by Gina Azzi
"You're kidding me, right? It’s been seven years. She's had all the time in the world."
He picks at the label of his beer bottle. "I don't know what to tell you, kid. You took off. A lot changes in seven years, especially when you don’t come home to visit." He smiles at me to take the sting out of his words, but still it hurts. Because it's the truth. Isn't that what they say? The truth hurts. Well, it fucking does. "Sure, you say you enlisted for her. Whatever, I get it." He takes a swig from the bottle and shakes his head at me. "But she sure as hell doesn't. And she may never understand that."
"Where's Denver?" I look around for my oldest brother, wishing he were sitting here just so Carter can shut up with his stupid advice. The guy has banged every female in a fifty-mile radius, and now he's somehow an expert on relationships?
"Having a smoke."
"He should quit that shit. Gonna give himself lung cancer."
"Yeah. Sometimes, we don't know how good we have it 'til we don't."
"Would you stop talking in fucking riddles? Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?" I can't mask the irritation in my tone. Carter and I used to be so close, close enough to tell it like it is. But ever since I got home, he’s been circling around me, offering little pieces of advice that land like jabs. Saying stupid shit that makes no damn sense, but I know he's saying it for a reason. A reason I have yet to figure out.
He laughs at me, shaking his head. "You used to be much more level-headed. What'd you become, a hothead in the Army? I thought you had to maintain your wits during war."
"I didn't realize coming home meant stepping into a minefield."
He blows out a breath, tilting his head to the side, studying me. "Well, little brother, I don't think you considered much of anything except yourself these past seven years."
"What's that supposed to mean? I told you, I left because—"
"Because of Evie. Because you didn't want to stand in her way; you wanted her to be free to make her own choices."
"What's your point?"
"That's bullshit, Jax. You left because you had an out." He slams his beer bottle on the table, and it teeters for a moment. "You took your shot and never looked back, and no one is gonna blame you for it but, Jesus, be upfront about it. You left for you, not for Evie or some misguided moral high ground. You did it for yourself." He slides out of the booth. "And it sucks things didn’t work out the way you wanted between you and your girl. But you still had family here, you still had us. You could have come home.” He turns away. “I gotta piss."
I sit in stunned silence, watching my brother's back as he disappears around the corner.
Anger boils beneath my skin, igniting a fire in my veins. Clenching my hands into fists, I try to calm the inferno raging inside me. I want to punch something. Or Carter. Because as ugly as his words were, they cut me in ways I can't begin to describe.
The truth is fucking painful. It will rip you up and leave you raw and decimated. It will level you with one word, in one moment. The truth doesn't set you free like all those liars spew. It locks you up, cages you in, and turns you inside out until you don't even recognize yourself. And you hate everyone who does.
When I reported to Fort Bragg, I kept myself tied to home through Evie, through my brothers and Daisy. Fine, maybe some of my reasons for enlisting were selfish. I did want to blaze my own path, one that wasn’t solely tied to Evie’s career aspirations. But I still wanted home to feel like home. When Evie cut our communication, I cut ties with my hometown, opting instead to meet up with my brothers and Daisy in random cities when I had leave. I hurt my family without giving them too much thought because I was too wrapped up in my own hurt. And Carter is right, a lot changes in seven years.
Pushing out of the booth, I leave our empty beer bottles behind and storm out of Raf's, directly colliding with the girl who's had me twisted up in knots since I was seventeen.
"Oof," she wheezes out as her body slams into mine.
"You okay?" I clasp her elbow to steady her, the sharpness of her bone surprising me before I feel the warmth of her skin. Already, I don't want to let go.
She straightens and steps back, my fingers sliding off her elbow and grazing the bare skin of her arm before dropping to my side.
"Fine. Ugh, sorry about that. I didn't see you." She tries to sidestep me, and I throw my arm out to stop her.
"It was my fault." I turn her toward me, so I can see her face, try to read her.
