“I think Jenn’s afraid that if we’re over there all the time, Danny won’t ever learn how to change a diaper,” Izzy added. “I keep picturing him duct-taped to a pack of Huggies, sobbing, Again? The baby pooped again…? What is this monster we’ve created?!”
“I know you guys know Dan better than I do,” Tony said mildly as they all laughed. “But he is a SEAL. He’s gone through BUD/S.”
“BUD/S ends after seven months,” Jenk pointed out. “Babies are forever. And yes, Tony and Jay, that is sheer terror that you hear in my voice.”
They all laughed again, which caught the attention of one of two SEAL candidates—a skinny, height-challenged white guy—who was wrestling his tired ass up and over the cargo net. The wind was picking up, which made it that much harder, and his companion—a huge black guy with shoulders that looked like he could easily bench press a house—said something that Izzy couldn’t hear, but was probably a variation on “Watch yourself, Tiny,” with a side of “Don’t slow me down!”
Although in truth, it seemed like it was the little guy who was taking his time so the bigger guy could keep up, but he did a good job of covering, so the big guy didn’t realize it.
And it was then, as Izzy was watching closely to try to figure out if the little guy really was disguising the fact that he wasn’t going at a hundred percent, that the lil’ dude hooked his boot up and through and around one of the squares of rope before—holy shit!—he just let go.
To anyone who wasn’t looking closely, he appeared to slip and nose-dive toward the ground—from where he was, it was an eighty-five foot back-breaking drop to the sand below—but his fall was stopped short by that leg he’d secured to the net. Still, his sudden movement and his shout of alarm made everyone look up, and instructors and candidates alike rushed to his aid.
As he dangled there, upside down, it seemed as if he’d caught his foot purely by luck. But Izzy alone knew better.
He was the only one still sitting down. Even Jay Lopez—a hospital corpsman—had pushed himself up and out of his beach chair despite his injured knee, ready to help if the kid actually fell.
“Guys, I’m pretty sure he did that on purpose,” Izzy said mildly, but no one heard him, on account of all the yelling.
Two of the other SEAL candidates—Jackson, the big black guy who was on the net with the foot dangler, and Schlossman, another muscular dude who could’ve been Jackson’s twin brother-from-another-mother, albeit blond with a square cut crew—had been the closest. They helped secure Livingston, AKA Foot-Dangler, as two of the on-duty instructors swarmed up the net to assist.
It was then that the Dangler—Livingston—puked. Thankfully, Izzy was sitting upwind, but the four men on the net got fully chunked.
“Jesus. Fucking Livingston.”
Izzy turned, fast, to see that Grunge—Lieutenant Peter Greene—had come out of nowhere, as Grunge was wont to do. The officer sat down in the sand next to him.
Izzy started to scramble to his feet. “Sir—”
“Zanella, come on. Relax. At ease.”
Izzy had known the man way back before either of them had become SEALs—and before Grunge had done the mustang enlisted-to-officer thang. Even though he’d been residing in Officer’s Country for years, Grunge still dressed like the California surfer that he was at heart. He had sun-streaked brown hair and twinkling blue eyes in a movie-star-handsome face that had aged remarkably well, considering how much time he spent on the beach. And he spent a lot of time right here. Some years ago, he’d found his calling as a BUD/S instructor.
With his flip-flops, board shorts, and overall Zen-ishness, Grunge looked like everyone’s easy-going stoner big brother, but he was, in fact, the meanest, roughest nightmare of an instructor ever to hit Coronado.
He had the insight and ability to look inside a SEAL candidate’s soul and find his weaknesses and fears. And he had the grit and toughness required to then stomp on those weaknesses with both big feet—and he’d put on his boots to do it. He’d cheerfully grind each of the candidates’ faces into the worst of their own anxieties and phobias.
In fact, Grunge often knew, after just a few hours working with each new class, which men would make it through, no problem, and who would quit and ring out within the first few hours of Hell Week.
