“Oh, this is getting a little serious, isn’t it?” I ask. It’s easy to be happy for Graham. He’s got more reasons than most to be jaded and cynical, but he’s not. And I think that’s one of the things I love about him.
He helps me feel like I belong here and has from the very start, when I was ashamed to have to be working my way through this university, where the poor kids drive Mercedes and the really rich ones have drivers.
I pull myself back from my mental meanderings to find him watching me. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he says. “Does it involve Mr. Tall, Dark and Psychotic?”
I duck my head, not sure how to answer. “In a roundabout way, yeah.”
He moves across the room like a ghost and is suddenly sitting across from me. “Do tell.”
“He’s just… There’s something about him.” I twist my hair absently, redoing a few curls that have gotten away from me lately. “The other night when he was at the Baywater? He wanted to walk me home.”
“And you said no, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, guy totally shows up at work out of the blue and asks to walk me home and I’m going to jump all over it. That’s how horror movies start.”
“That’s also how pornos start,” he says. “And lord knows this dry spell of yours has gone on long enough.”
“I’ve seen that movie,” I say quietly.
“Not the one with this guy as the star.” He slides into the chair next to me. “Look, I don’t get the creepy stalker vibe from him. You should give it a shot. Even if it’s just for coffee.”
“Is coffee a euphemism for sex?”
“Well, you know, oral is known as flicking the bean.”
I laugh because I can’t help myself. “Really? How do you know these things?”
“I used to steal my mom’s Playgirl magazines.”
“I really didn’t need that visual.”
“You’re welcome.” He drums his fingers on the table in front of him.
I hesitate for a moment, not wanting to risk asking Graham a question I may not really want to know the answer to. "You know he used to be a soldier, right?"
“Yeah. He told me that day at the bar. I guess that explains why he reminds me of Noah,” Graham says softly. Noah is a former soldier and is seriously involved with our friend Beth. And he’s got a metric ton of issues from the war.
And just like that, I am no longer confident about what I have considered getting myself into with Josh. “I know.”
Graham reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “That means that whatever issues he’s got, underneath it all, he’s a good guy.”
I press my lips together. I don't want to be there to pick up the pieces. I've done that before, and it sucks because even when the person you love is standing there, cut and bleeding, a part of you hates them for putting themselves in that situation to begin with.
I know what I've felt every single time I am around Josh. I know how I felt when his mouth touched mine.
I know what I’d be giving up if I walk away from this thing that’s starting between me and Josh. It’s something I’ve wanted my entire life.
But the part of me that whispers to run…I can’t. I have to stop letting that part of me rule my life. I won’t live afraid.
Not even now, when I'm pretty well convinced that I am going to end up just like my mother—hurt and broken and lying on the bedroom floor, crying her eyes out, then crawling back to the bastard that ripped her soul out.
I suddenly do not want to be alone. I very much want to take a chance with Josh.
I want to lay my head on Josh's shoulder. Feel his strong body curled around mine. And I’m afraid of how strongly I feel the pull toward him. Despite the mystery. Despite the darkness. That maybe, just maybe, hope would be enough to pull him through whatever it is that he’s facing.
And that maybe, he wants someone to face it with him.
I'm tired of being alone. After Robert, after my dad. After my mom’s boyfriend made it all too clear that I was the reason their relationship went to hell.
Too many things are circling in my mind today as I finish my shift at work and head home.
Too many resurrected specters from my past destroying my present.
I have a choice.
I can be safe.
Or I can choose to fall.
Chapter 11
Josh
Finally admitting the problem to Eli hasn’t solved anything. I should be able to identify the feeling twisting in my guts at this point. I’ve had lots of time snuggling up with anxiety and its fun cousins panic attack and nausea.
But I can’t sit around and mope about it either. Nothing has changed. Which means I need to drag my happy ass to campus and pretend to be normal for another day.
I arrive at class early and disappointment is a tangible thing in my gut when I see that she’s not there yet. I take a seat at the back of the small raised rows. I tap my pen on my thigh. Sitting still has never been one of my strong points. It’s good for my blood pressure.
I'm watching the door, waiting. Just waiting.
I have no right to feel this…this anticipation. She's not mine. She can't be.
But I can't forget how it felt to kiss her. A momentary breakthrough in my neuroses where for a brief moment, I found the right thing to say, the right thing to do.
I lick my bottom lip, remembering the feel of her mouth beneath mine. That kiss was as close to paradise as I’ve felt since I came home from the war.
And I want to taste her again.
She is perfection in so many ways. Soft, lush. Warm.
I didn't want to stop. I wanted to keep going, to see if my body could be dragged kicking and screaming back into life. But the kiss hadn't lasted long enough to tease out any stirrings of real desire.
It's been so fucking long since I've felt anything other than a need to do violence. So long since someone did something as simple as touch me.
I am hollow. Violence has been the only thing that makes me feel. But after I kissed Abby? That kiss changed everything and nothing all at once.