Her eyes are like the deep blue of the ocean before a storm, surging. She regards me warily, vulnerability shining around the edges of her irises, causing guilt and remorse to expand in my chest.
Remembering Carter’s words, realization slams into me, an awareness I was too angry to accept before. I put that wariness there. I made her uncertain of me. I should have fought harder to be in her life, fought harder for us. Even though I was crushed when Evie cut me off, I hurt her first by leaving.
Awkward, tense silence fills the air around us and I hate it.
I hate looking at the girl who once consumed my whole world; a girl I could see with my eyes closed, and now I can’t read her at all. Not even a little.
Evie Maywood was once as unpredictable as the weather: pure sunshine, bolts of thunder, or a calming blue for as far as the eye could see. She was passion and confidence and intensity. She was generous and loyal and honest to a fault. She was quick-witted, quick-tempered, and had a dynamite sense of humor. She was mine.
But this Evie, the one looking up at me now with dull eyes and a paleness that is deeper than skin level, she's not even a shadow of my Maywood.
"For real, Evie. Be straight with me." I tilt my head and smile at her and for a second, just a flicker, everything freezes and it's us again. A cocky as hell, easy-going guy and a beautiful, enthralling girl connected in a way that only the universe could understand.
Then she blinks, and the moment fades into the harsh reality of now.
"I'm fine." Her voice holds a note of finality.
I drop my arm; she walks past me, and the door to Raf's opens and closes.
And it's like losing her all over again.
Fuck. I blow out a deep breath and walk a few steps into the parking lot of Raf's. The overhead lights blaze over the cracked asphalt and errant weeds poking up.
The sound of an engine starting halts my steps as a hunter green F350 begins backing out of a parking space.
Ethan. It's gotta be him.
I turn toward the truck, my hand raised in a half-wave as I remember the Christmas I spent with him and his family in Michigan three years ago. Back then, Den was in lock-up, Carter had a flavor of the month, and Daisy opted to spend the holidays with her roommate’s family.
Ethan and I did lights around the house and all the trees. We cut down a huge Christmas tree and laughed our asses off trying to rope it into his truck.
I stride forward to catch him, calling out his name.
The F350 passes me, the guy driving about eighty pounds too heavy and three shades too light to be Ethan. He stares at me strangely before nodding at me.
My hand falls, and I squeeze my eyes shut, opening them in time to see the red tail lights of the F350 trailing down the road.
Ethan's gone.
He's not coming back.
A whistle cuts low to my right and I turn.
"You good?" Denver asks, taking a measured step in my direction, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans.
"Yeah, man."
He pulls a pack from his back pocket and taps out a cigarette, holding the box out to me.
I shake my head.
"I went back inside but couldn't find you or Carter so..."
"Carter went to piss, and I came out to just… I don't know why the fuck I came out."
"To see her."
I shake my head again.
"She's not the same girl she was when you left."
"Yeah, figured that one out real quick."
Denver thread
s the cigarette between his fingers, twirling it around and around but doesn't light up. "Sometimes coming back is even harder than taking off." His voice is even, but his words are pulled too tight, spoken too sharply. “Could be why you stayed away for so long.”
I twist my head to look at him, taking in his ripped jeans, his dark hair pulled back in a sloppy man bun, and the same leather jacket old our man used to rock before he got life in a prison in Alabama. Den looks the same way he did the night before I left. But the seriousness of his expression, the rawness of his gaze, and the honesty of his words are a Denver I've yet to have the pleasure of meeting. It seems like my oldest brother grew up, and I missed that, too.
"Yeah. Sometimes it is," I agree finally.
The right side of Den's mouth lifts, and it seems like he's going to tell me something, reveal an important piece of advice that's going to make my transition back smoother, when the door to Raf's bangs open and Carter steps out.
"There y'all are. I was looking fucking everywhere." He bounds down the steps. "Nothing worthwhile in there to tap."
Den shrugs and I turn away. The most worthwhile reason I can think of to stay is sitting inside on a barstool and wants nothing to do with me. Still, I know Carter wasn’t talking about Evie. She was like another sister to him once.