And he never, ever gave anyone a free pass. If you made it through BUD/S on Grunge’s watch, you were ready to wear the trident, no question.
Sadly, if you were a SEAL candidate named Livingston, and Grunge said Jesus like that, when he was talking about you, describing you not just as Livingston, but fucking Livingston…?
It was highly unlikely that you were going to be one of the men still standing after the dust of Hell Week settled.
“I don’t know what is up with this kid,” Grunge told Izzy as they watched all five men slowly make their way back down to the ground. “He was invisible up to about a week ago. Suddenly he’s all three of the Stooges simultaneously. Any time there’s a screw-up, who’s suddenly at the epicenter? John Livingston.”
“Maybe he suddenly realized that the program’s not for him, and he doesn’t know how to handle it,” Izzy suggested. “Maybe he thinks it’d be easier to get medically rolled and just never come back. Because that circus act on the cargo net…? That was definitely for show. Maybe not the hurling part, but the dangle? Absolutely.”
“Except this kid isn’t an idiot.” Grunge was really annoyed. “If his goal was to go to medical, he’d know that wouldn’t happen unless he really got hurt. He’s been here long enough to know what comes next.”
What came after an O-course cargo-net mishap—like that near-death dangle—was exactly what had happened to Izzy, years ago. Here and now, the instructors were already reaming Livingston a new one and telling him he had to run the entire O again. And if he did it fast enough, he might not have to do it twice.
“Beer, sir?” Tony asked as he and the other guys came back to their chairs. He was younger than Izzy, Lopez, and Jenk, and he’d actually been in one of the LT’s BUD/S classes. So he tended to be extra polite around the officer. He gestured to the beach chair. “And, please! Sit. Sir.”
“Nah, thanks, TV, I’m good right here,” Grunge answered both questions at once.
“Maybe this was the little dude’s goal,” Izzy said, pointing with his chin toward the SEAL instructors who were letting the two other candidates—Jackson and Schlossman—leave the O early, on account of getting covered with Livingston’s puke.
The instructors didn’t have to do that—they were temporarily being nice.
Jackson and Schlossman clearly recognized their good fortune and they didn’t hesitate. They double-timed it out of there, heading for the showers.
Leaving Livingston to run the O-course over again. Holy shit, Grunge had said this guy’s name was John Livingston, and merciful gods, his nickname had to be Seagull and he probably hated the shit out of that—Damn you, Richard Bach!
“I don’t know, Z,” Grunge was saying. “This kid has me baffled. Maybe I’m getting too old for this.”
“What?” Izzy said. “Never.”
But Grunge leaned past Izzy to ask Lopez, “How’s the knee, Chief?”
“It’s a challenge, sir,” Lopez gave him the talking-to-an-officer version of meh. “But rehab’s kinda like BUD/S. You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it.”
And there it was. The truest statement of the afternoon.
As Grunge chatted with Jay, Tony, and Jenk about the current crop of SEAL candidates—apparently this class had an entire literal boat squad of guys named John, including Livingston Seagull—Izzy watched as the little guy restarted the course.
Livingston approached the cargo net in record time, and climbed it much more quickly and assuredly than before. Huh.
But then, on his way back down, almost at the very bottom, as if he’d felt Izzy’s eyes on him, the little dude caught his foot in the net and landed hard, with his face in the sand. It tacked valua
ble seconds onto his time. And when he tripped in the sand again, and then a third time, he was solidly down to just slightly above average.
But there was no way that those falls weren’t intentional. He was good at pretending to trip, but he wasn’t that good. So what, exactly, was up with this guy? Why was he trying to slow himself down?
And just when Izzy was convinced that he was imagining it—that maybe he was wrong and Livingston was merely clumsy—the kid turned and looked directly at him, giving away the fact that he knew he was being watched.
Grunge saw it, too, and he just shook his head as Livingston ran out of sight.
