by A. Gorman
I lace my running shoes and stretch, though not as long as my physiotherapist would like me to I’m sure. I don’t bother leashing Nuke—that way he don’t have a lead pulling at his neck and suffocating him as we run. He’s wearing his vest though, and I tuck his lead in my back pocket to attach once we hit the duck pond. Those ducks have been through enough these last few weeks without Nuke chasing ’em.
We start out slow, one foot in front of the other. I ignore the ache in my left side, the way my T-shirt sticks to me after just a few minutes, and the wheezing coming from not just my lungs, but Nuke’s too. By the time I round the corner and hit the path to North Beach Road, I’m struck by the sunrise over the gulf. Not its beauty, or stillness, but the way it reminds me of the first glimpse I’d had of morning when those Green Berets had pulled me from that dark hole in Afghanistan.
Every muscle in my body grinds to a halt as I sink into the sand the way I had then, my body too weak to carry me, too fucked up from the torture and from being kept in a room so small I couldn’t stretch my legs out properly. An anguished cry rips from my chest and frightens a flock of nearby birds. They take flight, and for a brief second as their wingbeats sound in my ears I hear the thump, thump, thump, of the chopper airlifting us out.
“Jake?”
Shit. Not here. Not like this. I don’t want her to see me like this. Not after last night. She’s already seen too much.
I brush my hand across my cheek and I’m surprised to find moisture there.
“Jake, are you okay?”
I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
I sit my ass back in the sand and scrub my hand over my stubble. I can’t talk to her about this stuff, but I’m tired of runnin’ every time shit gets hard, so I decide to change the subject. “Where’s Spencer?”
She gives me a hard look, her eyes tellin’ me she knows exactly what I’m doing, but she lets it drop and sits down beside me. “They moved his physiotherapy appointments to Mondays before school.”
“How did that go over?”
“About as well as you might think.” She shrugs. “He’s there now, so that’s all that matters. They don’t like me to be in the room; they feel having me to fall back on might hinder his progress.”
“And you let them kick you out?”
She huffs. “Well, I didn’t go without a fight, but as much as I hate the idea, it’s important for him to know that I’m not always going to be around. One day he’s going to grow up and leave home, and I’m not doing him any favors by wrapping him in cotton wool.”
“Is that you talking or his pediatrician?”
She rolls her eyes. “Them, mostly. I understand what they’re saying; it’s just so hard to learn to let go, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So, you wanna talk about it?”
I grab a fistful of sand and let it sift through my fingers the way Spencer does. “No. I really don’t.”
“Okay then, you wanna talk about last night?”
“Which part exactly?”
“All of it. What you were doin’ standing at my door in the pouring rain, that kiss? Where we go from here?”
I frown. “Where do you want to go from here?”
“I asked you first.” She grins and nudges my shoulder with her own. I don’t flinch at her touch. A part of me wants to pull her closer, but I don’t know if she wants … well, I don’t know what the hell she wants. I certainly have no idea what she sees in a hot mess like me.
“What are we, in junior high?” I smirk.
“Okay, clearly we’re not discussing that subject this mornin’, either.” She sighs and gets to her feet. “You wanna take a walk with me, Jake Tucker?”
I stare at her outstretched hand. “I’ve never been much good at relationships or at opening up.”
“I see that.” Elle jams her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “But I’ve never been good at taking no for an answer.”
“Yeah, I see that about you.” I laugh, feeding her own words back to her as I climb to my feet. Even though walkin’ through town right now with everyone starin’ is the last thing I want, the smile she gives me makes it all worth it. “Alright, I’ll walk you. But you should know, you have terrible taste in men.”
Her shoulders rise and fall with the quiet chuckle that escapes her. “I really do.”
“Terrible taste.” I shake my head and clip Nuke’s lead to his collar, and together we walk toward the town center and the Pier Park Fountain, the town’s pride and joy. There’s an unusual amount of people gathered around it for this early in the morning.
Elle’s soft hand slips into mine, and I snatch my hand away as if her skin was a branding iron. “Sorry.” I clear my throat. “It’s gonna take some time to get used to that.”