"Wanna take off?" Carter asks Denver.
"Whatever."
"Sure," I throw out, just to be included.
We walk back to Denver's ride in silence, kicking random rocks and stepping on weeds. Once we're in the SUV and Denver's pulling out of Raf's, I realize that this moment, with the comfortable silence stretching between us and Carter’s unsuccessful attempts of trying to score with a girl, is the most familiarity I've experienced with my brothers since coming back.
So I laugh. It's low at first, but gradually it takes over. Soon, I'm hunched forward, scrunching my eyes shut and trying to catch my breath.
I can feel Denver's eyes on me through the rearview mirror. I hear Carter shift his weight in the passenger seat, staring at me over his shoulder.
"I never thought that with me gone, you both would lose your edge," I manage to sputter. "How the hell are the three of us going home alone? Together?"
“What the hell are you laughing about? You always went home alone when we would go out.” Carter reminds me.
“I was in high school. And I had a girlfriend my senior year.”
Denver snorts in acknowledgement. Carter sits in stunned silence.
We stop at a traffic light, and it's like time stands still. For the second time tonight, my past collides with my present. And my brothers laugh, loudly and uncontrollably, along with me.
5
Evie
Clicking out of my email, I pull up this week's schedule on my computer screen. Scrolling over the stacked appointments for today, the ringing of the office phone cuts through my concentration.
"Morris Physical Therapy and Rehabilitation," I answer, my hand hovering over the mouse as I listen to the caller.
"Private First Class John Davis."
"Hello Private Davis, what can I do for you today?"
"I'm calling to schedule an appointment with Staff-Sergeant Peters to evaluate my right knee."
I scan the calendar for open slots and note that Peters has a cancellation tomorrow. "We can schedule you for tomorrow at eleven-thirty."
Davis breathes out loudly, as if he was holding his breath, and I can feel his relief through the line. "That would be great. Thank you, Ma'am."
"Sure thing. I'm adding you to his schedule now.” I collect his information and add Davis onto the calendar. “We will see you tomorrow."
"Roger that."
Placing the phone back in the receiver, a shadow falls across my desk, forcing me to look up into the familiar but guarded eyes of Jax.
I shudder, placing my hand at the base of my throat.
"Sorry," he says, ducking his head. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Is there something I can help you with?"
"I'm here to see Staff-Sergeant Peters. He's expecting me."
"You're not on his schedule."
"I know." Jax shifts his weight and stares at me, daring me to contradict him.
I glance at the schedule again to make sure Peters isn't currently conducting an evaluation.
"I'll take you back," I offer, standing from my desk and pushing my chair in neatly.
He follows half a step behind me. I can feel his eyes hovering around my shoulder blades, watching me with a quiet intensity that I don't comment on. We round a corner, and I gesture toward the closed door of Peters' office.
"Staff-Sergeant Peters," I say.
"Thanks. I didn't know you work here."
"I do."
"As the receptionist?" He asks it as a question, but he means it as a statement, surprise coloring his tone.
"Yes." I lift my chin slightly, trying to inject pride into my voice, into my chosen profession. I work as a civilian, but I help support the US Army. I work.
"You've been doing this a long time then?" He widens his stance, his arms crossing over his chest, his biceps bulging in a display of hard muscle and strength. A patch of pocked skin and crisscrossed scars on his left bicep catch my attention as they peek out from below the sleeve of his T-shirt. I squint, studying the damaged skin, desperate to reach out and run my finger over the smooth dips when he clears his throat.
"Four years," I mutter, averting my gaze as embarrassment floods my cheeks. For four years, I have worked at a job my mom helped secure for me. For four years, I've ridden on the coattails of my family name, a dark stain of embarrassment on their impeccable standards and flourishing careers.
Jax steps forward then, his right hand coming up to rest on the doorframe. "What happened to West Point?"