CHAPTER TWO
Sunday
Petty Officer First Class (and new father)
Dan Gillman:
Hell Week? (shakes his head) Hell Week wasn’t easy, but it also wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Although, I don’t want you to think that I’m making light of Hell Week. Because I’m not. Hell Week is… It’s a huge deal to get through it, to finish up Phase One. Of course, Phase Two sucks just about as much, but you don’t know that when you’re in Phase One.
Was I proud I made it through? Absolutely.
But I never doubted myself. I had to make it. I had no plan B. (smiles)
In a way, it’s like taking care of Colin. Jenni and I have a baby now. And he’s not the easiest baby, that’s true, but we’re responsible for him. For his physical and emotional safety. For his well-being across the board.
Do we wish he slept more and cried less? (laughs) Hell, yeah. But how can you fault a baby for acting like a baby? (shrugs) For me it’s simple. Sooner or later, he’ll stop crying, and sooner or later he’ll sleep.
The only easy day is yesterday, and failure is not an option.
* * *
Ben Gillman’s euphoria did a nose-dive pretty freaking fast when Ryan Spencer arrived at the mall.
Ben’s spike of happiness had come out of nowhere. He’d finished his homework early and had been having a relatively quiet and normal Sunday afternoon when a Facebook message popped up on his computer screen.
It was from Ryan, AKA the cutest kid in school. At least in Ben’s opinion. With his dark, wavy hair and pretty blue eyes behind vaguely Harry-Potter-shaped glasses, Ryan was a year younger than Ben—a sophomore. His mother was a doctor and a captain in the Navy. Since Ben’s brother Dan and brother-in-law Izzy were career Navy, too, he and Ryan had quite a bit in common.
In addition, that is, to their both being part of a small group of out, gay kids attending their San Diego high school.
So it really shouldn’t have been that big of a surprise when that message from Ryan appeared. Hey, Ben. Thinking about going to New Moon tonight. Have you seen it?
Ben froze, uncertain how to respond. No, he hadn’t seen that movie. And no, he didn’t particularly want to see it, except suddenly, he did.
Want to go? Ryan asked.
Yes!!!!!! Ben wrote, then backspaced over the excess of exclamation points before typing a more cool and collected Sure. Who’s going?
Just us.
Ding! That was the answer he’d hoped for.
If that’s OK, Ryan added.
Of course, Ben quickly typed. What time?
6:15. At the mall. Meet you there early? Like 5:30?
Again with the cool. Sounds good. See you later were the words Ben typed, while inwardly he was turning cartwheels.
Ben’s sister, Eden, drove him to the mall—the combination of the words date and Ryan got her pretty ramped up, too. So much so that she pressed a pair of condoms into his hand as he was attempting to unbuckle his seatbelt.
Ben laughed his horror—and handed them back to her. “First date,” he reminded her.
“Yeah, well, what if it’s a really awesome first date?” she asked, trying to get him to take them, but he’d already gotten out of the car.
“I don’t know him very well,” Ben said, bending down to answer her through the open car door. “I mean, I hope this means he likes me, too—”
“He asked you out,” Eden said. “He definitely likes you, Boo-Boo.”
Ben had smiled at her use of his childhood nickname, and Eden had grinned giddily and goofily back at him. But then she quickly sobered and lowered the window so she could call after him, “Be careful. Even just holding hands. I know this is California, but people can be stupid. This whole world can be stupid.”
He’d blown her a kiss as he headed into the mall, catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass door.
He looked pretty good. He’d gone with all black—jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt reminiscent of his goth days. With his red hair and pale complexion, it made him look more tall, lean beat poet than skinny, pasty ginger. Not for the first time, he wished he shared a father with Eden and their brother Danny and had gotten their off-the-scale dark good looks—gleaming brunette hair, deep brown eyes, almost-perfect features, and olive-toned non-freckled skin.
But he was who he was. And Ryan seemed to like him.
He was early, so he sat on a bench near the movie theater and checked for text messages, in case Ryan was running late.
There was a text—from Adam Wyndham, who was the partner of one of Danny’s and Izzy’s SEAL teammates, Tony. Adam was a film actor and was, kind of weirdly, but in a good way, one of Ben’s best friends here in California, despite their age difference.