She offers me a tight smile. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have—”
“No.” I tentatively reach out for her hand, and she slides her fingers between mine. I’m so used to hiding the disfigured monstrosities from everyone that it feels odd to have another person holdin’ onto them. I turn and face her. “I don’t ever want you to apologize for touchin’ me, Elle.”
The high-pitched wail of a police siren interrupts the hush of morning by the bay, and I glance over toward the commotion. Joggers and couples out for an early walk on the pier crowd around the fountain to see what all the fuss is about. I pull Elle closer to the commotion. The throng is thick, but through it I catch glimpses of the fountain, and water bubbling from it that’s red as the roses in the garden surrounding it.
I blink. Flashes of my past, of blood bubbling out of the mouths of my men, crimson spraying my neck and face as I knelt on a thick Afghan rug, my best friend, Gunner, alive just seconds before, his body now slumped on the carpet and bleeding from a golf-ball-sized hole in the back of his head. Nothing I’d experienced in my nine months with the Taliban had ever been as horrifying as that. One second my buddy, a man I’d met in boot camp, and who I’d deployed with on four tours, was alive, and the next his skull was blown open from a single bullet.
Nuke pushes his muzzle against my thigh and whines.
“Jake?” Ellie’s eyes are wide with worry. “Where did you go just now?”
“Nowhere good.” My voice trembles, and I wipe a sheen of sweat from my brow. “Come on, you don’t need to see this.”
“What’s going on?” Elle pushes forward into the crowd, and in the swarm of people, I lose my grip on her hand.
I dive into the throng. Even though the press of so many bodies makes me want to curl into a fetal position, I can’t let her see that. Sweat prickles down my spine, my skin itches, and my head screams at me to get out, but I can’t because I have to protect her from this. I scan the scene; three officers urge the crowd back, blood spatters on the ground are smudged by the shuffle of our feet, and there, lying face down in the fountain, the one turning the water as red as the roses around us thanks to an exit wound in the back of his skull from what looks like an assault rifle, is Ellie’s husband.
Her hands cover her mouth. Her face is frozen in horror, and a deep, keening cry tears from her throat. I grab hold of her and pull her into me, turning her head away from the sight. The words start as a whisper, but are soon so loud it appears as if they’re being shouted at the two of us:
Gunned down.
Husband.
Marine.
Affair.
I cover her ears, as if I could protect her from the vitriol that spews from their mouths as if it were gospel, but I can’t help her un-hear it or shield her from the disgust in their gazes, so I take her hand and I drag her out of the throng.
When we’re back at her car, I put her in the passenger seat, getting the strangest sense of déjà vu, and then I drive her to Paws for Cause where I tell her to stay put with Nuke in the car. She doesn’t even nod; she’s catatonic. I can’t say I blame her. It’s one thing to see a dead body—it’s another entirely to know that
body intimately. She had a child with this man. Whatever he was after that no longer matters because the man who fathered her son is dead.
Inside, I tell Olivia about Elle’s husband. She’s halfway to the car before I can finish the sentence. After a lot of tears—Olivia’s not Elle’s—she offers to pick up Spencer from his appointment and keep him with her at the shelter for the day.
Elle’s knees are shaking. Nuke is in the driver’s seat, body laid out across the center console, head buried in her lap as he attempts to comfort her the way he does with me. I scratch his scruff and tell him to get in the back.
“I’m gonna take you home, okay? Olivia will take care of Spence, and he won’t know anything until you tell him.”
She stares out the window, her expression blank. “I can’t go home.”
“Elle—”
“I don’t want to go back to that house.” Her voice tremors with the words.
“Okay.”
I start up the engine and head for my place. When I pull into the drive, I shut the car off and pull the keys from the ignition. I seem to be making a habit of bringing her back here after disaster strikes. Climbing from the car, I let Nuke out and head around to her door to open it for her. She makes no move to get out. “Ellie?”
“He’s dead.”
