it. Now, though, the end of a Dierks Bentley song fades out, static crackles, and then the fiddles start. The guitar joins. Tim McGraw’s voice fills the kitchen, singing “Where The Green Grass Grows,” and my head spins. Suddenly, I’m in the Humvee again, Barrett’s beside me, chewing me out for humming the song. Blink, breathe, hands on my knees. Try to block it out.
Nope.
I can hear the whoosh-BOOM of the RPG that takes out the first truck, and I’m hyperventilating.
Dizzy.
I hit the floor, gasping for breath. Hunter is talking to me, but all I can see is Reagan pushing through the back screen door, falling to her knees beside me, cradling my head in her lap. Whispering something to me. It’s just buzzing at first, but it evolves into her voice, telling me it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s not real, I’m okay….
Finally, everything settles back to normal. The tight ache in my chest fades, and my breathing slows. I struggle up to my feet. I grab my cane from beside the door and push past everyone. “And that, people, is why I’m worried about being a father.”
After a while, Reagan finds me out at the pond. “I’m not worried, you know.”
“You should be.”
She sits behind me, rests her cheek on my back. “But I’m not. Flashbacks, panic attacks? They don’t make you unfit to be a father.”
“What if that had happened while I’d been holding Emma? I’d have dropped her. What if it happens when I’m holding our child? How are you gonna explain to a kid that I freak out for no reason? I’ve woken Tommy up more than once already.”
“It’s not for no reason, Derek. And we’d handle that, if it came to it.” She pulls at my shoulder, and I pivot in place to face her. “I trust you. And I believe in you. Watching you with Emma? It’s making me crazy. You’re so fucking hot and adorable and sweet, it makes me crazy. You’ll be an amazing father, Derek. You just have to trust me, and trust yourself. I wasn’t ready to be a mother when I had Tommy. I had no idea what I was doing. And I did it alone. I had to figure it all out by myself. I thought for sure I’d screw him up. But, the thing is, babies are simple. Not easy, but simple. Keep them fed, keep their butts clean, and love them. That’s all they need. It’s hard raising a kid. I’m not gonna lie. You wake up a million times a night, trying to figure out what they want. You think for sure you’re fucking up somehow, because they just won’t…stop…crying. But you figure it out. You love them, hold them, feed them. And they forgive you when you mess up.” She touches my face. “And so will I.”
And goddammit, there are the emotions again, shit going haywire. But she just kisses me like it doesn’t bother her that I’m a mess, that I’m grabbing her like I’m scared I’ll lose her. She just holds me back, just as tight, and eventually we go back up and rejoin our friends.
And they understand, too.
Knowing you’ve got people in your life that can take the worst shit you’ve got and not judge you? It’s the best feeling in the world.
CHAPTER 22
REAGAN
The farm is officially up for sale. There’s an agent, a list price, a whole slew of things to do to make the house, especially, sellable. It’s overwhelming. And I still have no idea what we’re doing if it sells. When it sells. I’m trying to hold it together, trying to be tough, but it’s hard. So hard. This is all I’ve known since I was nineteen. Tom’s family has farmed this land since the eighteen hundreds, and I’m just going to sell it off like nothing?
And I have zero other skills. I’m very literally following Derek on blind faith. But I know this is the only real option. There’s no way I can keep the farm going, not for much longer anyway. Not without Derek’s help. God, he’s working his ass off getting his mobility back, learning to function with as much normality as possible. But his ribs are still stiff, and he’s spending too much time moving around, so it takes a toll on him. This just isn’t a workable life for us anymore.
And, if I look deep down inside myself, I’m tired of the farm. I’m just exhausted. I can’t do it anymore, emotionally. I need a change. But the problem is, change is damn scary.
Rania’s been helping me sort things out. She and Hunter and the kids made a return visit to give us a hand. She and I have been packing up things I don’t want to get rid of yet, but don’t know what else to do with them except pack them. We’ve been cleaning areas that probably haven’t been thoroughly cleaned in decades. Derek and Hunter are touching up the paint inside, patching holes in the plaster, pulling down wallpaper in rooms that haven’t been touched since the sixties.