On our way to pick you up, Adam had just texted.
Oh, shit! I forgot! I’m not home, Ben texted back. Sorry to cancel on you last minute!
The plan had been for Tony and Adam to pick up Ben and take him to an epic Settlers of Catan game over at Mark and Lindsey Jenkins’s house—thus giving Eden and Izzy the chance for a romantic date-night alone at home.
What? Why? Everything OK? Adam texted back, so Ben called him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said as soon as Adam picked up. “I meant to call, but I got a little engrossed in picking out the proper footwear.” He’d gone with his purple Converse high tops. Comfortable and eye catching and just the right amount of color.
“Where are you?” Adam asked. “What’s up?”
“I’m at the mall.” Ben quickly scanned the area, but no one was close to him, let alone listening in. Still, he lowered his voice to say, “I’m going to the movies. I’ve got a date with Ryan Spencer.”
“No shit!” Adam said, clearly pleased. “Way to go! You finally grew a pair and called him! Bravo!”
“He called me,” Ben confessed. “Well, he messaged me on Facebook. Look, I can’t talk. I’m meeting him any minute. But I’m really sorry that I didn’t call to—”
“No worries,” Adam said. “Have fun. Do you have protection?”
“First date,” Ben said. “Jeez, what is wrong with you guys?”
“Silence equals death,” Adam said.
“Can’t you just say Have fun?”
“I thought that was what I was saying. The Have fun is the unspoken given. My emphasis was on but don’t ever be stupid.”
“Well, now it’s burned into my brain, thanks. Gotta go,” Ben said, lowering his voice again. “He’s here.”
And there he was. Ryan Spencer.
The boy was dressed. Up.
His jeans were new, and his shirt matched the pretty blue of his eyes. The fact that Ryan had taken such care with his clothes and his hair, too, made Ben’s stomach flip.
In that moment, he was the happiest he’d ever been, at least in the recent past.
But when Ben stood up to go and meet him and Ryan spotted him, he saw something shift on Ryan’s face. It was tiny—just the smallest of an oh shit type realization, probably because Ben was letting his buckets-full of happiness show not just in his wide grin, but in his eyes, as well.
He felt his own smile falter, and saw Ryan register that, too. And that little oh shit look turned into full-on dismay.
In fact, Ryan even squared his shoulders resolutely as he closed the distance between them. �
�Hey, Ben.”
“Hey,” Ben replied as the exhilaration in his stomach twisted into something far less joyful and a million times more anxious and brittle. “Ryan.”
This was beyond weird. What had he gotten wrong? How had he gotten this wrong? Who’s going? Just us… It still didn’t compute. Ryan had asked him to the movies as if it were a date, he was dressed for a date…
Ben did his best to slip back into his usual expressionless cool-and-calm—the deadpan facade he strapped on whenever he walked into school or the mall. He was a Vulcan. He was a Vulcan… He even managed to lift one eyebrow questioningly, a la his current favorite fictional role model, Mr. Spock.
“You look nice,” Ryan said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t expect…” He shook his head. “Look, I really screwed up. I didn’t realize… I mean… I wouldn’t have asked you out, if I knew that you really, you know…”
He waited, but Ryan didn’t continue, so Ben said, “I’m sorry, I actually don’t know.”
“I didn’t know that you liked me. That way,” Ryan blurted.
Wait… “So you asked me out because you thought I didn’t like you,” Ben verified, then shook his head. “Nope, I’m definitely still confused.”
“I mean, you’re Ben Gillman,” Ryan said.
“And that didn’t help.”
Ryan tried again. “You’re the hottest guy in school.”
Ben laughed. “Thanks? But, what?”
“You don’t date,” Ryan told him. “You hook up.”
Ben would’ve laughed at that, but now his stomach flat-out hurt. He tried to make it a joke. “You might want to check your sources on that, because mine say it’s pretty obviously just one of those stupid school rumors.”
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