Not everything, of course. But I've tasted a promise of something different from the life I’ve lived.
I'm learning, right? That's what I'm doing here at school. Learning how to do the adult, civilized thing.
To try and find the thing that I'll become without the Army.
So far, college isn't helping with that plan, but hell, I'm only on my second semester here.
My confidence has been shot all to hell since I came home. I know it's something I should go to the doc for. But honestly, I just can't summon the courage or resilience or whatever to put the problem into words again. Because words would make it real.
There’s nothing worse than having to explain to the nurse on the phone that you need an appointment for your dick not working. It’s something they expect out of fifty-year-old cardiac arrest patients, not twenty-five-year-old college students.
And talking about it means I risk opening up the box of terrible memories that haunt me in my sleep. I can’t do that.
Admitting it would be admitting that the war broke me. That it damaged me in ways I'm not ready to confront.
I need to figure out who I am first.
After that, maybe I can figure out what's wrong with my cock.
My heart slams against my ribs the moment Abby pauses in the doorway of the classroom. Her eyes lock on me. I want to look away. To pretend that she's not the only thing I can see.
But I don't.
I meet her gaze. And answer the questions there with more of my own.
Why did she pull away? What—or rather who—hurt her so badly that she questions her own instincts? Because she'd kissed me. I'd felt her response down to my soul. And then just like that, she was gone. One minute, she’s laughing and teasing; the next, she’s cool, shutting down.
There has to be more to the story. Because Abby doesn’t strike me as the type to play games.
She doesn't look away. Instead, there is a tiny, apologetic smile at the edge of her full, dusky lips. I swallow and do nothing. The ball is in her court, and at this moment, I am powerless to react as she starts climbing the steps to where I'm sitting. Powerless to shut down the flare of hope that rises inside me with every step she takes.
"Can I join you?" Her voice is low and smooth and throaty. Hesitant. As though she expects me to tell her to pound sand.
I lift one eyebrow. I can do this. I can smile and flirt with the pretty girl like a normal guy. "You're not worried about me getting too wound up with the discussion?”
Her lips quirk a little more, and I am aching to touch her. To slide my finger over her bottom lip and feel her breath brush against my fingertip.
"I'll take my chances."
"You like to live dangerously?"
"Sitting with you is not dangerous."
I look at her then, surprised by the naivety in her simple statement. Or maybe it’s the sheer simplicity of the faith in those words.
They cut me. Deeply.
Because she has no idea who I am or what I've done. I swallow and force those thoughts away. I will not let the war ruin everything. I have to fight back.
"You don't know me well enough to make that statement." My words are thick. Heavy. Laced with powerful memories that could tear me apart piece by piece if I let them.
This isn’t the way to flirt. Damn it.
"I'd like to," she whispers.
I am frozen to the spot. My mouth moves but no sound comes out. I am paralyzed in the grip of sudden uncertainty.
I want this. I want to cross the space between us and take a chance that I can come back from the fucked up place that I've been since I came home. That I can be normal again. That I can kiss a fucking hot girl and maybe, just maybe, get turned on by something other than violence.
And I am suddenly terrified of falling.
Chapter 12
Josh
Professor Quinn surveys the classroom, his expression blank even as his gaze lands on us, then he moves to his podium and opens a well-oiled leather folio. The kind of folio that looks like old money without even trying. "Your assigned readings from this lesson argued that violence was declining around the world. Despite war in the Middle East, various conflicts in Africa, the rise of gang violence in Mexico, just to name a few, the author argued that violence is indeed declining. Do you buy his argument?"
I sit there, studying my pen and the blank sheet of notebook paper in front of me. Half the class has their laptops open to a game or to the latest social media site. I'm a little old-fashioned, I guess.
"Mr. Douglas, what do you think?"
I buy myself a moment by breathing deeply, holding it until my lungs burn, and releasing it. "I don't buy it. His argument doesn't hold up to even the lightest inspection."
Quinn motions toward me with his open palm, his thumb cradling the presentation remote. "And why don't you buy it? We haven't had a major world conflict since the end of World War II."
I flick the end of my pen off and back on again but Abby interrupts. "True, sir, but he's arguing that violence across the board has decreased. Pointing to the lack of a major global conflict suggests that the level of state-sponsored violence may have declined, but it does not suggest that violence overall has decreased."
I can feel everyone's eyes on us as Quinn digests her answer. Then he nods once. "Very good, Ms. Hilliard. Does anyone want to argue against this?"
Of course, Parker's hand goes up. "Sir, I don't think you can argue that violence isn't declining. We see an overall decline in violent arrests in the United States. The countries of the old Western Europe have some of the lowest levels of violence in the world. And even in places that are modernizing, you're seeing the tide turn against violence. India, for example, is finally starting to protect women and girls from violence."
Quinn nods again. "Fair enough. What is leading this trend?"
"Secularization," Abby offers. "Places that see decreased religious intensity typically see a corresponding drop in violence."
