Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  with the basics already accomplished,

  Cole and I made it all about nuance.

  I WAS UP IN TIME FOR CLASS

  Darian, who had missed Monday,

  missed Tuesday, too. I have no idea

  if she and Spence slept all day,

  emerging like vampires when the sun

  went down, or what. Neither do

  I know for sure how Cole entertained

  himself while I was at school.

  All I know is, he was waiting for me

  when I got home. Some nights,

  we had dinner out. Others, we cooked

  together like a regular committed

  couple. It was a pleasant holding pattern

  until the fledgling soldiers had to return

  to Pendleton for SOI—School of Infantry,

  where recruits learn vital warfare skills—

  Machine Gun on the Run or Grenades 101.

  Cole and Spence would sort into

  different groups there—Cole to the

  Infantry Training Battalion, and Spencer

  to the Marine Combat Training Battalion,

  before moving on to his chosen

  Military Occupation Specialty training.

  AT THE TIME

  I was clueless about such details.

  All I knew about the Marine Corps

  was that it was about to swallow

  the new guy in my life. The tall,

  serious one from Wyoming, who

  enjoyed staring me down with amber

  eyes and making me come, first

  with his tongue, and then the magic

  way only he knew how to do.

  I wouldn’t have used the word “love”

  then, but I was well on my way there.

  It would take several days of silence,

  brooding about what our time together

  actually meant, for the first real pangs

  of love to strike. But as Cole tossed

  his things into his backpack, this little

  voice kept whispering, “God, you’re

  going to miss him.” And when he

  went to pee before leaving, I slipped

  one of his T-shirts back out of his

  pack, stashed it beneath a pillow.

  I wasn’t exactly sure why then, but

  later, when my bed seemed terribly

  big and lonely, Cole’s shirt, still smelling

  of him, brought comfort. And when

  he finally had to say good-bye, a river

  of emotions—sadness, joy, regret,

  hope—permeated our last kiss.

  I couldn’t make it last long enough.

  When he turned away, he left me breathless.

  A RIVER

  Threads the desert

  landscape, splinters

  desolation,

  an artery of life

  blood,

  silver-blue. And carried

  in its tepid flow,

  a promise of one

  more tomorrow,

  each apricot dawning

  soaked

  with hope for the young.

  History is an unkind teacher.

  The elders are wise

  and well beyond

  dreams

  of glory, riches,

  or gentle death. Enough,

  in a war-tattered land,

  that thirst does not

  ravage

  the throat. Enough

  that, bellies taut

  with the valley’s slender

  abundance,

  children sleep through

  the night.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  I’VE NEVER CONSIDERED MYSELF

  A romantic. Probably because

  no evidence of anything even

  remotely resembling romance

  existed in the house I grew up in.

  Maybe, if I think way, way back

  to my pre-kindergarten days,

  I might catch a glimpse of Mom

  and Dad kissing. But holding hands,

  or whispering sweet nothings?

  Nope. Not even a vague memory

  of such things. I’d see them for

  what they were on TV or in movies—

  fiction. In high school, boyfriends

  were more about status than happily

  ever after. Relationships came.

  Relationships went, and not only

  for me. It wasn’t that I didn’t like

  the idea of falling in love. But I settled

  for fleeting passion. And then I met

  Cole. And Darian met Spencer, and

  their overriding love for each other

  was contagious. The difference being,

  mine and Cole’s has grown. Matured,

  even. Theirs seems destined to wither.

  I CAN’T BRING MYSELF

  To say it has already folded up

  into itself, passed away. But if

  Darian really believes she’s in love

  with someone else, she can’t still

  love Spencer, too. Can she? I curl

  my legs under me, watch her refill

  our drinks. Glad I’m staying over.

  I’m fuzzy-headed and an artificial

  warmth snakes through my body.

  I wait for her to hand me the glass

  before asking, “Who is it, Dar? Tell

  me about him.” She sits on the far

  end of the small loveseat, close

  enough so I can see her eyes. His

  name is Kenny, and I met him at

  a support group for military

  spouses. Not the one here on base.

  Too close to home pasture and all.

  I nod, feeling like an idiot, or at

  the very least, a semistranger.

  “So, his wife’s in the military?”

  Her turn to nod. Air Force. Intel.

  I guess Tara loves it. It “fulfills her,”

  she told Kenny. Sad, for her family.

  HER FAMILY?

  What is Darian thinking?

  “You mean, they’ve got kids?”

  Yep. Well, one. She’s fifteen.

  Wait. Fifteen? That makes

  her mother at least, what?

  Thirty-five? “How old is Kenny?”

  Don’t freak, okay? Forty-two.