I look up. His eyes flash with frustration and bewilderment.
"Life. Knock before you enter." I tilt my head toward Peters' door before walking around Jax and retreating to my desk, to scheduling and answering phones and responding to emails. To the predictability of a position where I can never soar too high, grow too much, or be too confident again. To a comfort in knowing I’ll always be overlooked.
Later that evening after the sun has set and the quiet of night pervades my townhouse, I open my laptop and log onto Facebook. Scrolling through posts and pictures of friends and various people whose paths crossed with mine, I admit to myself that I’m stuck. The posts of new job offers and baby showers coupled with the photos of global travel and wedding days forces me to confront that who I am now is so far from the person I aspired to be. That I’ve been wasting time and potential by merely existing when I could have been moving forward.
Several posts about sexual harassment and assault in the acting industry catch my eye, as does the #MeToo hashtag. I stare at a headline, “Director Abe Collingswood Resigns After Four More Actresses Step Forward,” for several moments before reading the article. After clicking on the comments, I’m astounded by all of the brave, bold women who have empathized, shared similar experiences, or simply added #MeToo. A small smile crosses my lips at their courage and honesty.
But then a comment at the bottom of the page captures my attention. “Stop overreacting. You got what you wanted. Did you not all make a shit-ton of money in his movies?” I slam my laptop shut and wander into the kitchen.
Uncorking a bottle of Merlot and pouring myself a generous glass, I settle back onto the couch and flip to Netflix to watch Jane the Virgin. A call from Mom lights up the screen of my phone but I ignore it, sending her to voicemail.
After two episodes, I’m restless. Sleep still hasn’t claimed me, the comment on that article weighs heavily on my mind, and each time I close my eyes, I see the disappointment that crossed Jax's face today. I hate that he looked at me like he didn’t even recognize me. Like he doesn’t even know who I am anymore. But that’s fitting, isn’t it? I don't recognize myself most of the time.
Resting my head against the cush
ions of my couch, I let the silence wash over me. It clogs out noises, so I'm left with my even breathing and bitter thoughts.
I could have been someone.
Instead, I allowed the past to consume me. I've watched days turn into weeks, turn into months, then turn into years. I sit and watch and wait.
What am I waiting for?
I finish my glass of wine and set it on the coffee table, not even caring that it will probably leave a ring stain that'll be impossible to remove.
Picking up my laptop again, I open it and navigate to a folder deeply hidden in the hard drive. Inside, I find my applications, letters of recommendations, and transcripts. My old life reminding me of all I gave up.
My eleventh-grade English teacher had written: "Evelyn demonstrates great commitment, discipline, and loyalty to her studies, her classmates, and her community."
"Evie is a true team player, always putting the needs of others before herself. She leads by example." My high school track coach added in his letter.
Seven years ago, I was on a clear path, one that promised exciting opportunities and new experiences. Yet, I’m still sitting here, in my tiny hometown. Tonight, the discrepancy between what is and what could have been is glaring. I can’t stop thinking about the past and I know a lot of that has to do with seeing Jax again.
When I told him to let me go, I never believed he really would. I never thought I would be that easy for him to forget about. He reached out once more, a Facebook post, that read “Happy Birthday” when I turned twenty-one. On my twenty-first birthday, clutching a water bottle, his message had felt like a slap in the face.
Seeing him the other night at Raf’s, the overwhelming hurt and utter disappointment of his leaving, of his moving forward without me, was a wake-up call I wasn’t anticipating.
Although I passed on West Point, these past four years at Morris haven't been awful. In fact, I've learned a lot. On the days that I can clear my mind completely, I even enjoy my work. Helping active duty soldiers return to their squads, sometimes into the midst of combat zones where their absence is felt greatly, where their commitment could change everything is important to me. I feel proud to assist veterans as they rebuild themselves and their lives and come to terms with the people they are now that they've seen things they can't forget. I've suffered with them through moments of anguish and denial. I've witnessed great acts of bravery and acceptance.