I take a deep breath. “Yeah, angel, he’s dead.”
“I never seen a dead body before.”
“Most haven’t.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “But you have.”
I clear my throat. “Yes I have. Now, you gonna sit in that car in my drive all day, or do you want to come inside?”
She moves slowly, getting out of the car and drifting towards my front porch. Her steps falter, and I put my arm around her waist and pull her into me before she can fall.
“I got you.” I plant us on the stoop, fit her into the space between my legs, and wrap my arms around her. She sobs, desperate cries of both anguish and what seems like disbelief. I don’t say nothing; I just hold her.
“I’m s . . . sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying. He was a scumbag, the worst of men . . . the things he did.”
“Shh,” I whisper in her ear, smoothing the hair back from her face. “You don’t have to explain to me.”
“He beat me, Jake.” Her cries grow louder, but if I squeeze any harder I’m pretty sure she’ll break. “He beat me . . . in front of my son . . . his son.”
“He’ll never lay another hand on you,” I whisper, and I hold on, because even the strongest of women just need someone to hold them from time to time.
After a while, Elle quits crying and relaxes back into my embrace. Her fingers absently stroke the scars along my forearm, and I want so badly to pull away because she’s already had so much ugly in her life.
“Why haven’t you found a woman to love yet, Jake?”
I stiffen. Her question catches me off guard. I don’t know how to reply to that. I have found someone, but she deserves better than to spend her life with a freak.
“I like being alone.” That was a lie. “Who in their right mind would have me?” is what I want to say, but I don’t. I don’t tell her how much I loathe myself, or that I wish I was dead, or that at night I lie awake wondering if this was part of Aasif Bashir’s plan in disfiguring me—that he’d hoped that one day I’d roam the earth a free man and yet never know the freedom of a woman’s touch again.
I don’t tell her that I hate being alone because I can never shut off the voices or quiet the sounds of war that ring in my ear long after the dust has settled and the blood has dried. I attempt to fill the void with distractions: Nuke, Ellie, Spencer, pouring myself into something physical until my limbs shake from misuse, but it doesn’t mask the stillness. That’s always waiting for the moment I shut everything off. And it never becomes any less haunting.
“I hate it,” she says, as if she’s echoing my thoughts. “Being alone. When you climb into bed and everything’s so still you could hear a pin drop? There’s something in that silence that screams all my greatest fears.”
“What are they?” I say, too quickly.
“My fears?” she asks with a sigh. “That I’ll be alone forever. That Spence will grow up and leave like all kids do, or that he’ll enlist and my life will be filled with endless days and nights of that sound. Of nothing.”
I feel like she just cracked open my skull and pulled the words from my head, but two hearts as lonely as ours? Well, that’s a dangerous thing. Deep down I know as much as she does that I’m no good for her, and yet I’m still too selfish to push her away.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” I whisper.
“Neither should you.” She leans back into my embrace, and I kiss the top of her hair because I never dreamed I’d be lucky enough to do that again to any woman, let alone to this angel who came crashing into my life and made all the pain that came before her seem worth it.
I survived war, I survived torture at the hands of the Taliban, but I won’t survive Ellie Mason, not with my heart still intact.
* * *
After Elle leaves, I head to the market to pick up some groceries. It’s just on dusk when I place the paper sacks in the trunk and Nuke and I swing by the Pier Park Fountain. The area is cordoned off with police tape, and though it was bustling with townsfolk only eight hours ago, it’s eerily quiet tonight. Before long, the police will be knocking on my door. It makes sense. Elle will be their first port of call, but we’ve set some tongues waggin’ around this town these last few weeks, and I’d bet my last penny they already have me lined up in their sights.
Course it don’t help that I know how to fire a rifle and hit a long-range mark from four thousand miles away. It’s only natural I’d be a person of interest, but I didn’t do this, so I don’t know why my hands start to shake on the wheel, or why my breath comes in heavy pants as I stare at the fountain now drained dry of all its water.