A week goes by quickly. Rania and Hunter are staying in Hempstead, in a little motel, and I can tell they’re ready to go home. But god, it’s been wonderful having them around. I haven’t had a friend like Rania in…probably ever. Not since I was a little girl in Oklahoma. And Hunter has been great for Derek, kicking his ass to stay positive, pushing him physically, keeping him busy.
I wouldn’t mind moving somewhere closer to them.
It’s a Friday afternoon, and the house is so clean and empty of clutter that it’s unrecognizable. I’ve been avoiding one room, though. Tom’s room. I’m standing outside the door, a stack of Rubbermaid storage bins in my hands. Rania is beside me, holding a broom and dustpan, rags and a bottle of Pledge.
“Perhaps…maybe this is not my place, Reagan,” Rania begins, glancing at me, assessing my obvious hesitation. “Perhaps I should do this myself.”
I shake my head. “No. I have to do this.”
Taking a deep breath, I place my hand on the doorknob and push it open. A double bed along the far wall, a hand-sewn quilt. A desk beneath the window, a Mason jar full of pens, a stack of Sports Illustrated. Baseball and football posters on the wall, as well as Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition centerfolds. I shake my head at that. Boys. A bookshelf between the desk and the bed, stuffed with old science fiction novels, westerns, some Tom Clancy. I pull out Patriot Games, open the hardcover; yep, it’s Hank’s.
God, Hank. He’s been really sick lately, in and out of the hospital. Derek and I visited them the other day, and Ida and I stood outside the door, trying not to listen as Hank and Derek passed idle chatter, but eventually the conversation turned serious. To Korea, and Afghanistan. Coping with life after war.
I shake my head. I can’t think about Hank right now.
I place the book, along with the rest of the novels, in an empty storage bin. Soon the shelf is empty. All the books are old, dog-eared, read a thousand times. Most have Tom’s initials on the inside flap. Rania takes the bin full of books and wrestles it out into the hallway, and we move the shelf. I laugh, finding a stash of Playboy magazines stuffed between the wall and the bookshelf, within reach of a certain boy when he’s lying in bed. I throw them away, struggling desperately against the image of a teenaged Tom, jerking off to some model on a centerfold. I end up half-laughing, half-sobbing as I check the other spot, between the mattress and box spring. There’s more porn there, along with a flattened pack of Camel Lights and what looks like a twenty-year-old half-smoked joint. God, Tom. What a little troublemaker.
Rania stuffs the clothes from the dresser and the closet into several bags, tying them closed before I can see them. We peel the posters off the wall, strip the bed of the sheets and the quilt. The sheets get tossed; the quilt I save for Tommy. Tom’s great-great-grandmother made that several decades ago.
I’m crying by the time the room is cleaned out. The floors
are vacuumed, the bed and dresser and shelves moved and cleaned under and behind. The bins we leave at the top of the stairs for the men to move out to the barn. Finally, I stand in the doorway once more, looking into what is now just another bedroom.
“You are a strong woman, Reagan,” Rania says.
“It’s just stuff.”
Rania shakes her head. “No. Our possessions, things like what is in those bins, they are not just blankets and books. They are memories. They hold pieces of us, I think. Little pieces of our souls. So it is not easy to see them, or to feel the spirits of a lost loved one that live in those possessions.”
“You sound like you know from experience.”
“Oh, yes. Before I met Hunter, when I was little girl.” She stares off into space, thinking, remembering. “The first war was going on. My Aunt Maida, she was all the family my brother and I had left, and she was not well. She is whom my daughter is named for, just for you to know. She died. My Aunt Maida, I mean. She died, and Hassan and I were alone. She had few possessions. There was only a comb, I think. A little hand mirror, maybe? When the bomb destroyed the house, everything I owned, everything I had left of Mama and Papa and Aunt Maida and Uncle Ahmed, was all gone. Then, I was too concerned with staying alive to think about it. But now? I wish I had something of theirs. Aunt Maida’s comb. I can remember her, before Uncle Ahmed died, combing her hair. She would comb and comb and comb, until her hair shone like the night sky, black with shining stars. I wish I had that comb.” She shakes her head, clearing the memories. “It is not the same as this, I think, but it is similar.”
