by Karina Halle
Monteiths is a cute little place with an inventive farm-to-table menu and fun cocktails that somehow manages to avoid being a tourist trap despite being on one of Edinburgh’s most popular streets. With a narrow, twisty staircase it’s a bitch to get down to the cavernous lower level with my crutches, so we head straight to the enclosed patio and have the server seat us there.
We’ve just ordered drinks and I’m perusing the menu for a hearty yet gluten-free option when my eyes glance over the menu and freeze in shock.
Mark Featherstone is waiting at the hostess stand to be seated, some young pretty girl beside him laughing at something he’s said.
I suck in my breath and immediately cast my eyes downward, lifting the menu up to cover my face.
“What is it?” Christina asks anxiously, leaning in.
“Shhhh,” I tell her. “Don’t move, don’t draw attention to ourselves.”
But of course she immediately looks up and around like a bloodhound sniffing the trail. “Oh my god,” she whispers harshly. “Mark’s here. And who is the twat with him?”
I’m not sure if it would be better or worse to know who she is, but I think I do. I’ve been to a few of Mark’s Christmas parties over the years and I’m pretty sure the “twat” is Maggie, his assistant.
I sneak another look over the menu to confirm. It doesn’t exactly look like they’re a couple, thank god, because that would be too much for me to take. The sight of him, out and about and happy is already a hot poker in my gut, twisting its way in.
The last thing I want is for him to see me. This is already incredibly awkward as it is, plus I’m a mess from physical therapy with my hair pulled back and unruly, my mascara smudged under my eyes, my foundation sweated away. Of course I would be one of those people who runs into their ex looking like total shit.
The hostess comes over to lead them to their table, and there’s a moment where Mark places his hand at the small of Maggie’s back. It lingers there, suggesting possession rather than anything else.
The sight of it makes me sick.
Then his eyes shift to our table and land on us in shock.
I see it. The look of “oh fucking shit” in his eyes, the one I used to catch on him all the time when I called him out in a lie for this or that. Just that thought alone makes me feel like a chump for spending so many years with him, for thinking we could be more than what we were.
“Excuse me,” he tells Maggie and the hostess, “I’ll catch up in a second.”
Maggie’s skinny brows furrow in confusion before she follows his gaze. She grimaces when she spots me and immediately turns away, following the hostess to the back of the patio.
“Jessica,” Mark says as he stops at the end of the table, hands clasped in front of him. “This is a surprise. How are you?”
He’s got his “I’m on your side” voice, the kind he uses with clients to get them to trust him with their hard-earned money. It always works on them—and it worked on me once upon a time—but not now. Now that I know what the real Mark Featherstone is like.
I try and give him an easy smile, the one he used to love me for, but it comes out tight and stiff. “Obviously, I’ve never been better,” I say, taking a sip of water, my eyes boring into his.
How could you?
He looks to Christina who is glaring at him something fierce. “Nice to see you too, Christina,” he says to her.
She doesn’t say anything in response, her eyes growing narrower by the second.
For once he looks completely uncomfortable and not in control. I decide to push it more.
“Is that Maggie I saw?” I ask. “You’re such a nice boss to reward your assistant with a date like this.”
He coughs, rubbing his hand at the back of his neck. “Yeah, we have some important things to discuss. I hope you’re doing well. You know I still have some of your stuff in a box. I think it’s—”
“Keep it,” I say quickly. “I took what I needed.”
He nods, eyes darting everywhere. “And you’re doing okay? Your therapy? Do you need any help with finances or—”
Christina lets out a sharp laugh. “Help with finances? You fucking dumped my sister when she was shot by a terrorist.” She says this loudly so that everyone in the restaurant looks our way. “She wasn’t even out of the fucking hospital, you bloody wanker. She doesn’t need a single thing from you except to get out of her face and stay out. Keep your fucking money and offerings to yourself.” She mutters under breath, “Selfish cunt.”
I try to supress a smile as I stare wide-eyed at Christina, then at Mark.
His mouth flaps open soundlessly knowing he doesn’t have a leg to stand on, and his skin goes red at the temples. Finally he says, “I wish you the best of luck, Jess.”
Then he turns and hurries off to the other end of the patio, heads swiveling as he goes.
Of course, everyone is now staring at me as well and putting two and two together. I’m the survivor girl, the heroine who didn’t do anything except not die.
“Christina,” I manage to say, not sure if I should admonish her or not.
She shrugs. “Sorry not sorry. That guy is the biggest asshole that ever lived. I always knew you were too good for him, but it wasn’t my place to say anything. It just sucks that he showed his true colors at the worst possible time.”
“People never show their true colors when everything is fine. It’s when everything goes to shit that you see what a person is really made of,” I tell her wryly.
“True.” She sighs and turns her head in his direction. I don’t even want to look. I want to eat and pretend he’s not there. “He’s beet red though. And that girl is rubbing his back, probably trying to tell him that we’re a bunch of bitches. She has no idea, does she?”
“Oh, I think she does,” I mutter. “But some people don’t really care. Whatever their relationship is—which, by the way, is making me think back on a lot of times he had meetings with her after work—I’m sure they both view me as some sort of animal that had to be put down.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” she says, putting her hand on my wrist. “Please don’t tell me you believe that.”