"Right, Ms. Hilliard. So if secularization is leading to reduced violence—Yes, Mr. Douglas?"
"Sir, I don't think we can accept that secularization is leading to reduced violence because I don't believe we're actually seeing a reduction in violence. The author bracketed the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, basically pulling them out of his sample to make his argument. The end of the Cold War has made the world less safe, not more."
"Why do you say that, Mr. Douglas?" Quinn sounds interested, not offended, which I'm taking as a good thing.
Except that now I have to keep going. And sooner or later, this conversation will derail into something personal. Something that pushes at the edges of my control. Guess I should have quit while I was ahead.
Abby
Josh is engaged, and it is a sight to behold. Fired up and participating in the discussion in a way that's not threatening to Professor Quinn. Which is good. Very good.
The tension in him from that first class isn’t there, or if it is, he’s transformed it into something else. Something…he can use.
"The war in Iraq. The fall of the Iraqi government. The collapse of Syria. We don't even know the full weight of the casualties from these conflicts," Josh says. "But I can also tell you that violence has definitely not decreased. The fall of Saddam allowed old scores to be settled, and believe me, they were settled. Violently. The author doesn't get to throw the last fifteen years or so out because they don't support his argument."
"So your argument is that the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are evidence of more violence, not less; is that correct?" Professor Quinn remarks.
"Yes, sir."
Parker's hand shoots up. "These are religious conflicts," she says. "If we continue to advance education initiatives around the world, we can continue the gains that the introduction of reason has had on the advancement of civilization." She shifts and looks like she's enjoying herself tremendously.
I raise my hand. "There's no evidence that religion is actually on the decline. It's growing rapidly even in places where it’s supposedly gasped its last. In Europe, more people are identifying as religious—just not Christian. In South America, the fastest growing religion is Pentecostal. And religious people have more babies, so even if we accept the premise that religion is declining in the current generation, there's no guarantee that it will continue to decline once the children of religious individuals grow up and take their place in the adult world."
Quinn holds up both hands. "Okay, so clearly we have some impassioned opinions on each side. One side suggests that violence is declining. The other says that it's an illusion. So why does it matter?"
It's a simple question, but beside me, Josh tenses.
"What?" I whisper.
He shakes his head, looking down at his hands. His knuckles are white on the pencil.
"War," he says softly.
Quinn looks up at him. "A little louder, Mr. Douglas?"
"War. If violence is actually declining, it takes away the need for war. It makes war unnecessary."
"Well, then the military would be out of a job." Parker smirks over at him, and I instantly want to throttle her. "And war is never necessary."
Josh twists the pen violently between his fingers. "I don't think that war will ever become obsolete. There are some who will not be reasoned with."
Parker shakes her head. "You're not going to argue about the power of belief again, are you?"
He swallows hard, his fingers twisting that pen like he's going to snap it in half. "I wouldn't underestimate it. How else can you explain mothers willingly sending their children to be suicide bombers?"
"Mental illness." Parker shrugs. "Clearly, only someone who is clinically insane would send their child off to die. It's contrary to what we know about human nature. We are fundamentally selfish, and we are trying to pass our genes along to the next generation. Killing them doesn't make any sense."
Josh shakes his head. "I disagree. He has no greater love than he who would give his life for another."
"You're quoting a religious text to make your argument?" Parker asks, and her words are laced with skepticism and a barely concealed sneer.
But Josh doesn't back down in the face of her contempt. "If we accept that there are some fundamentals about human nature buried in religious texts, then yes, a religious statement makes my argument. We're not selfish—not like rational choice theory would have us believe."
"If we’re not selfish, what are we?" Professor Quinn asks. "And what does this have to do with violence?"
Josh is practically vibrating now. His back is tight, the muscles in his neck bunched and tense. "We're social, sir. And that means I will gladly lay down my life so that my brothers can come home, even though we share not one drop of the same blood."
A slow smile spreads across Quinn's face. "Mr. Douglas raises the fundamental problem of violence—how does it enable social cohesion while at the same time being so destructive?"
Parker's hand shoots up. "Wait a sec. Is violence declining or not?"
Quinn clicks on a slide that shows a single graph with a massive spike in it toward the right side. "From the data that we have—and mind you the data is actually quite terrible—what we see is that violence tends to hover around this trend line. But periodically, there are spikes. The last great spikes were World Wars I and II. This suggests that violence is neither increasing nor decreasing, but rather is merely returning to its normal levels after a massive global conflict."
I frown, thoroughly confused by the entire discussion. "What are we supposed to take away from this?"
Quinn flips to an image of a mushroom cloud over an island. "This class is centered on violence. But violence and religion are intertwined, it seems, so we cannot have a discussion about one without the other. It's easy to accept the argument the author makes that violence is declining because we want to accept it. But if religion is merely lying dormant—and all demographic information seems to suggest that this may be only a passing trend, then it means we should expect to see a greater resurgence of religion, not a decrease."
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