“I wonder where the boys are?” I ask, by way of changing the subject.
Rania shrugs. “Off somewhere, being men. Who knows? They’ll be back soon, I think.”
We go back downstairs. Tommy and Maida are watching TV, Emma sleeping in the pack and play. Rania and I take a break, because there’s really not much to do except actually sell the place, and pack up our things.
It’s past six when Hunter and Derek return.
Hunter goes immediately to Rania, kisses her. “So, babe. How would you feel about staying here with me and all three kids while Derek and Reagan get some time alone?”
Rania narrows her eyes at her husband, but reads something in his gaze, some message only the two of them can decipher. She nods and shrugs. “Okay.”
Derek takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s go for a ride.”
Something is going on. “We can’t just—”
“Sure you can.” Hunter waves his hand. “We’ll make some dinner and watch a movie. Go.”
I want to, so badly; since Hank has been sick, Derek and I haven’t had any time alone. I feel bad about wanting Derek to myself, especially as it becomes more and more clear that Hank doesn’t have much time left.
“Come on, babe,” Derek whispers in my ear. “Just an hour or two.”
“Okay,” I sigh. “Let me get cleaned up.”
Derek just pulls me by the hand, dragging me outside. “No point — we’ll just end up smelling like horse. Come on.”
I sigh again, and let him pull me to the barn. I saddle Henry; he saddles Mirabelle. Somehow, I know where we’re going: the clearing. I settle into the ride, letting Henry pick his path at a walk, enjoying the cool of the evening, Derek riding beside me, grinning at me every now and again.
He’s definitely planning something.
My heart ratchets as I try not to hope he’s planning what I think he’s planning.
Nope, nope, nope. Don’t go there. You love him, he loves you. That’s all you need. But it’s not.
So I ride, and watch his back sway as he rides. I let him lead me to the clearing, keeping my mind blank of hopes. Yet when he pulls Mirabelle to a stop in the clearing, dismounting slowly and carefully, taking the weight on his good leg and hopping for balance, I know something big is up.
There’s a huge blanket on the ground in the center of the clearing. A picnic basket. A bottle of sparkling grape juice, two goblets. There’s a camp lantern instead of candles, since this is a forest.
“Derek?” I slide off Henry. “What is this?”
“A picnic, babe.” He takes the reins from me, pickets both horses where they can graze. “Have a seat.”
I sit. He leaves the horses saddled and moves to sit beside me on the blanket. He grins at me again, and digs in the picnic basket. “This was put together by a couple of dudes, so there’s a limited spread. Some Brie and crackers, summer sausage, some fruit….” He lifts the bottle of grape juice. “And this instead of wine, since you can’t drink right now.”
It’s too soon to be emotional, right?
We eat, talk about the random things that come up. Eventually, he gives me a look that says he’s about to say something important. My heart clenches, lifts into my throat. “So.” He pours us each some more juice, scratches at the skin where his leg meets the prosthetic. “Been thinking a lot. I want to make a career of physical therapy. Do what the guys at the gym did for me. I’ve got to take some classes to get certified, but that won’t take too long.”
I shouldn’t feel let down, but I do. “That’s good, Derek. I’m glad you have a plan.”
“Well, it’s a start. My CRSC benefits give us a little wiggle room. We can’t live off it for long, but we should be okay.” He takes my hand, rubs my knuckles with his thumb. “The thing is, it’s a job I could do in a lot of different places.”
I get where he’s going with this. “You want to talk about where we’ll move if the farm sells?”
He nods. “Probably should come up with some ideas, at least.”