I shrug her hand off. “Of course not.”
Not really.
It’s no surprise that I can barely finish my food after that, and the only thing good about the meal is the half bottle of wine I split with Christina and mainly because I drink most of it. It’s only three in the afternoon, but I have half the mind to get completely obliterated.
Unfortunately, Mark and everything we had is no longer simmering in the back of my mind. It’s at the forefront and I have to deal with it. I can feel his presence behind me, knowing how relieved he must feel to be rid of the dead weight. That’s all I am now, a burden to be dragged around, and when I think about it, that’s probably how he always felt.
I met Mark through mutual friends. Lynn, a woman who used to come to my yoga class, and I became quick mates. She eventually moved to London, but during that time had introduced me to Mark. He always had a girlfriend of some kind—a serial monogamist is how Lynn described him—until one day he didn’t.
He won me over with that charm of his, the clean cut of his suits, the way he acted like he owned the world, and someone like me was lucky for knowing him. When you’re not sure of yourself, and I certainly wasn’t then, a man like that seems to fix all your problems. I was definitely caught up in the idea of being with a man who had his shit together than actually being with and knowing Mark.
And I did know him. Quite well. I loved him. And I believed he loved me, at least for the first two years. But sometimes the spark you used to see in their eyes disappears and you have to fight harder to make it reappear. Relationships are work, I know that, but the foundation of love and respect should always be there. You shouldn’t have to change your whole world in order to make someone realize they want you.
I’d always wanted a child, something to love, a way to fix past mistakes
, and I thought that if I became pregnant it would fix everything between Mark and I. It would bring us together, make us the strong stable family I had always wanted.
I soon realized that wasn’t the case, and I realized it too late.
The baby would have changed everything.
And now Mark has obviously moved on, or maybe he’d moved on a long time ago. I suppose the same thing could be said for me. I just didn’t have someone else lined up. I didn’t have a plan at all.
“You know you’re better off,” Christina says to me later as she drives us back home. “I mean, thank god you didn’t marry him.”
I snort, my head pressed against the window. “That was never in the cards.”
“You’d never even discussed it?”
I give her a look. “I told you before. The closest thing I ever got from him that was remotely sentimental was a necklace, and that was years ago. When we talked about the future, he always said that he was tired of planning the future for other people, that he just wanted to wing ours.” It sounded romantic at the time, but now I realize it was a total cop-out.
“Anyway,” she says, “it doesn’t matter because now you realize what a wanker he is. Hate to say it, but he was probably fucking that chick the whole time, too.”
A wave of humiliation washes hotly over me. I sigh. “Probably.”
That evening I’m silent over dinner with Lee and Christina, my mind still mulling over Mark and the physical therapy session and everything that’s to come. I’m in a spiral I can’t seem to pull myself out of. When dinner is over, instead of watching the news with them like I usually do, I head upstairs to bed, needing to be alone.
I open the window, the sky just a fuzzy blue haze, and breathe in deep, trying to be thankful. The air has that early autumn smell of dried leaves and colder nights.
You shouldn’t be here, the quiet voice inside me whispers. You should have died. It’s what you deserve.
The voice tells me this often. I want to argue for once. To fight for my worth. I’m so tired of ignoring it. Survivor’s guilt is how Pam described it at the first meeting. The feeling that we should have died too, that we aren’t deserving or so special as to be spared.
The thing is, I’ve grappled with survivor’s guilt my whole life. From when Christina was just five years old and I was ten, I’ve felt like nothing but a burden for escaping my childhood so unscathed. So this shouldn’t be new.
Yet it feels like it’s all happening for the very first time.
My head starts to hurt, my leg flaring up. I take a Percocet and lie down on the bed, not even bothering to get changed or get under the covers. It will take too much out of me, and I have nothing left to give.
You ever need someone, you know where I’ll be.
Keir’s words float through my head like they have the last few nights.
The last thing I want to admit is needing anyone.
I am strong. I have armor. A bulletproof heart and resolve of steel.
I don’t need anyone but me.
But of course the truth is that my armor has chinks. My heart has cracks. And the steel is corroding at the edges.
I do need someone.
Maybe even him.
My stranger.
CHAPTER FIVE
Keir
The vehicle bounces along the road, sending plumes of dust twisting high into the air. Lewis calls them “devil’s tails,” and they sprout up over the barren landscape, signaling that someone is coming. Or going.
It’s a signal we don’t need.
The mountains are in the distance, far enough away that we don’t have to worry about snipers or being ambushed, but even so, our vehicles stand out in the desert like an anomaly. One that the country has gotten used to at this point, but still an anomaly all the same. This part of Afghanistan is barren and so repellent to life that it takes life. That’s how I see it. All the people who have died in the mountain caves, in the villages, on the roads. Both sides. Too much death. This land has sucked souls dry.
It should have been over. The Brits handed the keys back to the Afghans, told them they had to face the Taliban on their own now. We rolled on in, slaughtered the land, rolled on out. Our mess was left for them to clean up. Thirteen years the army spent here, 453 lives of British servicemen and women lost. And we thought it would be easy to leave.