Nuke whines and places his head in my lap, and I just sit there, shakin’ like a leaf. Before long, the windows fog with my breath and I turn the dial and blast the AC, but it don’t stop the sweat from beading on my forehead or unease from prickling down my spine.
I was with Elle last night, and I may have wanted to, but I couldn’t have done this. I’d remember killing a man on US soil.
I didn’t do this.
I repeat the words over and over in my head, but after a while, even I stop believing them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jake
Two years ago
I stare down the barrel of an AK47 at the man I’m instructed to kill. Aasif Bashir tells me to pull the trigger. I don’t argue. Arguing means pain. If it meant death, I might have kneed Bashir in the nut sack to speed things along, but all it means is one more scar to add to the collection, one more scream to get their dicks hard, and I’m tired of being Bashir’s plaything. I’m tired of the pain.
I try not to look at the target, but a voice inside my head screams for me to see because that’s the price I have to pay for taking the easy way out. His children, two boys both no older than ten, are held by Bashir’s men. They whimper, begging in both Pashto and broken English for their father’s life. I meet the man’s pleading black eyes across a dirt floor and mudbrick courtyard, and I pull the trigger. I wait for the kick back, the sound of the bullet firing through the barrel and the metallic ping of the empty shell jumping out of the ejection port and hitting the ground.
But the shots don’t ring out and reverberate through my skull. The kickback doesn’t jolt through my aching body. The bullet never left the chamber because the magazine is empty. It’s something Bashir likes to do—toy with us like that. He holds a gun to your head and pulls the trigger. Sometimes there’s a bullet with your name on it, and sometimes there isn’t. Either way, he just laughs and leaves someone else to clean up the mess.
I roar and toss the gun to the ground, charging toward Bashir. He catches me around the waist, his other arm coming up to grab me by the throat, sin
king his fingers in. He could crush my windpipe with the smallest movement of his hand, but though he keeps a firm grasp on me, it isn’t enough to keep me from sucking in breath. I collapse forward, unable to stay upright on my emaciated frame any longer, and I weep against his shoulder.
A gun goes off a few feet away. The ringing in my ears drowns everything out, but my eyes aren’t so lucky. Crimson blooms on the man’s white kameez. There are four new holes in his chest. He slumps back against the wall, leaving a thick smear of blood and tissue behind as his body settles in the dust. The children scream, but they’re silenced with hard slaps to the face.
I struggle against Bashir, but I’m weak. My head pounds from the harsh bite of the sun on my skin after so long spent cooped up in the dark, and my legs fail me. I fall to the ground, grabbing onto the barrel of Bashir’s gun and thrusting it against my forehead.
“DO IT!” I roar. He says nothing, but his hand pats my head as if I were a small, mewling child asking him for more supper. “KILL ME!”
He chuckles and wrenches the gun out of my grasp, signaling to his men to escort me inside. As he does, he aims at the youngest of the boys and fires, shooting him in the head. He doesn’t even pause to see where the boy lands—just keeps on walking. His brother is silent. Fat tears slide over his face. His body trembles, but he doesn’t make a sound, and I can’t look away because the last trace of faith in humanity has been ripped away from me in this God-forsaken courtyard.
I gave in; I let them win. I pulled the trigger, and though it might not have killed the man, it destroyed me. To this boy and his brother, I became the enemy. I became the monster.
My captors haul me to my feet and push me past him. He doesn’t reach out or beg for my help the way his father had. He knows there isn’t any to be found. I can’t help him. I can’t help anyone right now, and no one else is coming for the two of us because they’re already dead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jake
Nuke nudges my arm with his wet nose, and I work to steady my breathing as rain beats down on the roof. I dreamt of the boy again, only this time instead of dark olive skin and hair as black as midnight he’d been fair, with whiskey-colored eyes like his mamma and a shock of blond hair so bright you couldn’t lose him in a snowstorm. My hands shake, and I’m fixin’ for a drink, but I can’t go to that place tonight. I can’t be numb now, or maybe ever again. I have a lot of shit to work through. I probably shouldn’t have punched my shrink in the face, ’cause I could use someone to talk to right about now.