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. This wasn’t the conversation I thought we’d be having. “I don’t know, Derek. I’ve never lived anywhere but Oklahoma and here.”
“Well, here’s the thing: Part of the reason Hunter and Rania could spare the time to come down here again was that Hunter had an interview with the Bexar County Public Works department, managing the road crews in the San Antonio area. And I made a couple of calls myself this week. Talked to some people at the medical center over there. I could work at the hospital as an orderly until I have my physical therapy degree.”
“What—ahem.” I have to blink hard, think. “What would I do?”
“Anything you wanted?” He rubs his cheek with a knuckle. “This is a chance to…I don’t know. Start over? Find something you enjoy? You’ve been busting your ass, dawn to dusk, for a fuckin’ decade, babe. Just to keep shit going. You never asked for it, and I kind of gather you never really wanted it. But you did it. And you never complained. Now we got a chance to find something just for you. For us. With my CRSC and the job at the hospital, we should be able to make it fine. You would have time to figure it out. Stay home with Tommy, if you want. Tommy and the baby, I guess it’ll be. I don’t know. My point is….” He trails off, seeing that I’m having trouble.
Meaning, I’m not looking at him, blinking hard and fast, breathing slowly. “Yeah. That—that sounds like a good idea.”
“Shit. I fucked this up.” He turns away from me, wipes his face with both hands. “This was supposed to be this romantic picnic in the woods, in our spot—”
“It is, Derek! It’s perfect. I’m sorry I’m so emotional right now, I’m just—”
“I wasn’t supposed to make you cry.” He runs his hand through his hair. “At least, not like that.”
That gets my attention. “What? What do you mean?”
He seems at a loss, as if he’s bursting with a million things he wants to say but doesn’t know where to start. Finally, he growls and leans into me, kisses me. It’s a breathless kiss, a thought-stealing kiss. A distraction, a fake-out. He’s got me down on my back, and we’re getting lost in each other. I’m clutching his back, scratching my fingers down his spine.
Just when I think he’ll take us where I suddenly want us to go, he pulls away. He’s levered up over me, staring down at me. Touching my cheek with his palm.
; “I love you so much, Reagan. Sometimes I still don’t even know how it happened, but I’m thankful every day that it did. And I still have moments where I think you must be crazy for loving a guy like me. Moments where I doubt whether I’m good enough for you. I want you to be happy. That’s all I was thinking about, when I was talking about plans just now. Where we could go, what we could do. I just want you to feel like you have a future you’re happy about. I want that for us, even if I’m still sometimes wigged out by the fact that there is an ‘us.’”
“I’ll go anywhere, Derek. I’m trusting you. I’m following you.” I stare up at him, let him see my sincerity. I do trust him, and I will follow him wherever he goes. It’s scary, but he’s worth it.
“And that’s—the fact that you trust me like that? Reagan, it scares me. I don’t want to let you down. I won’t.” He swallows hard. “This has all happened so fast. A matter of months, you know? My life changed when I was taken prisoner by the Taliban. Changed for the worse. But then those Raiders rescued me, and I ended up in Texas, and I met you. You captured me, and my life changed again. For the better this time. And now I can’t—I don’t even know how to live my life without you in it. That’s crazy, to me. That, in literally just a handful of months, you’ve become…shit, how do I put it? You’ve become part of me.”
Oh, shit. Here we go. My heart is hammering in my chest again, and I have to hold on to his shoulders to keep my hands from shaking. I can only look up at him and drink in his words and hope, hope, hope.
“I love—” The words stick in my throat, and I try anyway, try to whisper them. “I love—”
“Ssshhh. Just listen.” He touches my lips with a finger. Reaches into the picnic basket and pulls out a little black box. “I hope I’m doing this right. I’m so nervous. Never thought I’d do this, but here we go.”
He starts to sit up, like he’s gonna do the one-knee thing, but I hold onto him. “No. Here. Like this.” I keep him in place, leaning over me. He’s perfect here. We’re perfect here.
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