It was going well for a while, until the Taliban started gaining momentum again. Countless bloody battles were waged. Fought. Lost.
The Afghan police needed our help. We got them into the mess, we had to show them how to get out.
America was the first to step up. They deployed thousands back into the Helmand province to help train the Afghan forces. Then a few of our units were sent in as well.
I didn’t know what to expect. This time I would be returning as a Lance Corporal. This time our mission was about training, not fighting. After six years in the army at Camp Bastion, this should have been easy.
And it has been.
So far.
It’s been a dull four months here but things are changing. I can feel it. We all can feel it. I’m thirsty all the time, my mind is turning to dust, and I’m starting to feel my command slipping. No one else can tell—I’ve always been good at fooling people—but I know it. Your grip on reality only lasts so long here.
Lewis, Ansel, Roger and Brick are under my command and I look at them now as we sit in the vehicle. Ansel is at the wheel, his dark glasses shielding eyes that take in everything like oxygen. Ansel is the hungriest of us all, putting in the extra effort every chance he gets. Roger is tired and misses his wife and kids. Brick has anger issues that only subside at night when he’s watching a romantic comedy on his laptop.
Then there’s Lewis. He’s five years younger than me but he might as well be eighteen. His enthusiasm has barely waned, but his paranoia has grown stronger. It’s a combination that frightens me, to be honest, like he’s apt to snap without warning.
I can’t help but like the guy though. We talk about the fathers we tried to please, our failed relationships and careers back at home. We’re honest in ways that we aren’t with the others, and in that honesty comes responsibility. To let the other one know when they’re not okay.
It’s at this moment that Lewis looks at me and shakes his head. He says, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” His hands grip his gun and his eyes meet mine. He’s scared to death.
And it’s in that moment that I know this is a dream. One of three dreams I always have that haunt me like ghosts.
Realizing it’s just a dream doesn’t stop the fear. It makes it worse. Because I know what’s going to happen next and I know that I’ll be forced to live it again.
What really happened on that day was that in the midst of our convoy, along the familiar dirt track, I was struck with the sudden urge to yell STOP! Inexplicable terror coated me like fine desert sand. It was just a feeling at that moment—intuition on overdrive—but it was such a strong feeling that it made me numb for a few seconds.
A few seconds too many.
In reality, Lewis never said a word, but in my dream he says the words I wish I’d said.
The bomb goes off, three loud booms that turn into fire and metal, a rush of noise and heat that squeezes my brain into nothing.
My world is destroyed.
I am pierced by shrapnel.
I am thrown into a world of pain I don’t understand.
But I survive.
So does Lewis.
And Brick.
We lay scattered on the ground, among charred and burning wreckage, so terribly alive.
Ansel and Roger, the two brave men at the front, they don’t survive. And in my dream I see them, headless, torn in two, dragging themselves on the ground, wondering why I didn’t say anything.
They tell me it’s my fault. I stayed silent. I swallowed words when I should have spoke up.
And Lewis, rising up above me like a dark shadow, points his gun at my head.
Tells me this is my fault, too.
I’m the reason he did what he did.
He pulls the trigger.
I wake up with a start, sweat in my eyes, lungs on fire. The scars on my side burn from where the shrapnel went in. My heart hurts in every way it can.
It always takes me a few moments to calm my body down. Even if my mind knows it was a dream, my body relives it like I’ve gone back in time. I get up and drink several glasses of water from the sink, plagued by endless thirst, then go to the window and slide it up.
Cold, fresh air slips in, bathing my face. Even though I live in the city, there’s a breeze off the sea carrying the verve of salt and minerals.
I take in a few deep gulps of air, leaning out the window to fill my lungs. The moon hangs low over the neighboring buildings, illuminating the stone.
Tomorrow is Monday. If it were Tuesday I could have something to maybe look forward to. The chance of seeing Jessica again.
But this time I don’t think I’ll be so lucky.
I saw it in her eyes. The look that told me she wouldn’t be back.
I know she came into that pub looking for me. I know she skipped her meeting to spend time with me. I know that there is something she sees in me, even if I don’t know what it is.
But whatever it was, I scared it off. I got too bold. Too ballsy.
I mean, seriously, what the fuck was I thinking, telling her she has to discover my tattoos for herself. Cheesiest bloody line that’s ever left my lips. And then I invited her for goddamn dinner.
And I know that scared her. The last thing that woman wants right now is to get laid; she’s made it clear many times. Anything more than friends is too much and I pushed it. It doesn’t matter that I sometimes catch her eyes on my body, this subtle fire smoldering underneath her gaze. For all I know that could be in my head. What isn’t in my head is the fact that I pushed for more when I shouldn’t have.
I got selfish. Truly selfish. It wasn’t in the vein of wanting to watch over her, to protect her, to feel indebted to her. I still do. That’s never going away. But now it’s coupled with the fact that I want to talk to her, to listen to her voice and watch that incredible smile wash over her face. I want her by me, with me, not just because I owe her more than I can ever give, but because she makes me feel like I don’t owe her anything at all.