  Seriously? What the hell?

  A Daddy fetish, or what? “Dar . . .”

  I know, I know. He’s old enough

  to be my father. He’s also smart

  and sweet and stable . . .

  “Stable? I hate to point this out,

  but he’s sleeping around on his

  wife.” Which brings me straight

  back to Dad, and Darian gets it.

  He’s nothing like your dad, Ash.

  I mean, it’s not like your mom

  was traveling the world, gathering

  intelligence for the U.S. of A.

  Not like she left you behind for

  your father to take care of while

  she was off playing spy. It was

  Tara’s choice to leave, not Kenny’s.

  Please don’t judge him. Or me.

  NOT MY PLACE

  To judge. Not my place to worry,

  really, except infidelity rarely turns

  out well, and last time I looked,

  Darian was still my best friend.

  “I’d just hate to see you get hurt.”

  Hurt? A little fucking late to worry

  about that now! Her jaw tightens

  and her violet-blue eyes flash anger.

  Want to know what hurt is? It’s . . .

  Her words puncture the space

  between us, fangs, but I want to hear

  the rest. “What is it? Tell me, Dar.”

  She considers. Shakes her head.

  Maybe someday. But not tonight.

&
nbsp; Tonight is supposed to be fun.

  Wait. I know . . . She gets up, rushes

  down the hall to her bedroom.

  When she returns, she’s wearing

  red flannel pajamas. She offers a blue

  pair to me. Get comfy. Then we can

  play What If? Our old sleepover

  game. She goes to switch out CDs

  while I heard toward the bathroom

  to change, a little reluctant about

  her plan. What If? was a blast when

  we were in middle school. I’m not

  sure it’s such a great idea tonight.

  THE RULES ARE SIMPLE

  One of us asks a “What if”

  question. The other promises

  to answer truthfully. When

  we were kids, the questions

  were simple enough. Dar:

  What if the hottest guy in school

  tried to kiss you? She knew

  I was petrified my first kiss

  would totally suck, and guessed

  my answer: “I’d run the other way.”

  Or, from me: “What if your

  parents got divorced? Darian’s

  answer, in eighth grade: I’d

  help Mom find a nice man.

  In high school, the game got

  more complex. Freshman year,

  Dar: What if Matt tried to put

  the make on you? Matt was her

  new boyfriend. I’d crushed on

  him for over a year, and she knew it.

  As I considered my answer,

  it occurred to me that if things

  were reversed, I wouldn’t be going

  out with my best friend’s crush.

  In that moment, what I really

  wanted to say was, “I’d tell him

  let’s do it right here. And then,

  let’s do it where Darian can’t help

  but see us.” Okay, the closest

  I’d come to doing “it” was actually

  enjoying my first kiss. So when

  I said, “I’d deep throat him and

  walk away,” I meant I’d tease

  my tongue down his throat, zero

  follow-through, because Dar

  was my BFF, and I’d never mess

  with that. I swear, I had no idea

  “deep throat” could mean oral sex,

  but it did to Darian. Game over.

  It took several days to convince

  her of my naïveté, and only after

  she forgave me did I pause long

  enough to think that my best friend

  really should have known me better.

  ALL COMFY IN BLUE FLANNEL

  I hope for the best, return to

  the front room, where Darian

  and the Dixie Chicks are singing

  “Cowboy Take Me Away.”

  “Been a while since I’ve listened

  to Fly.” It was our favorite album

  in seventh grade. We even thought

  we might be the next Dixie Chicks—

  Darian taking lead with her fine,

  clear voice and me on guitar, doing

  harmonies. We drove our parents

  nuts, practicing over and over.

  It’s the perfect lead-in for our

  game. What if, Darian asks, we

  would have put together a band

  and gone on the rodeo circuit?

  We figured that was the easiest

  place to break in. Plus, Dar’s dad

  could give us rides to events. I mull

  over my answer. “If we’d actually made

  it on the circuit, you and your father

  would either totally hate each other

  by now or we’d be so rich and famous,

  he’d insist on being our manager.”

  She laughs. Pretty sure it would

  be the former. Or maybe both.

  Who knows? Okay. Your turn.

  She waits while I think of a question.

  I sip tequila, relish the crawl

  of heat. “What if you hadn’t broken

  up with Carson Piscopo?” They were

  everyone’s idea of the perfect

  couple for almost two years. Dar

  smiles. I’d be living in a trailer,

  chasing a pack of kids around

  while Carson sucked down beer.

  “He did like his Budweiser, didn’t

  he?” Not so unusual, of course.

  The majority of the football team

  overindulged, as do most Marines

  I know. Then again, any soldier

  worth his MREs deserves to relax

  when he can, with whatever. High

  school jocks? Not so much. Jeez,

  I’m showing my age. Dar clears

  her throat. What if Cole was around

  all the time? Like, if he wasn’t a Marine.

  Would you still love him as much?

  What a weird question. “Well,

  of course. Why wouldn’t I? I don’t

  love him because he’s a Marine.

  I love him . . .” Damn. I almost said

  in spite of it, and that isn’t right,

  either. It’s such a big part of who

  he is. “If he was around all the time,

  I’d have sex a lot more often.”

  WE BOTH LAUGH

  But now it’s time to get serious.

  This was her idea, but I’m ready to play

  tough. “What if you never met Spencer?”

  Then you wouldn’t have met Cole.

  “That’s not what I mean, Dar.”

  I know. Okay. First off, I wouldn’t

  be living at Camp Pendleton.

  Probably not even in San Diego.

  Grad school was never in her plans.

  I’m not even sure a degree was.

  She went to college to leave home.

  “But would you be happier?”

  She shrugs. Who knows? Things

  would be different, that’s all.

  Anyway, happiness is overrated.

  “You don’t mean that. What if . . .”

  Hey! she interrupts. It’s my turn.

  Um . . . As she contemplates her next

  question, the Dixie Chicks launch into

  “Goodbye Earl,” a song about two friends

  who feed poisoned black-eyed peas to

  the ex-husband whose fists put one

  of them in intensive care. So long,

  Earl. The song is half amusing, half

  scary as hell. Darian listens for a few

  seconds, then finally asks, What if

  Cole got drunk and hit you?

  She looks at me so earnestly, it spins

  the tiny warning lights inside my brain.

  “That would never happen. But if

  it did, I’d make sure it would never

  happen twice. I’d . . .” What? Have him

  arrested? Poison his black-eyed peas?

  Or would I, just maybe, chalk it up

  to the alcohol? The bigger issue is,

  “Are you talking from experience?”

  Her face flushes. She starts to say

  something. Closes her mouth.

  Shakes her head. Just wondered.

  There’s more there. A lot more,

  I’m guessing. “Darian, you’d tell

  me if somebody hit you, right?”

  Yeah, sure. Of course I would.

  This game is getting old. One

  more round, then I’ll call it quits.

  “What if Kenny left his wife?”

  Good question. What if I told

  you he’s already decided to?

  THIS ISN’T FUN ANYMORE

  I want to support my friend. Want

  her decisions to be sound. Why do

  I think those two things are opposing

  forces? “Would you please stopr />
  the coy routine? What’s going on?”

  Look. I haven’t totally made up

  my mind, but I’m thinking about

  divorcing Spencer. I can’t tell him

  long distance, though. So I guess

  I’m stuck in limbo for now.

  “And if you decide to split up,

  will it be because of Kenny?”

  In a way. I didn’t fall out of love

  with Spencer because of Kenny.

  But I did fall in love with Kenny

  because of Spencer. Kenny treats

  me with respect. Simple as that.

  Sadness seeps into me. Through

  me. And still, “I guess I understand.

  I’m just sorry, you know?” I give her

  a hug. “I’m fading fast. Guest room?”

  She smiles. Clean sheets on the bed

  and everything. And there’s a new

  toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.

  Morning-after-tequila breath is brutal.

  As I start down the hall, she calls

  after me, So you know, I’m sorry, too.

  TIRED AND BUZZED

  Still, I find it hard to sleep.

  The bed is bigger and softer

  than mine. I sink down into

  the pillow top. Eyes closed,

  I could be afloat in a calm sea.

  Then up blows a wind. Spiraling

  impatience for the impermanent

  nature of love. Can it endure?

  Grow? Flourish? I love Cole more

  now than I did our first year

  together. Is it because I know

  him better—have investigated

  beyond exterior shine, discovered

  the facets underneath, strong,

  pure, impenetrable? I hear Darian.

  What if he was around all the time?

  Would seeing him every day change

  the way I feel? Is my heart fonder

  because of his absence? Does proximity

  breed discontent? The last thing

  I want is for Cole and me to become

  like my parents, one finding some

  slim measure of satisfaction in

  the other’s failures. But what about

  loyalty? Faithfulness? Promises kept?

  Would sharing a home make it less

  welcoming—to Cole, or to me?

  Rewind

  OUR FIRST YEAR TOGETHER

  Was mostly a year apart. At first,

  while Cole attended SOI, we saw

  each other when he got weekend liberty.

  Sometimes on base, other times off,

  but only if he wasn’t in the field, and only