by Annie Stone
“That’s what you say,” he grumbles.
“You are transferring the way you feel about Lauren to me, Carter. I never used you. Lauren did. She was the one who made you feel you weren’t worth anything. Not me.”
His hand cuts through the air. “You’re all the same.”
I step toward him, trying to be calm, which is getting increasingly difficult. “I’m not like that. And you know it.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Do I? So what about Hunter?
I should have known where this was going—as usual. It’s getting ridiculous.
“There’s nothing going on between Hunter and me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I nod silently before taking a deep breath and reaching for his hands. “What are we doing here?” I say softly. “If you don’t trust me anymore, if you have completely stopped trusting me, then what’s the point of our relationship?”
For a moment, he interlaces his fingers with mine, but then he lets go. “I have no idea,” he says. “I really don’t.” Then he turns around and storms out of the room.
As usual, I’m crushed. How can I save our relationship? And more importantly: Do I want to?
I don’t even know anymore…
There was a time when I thought Carter was the love of my life. If I still felt like that, I would definitely fight. I would do anything to get him back. The fact that I’m pretty apathetic about this should tell me something, right? Maybe it’s time to let go. Maybe I have to acknowledge that the end is nigh.
But how do you let go of something that has been good for such a long time?
How do you finish something that used to be so important to you?
Because even if Carter is acting like a complete asshole at the moment, he used to be good to me. And good for me. I was able to be myself with him. I felt like I’d arrived in a good place, somewhere I belonged.
Maybe that’s what is making it so difficult for me to break out of this increasingly toxic relationship.
And what about Hunter?
“Mac?” Carey calls from downstairs.
“Yes?” I yell, stepping into the hallway.
“I’m leaving.”
I hurry downstairs and give him a hug.
“What was that for?” he asks, amused.
A little embarrassed, I tell him, “To get you through your first day.” Today is the first day of Carey’s EMT training, his first step to becoming a paramedic. He and Carter tend to fight about this, because Carter would like his son to do something more business-related. He’s angry that both of his sons have opted for what he calls “lowly work” and says they’re wasting their potential. He tends to think you’re only worth something if you make a lot of money.
Carey smiles his Carey smile. The one that makes so many women swoon—and that’s not an exaggeration! “I’ll survive,” he says.
“I hope so. Wouldn’t know what to do without you.” Oops, somehow a few tears came out with those words.
Carey’s quiet for a moment. “Did you guys have another fight?”
I’m angry with myself for forcing Carey into this position again. I shouldn’t be dragging him into this! He should be having a good time, relaxing, just being young!
“It’s all right.” I look away, chewing on my bottom lip and kneading my hands. Real convincing.
“Nothing’s all right, Mac. Nothing.” He gently puts two fingers under my chin. “I’ll always be here for you. Always. No matter what happens. I promise.”
I nod. “Come on, you’ve got somewhere to be.”
He kisses me on the cheek. “I love you, doll.”
“I know. I love you too.”
When he leaves, I go back upstairs and stand before the dresser. Where could the cufflinks be?
I know it’s stupid, but somehow, I feel we might have another chance if only I could find those stupid cufflinks.
Sliding open the drawers, I carefully check each one, then underneath the dresser, and, moving it away from the wall, behind it. But they’re not there.
11
Hunter
“Get up! Now!” our drill instructor yells through the barracks. “It’s my favorite week! And what’s my favorite week called?” His assistants are throwing us out of bed. Just fast enough, I pull on my pants and step into my boots.
“Sir, Hell Week, sir!” we all shout at the same time.
“Exactly!” he shouts back, laughing diabolically. “For the next five days, your asses are mine!”
They chase us outside, to the courtyard, where we gather in formation. The DI paces back and forth in front of us. “You all think you’re hard-asses, but I give you twelve hours before the first of you gives up. All you need to do is ring the bell to put yourself out of your misery. Two thirds or more of you will not get through Hell Week. There’s no point fighting it. The next five days are going to break you. Do us a favor, little girls, and don’t waste our time.” He turns to march in the opposite direction. “We always love to see first-day quitters. Any takers?”
Nobody moves. The DI comes over to Killian. “What about you, pretty boy? Want to ring the bell and go back to your mommy?”
“Sir, no, sir!” Killian screams.
The DI gives him a condescending look, as if he’s thinking, We’ll just see which of us is more stubborn.
After he walks us over to the beach, we have to carry dinghies up above our heads, lift tree trunks the size of telephone poles, and do push-ups in the sand. Day and night. In five and a half days, we’re only allowed four and a half hours of sleep. The only thing we get plenty of—which is a real improvement over boot camp—is food. To beat the cold, we need to chow down. And if a guy doesn’t, they force him to.
It’s for these same reasons that I haven’t been trying to build more muscle recently. Muscle drags you down like lead. I have put on some fat, which insulates you against the cold and gives you a better chance of survival. Besides, I can still get my six-pack back after BUD/S.
In our first night alone, we lie in the cold water, the surf torturing us. We swim in the ocean for hours, hypothermia our biggest enemy. More push-ups, more dinghies, more crawling through the mud, more rolling around in the sand.
This is about testing us to see how much we can take, how we deal with excessive physical training, how tolerant we are to pain and cold. Up to 80 percent of us are going to give up. Only those who really want this will get through Hell Week.
We are constantly in motion, running, doing push-ups, swimming, paddling… We never get a quiet minute, and we learn that we can only survive as a team. How could you lift a tree trunk the size of a telephone pole alone? We are a team, and we have to get through this together.
And then we have to stand still. Our hands, faces, and uniforms caked with mud, we stand up to our hips in water, the cold wind driving tears into our eyes.
The salt water burns inside all my scratches and wounds, and I shiver, freezing. I’ve never been so cold in my life. I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.
“Texas?” I say quietly.
“Yes?”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
I hear some murmuring, but most of us are quiet. Saving our strength to make it through Hell Week.
We hear the command to grab some food and sprint out of the water, shoving our way through the crowd, trying to be the first inside the mess hall. Totally spent, I’m almost falling asleep as I start shovelling peas and mashed potatoes into my mouth.
“That’s it, children. Back outside! Move!”
One last bite and we’re running outside again, getting into formation in the courtyard with the giant bell.
“Nobody giving up yet?” the DI asks, sounding gravely disappointed. “You want more? I got more!”
So we do it all again. We run through the sand with the dinghy, without the dinghy, with the tree trunk, without the tree trunk. We paddle the dinghy through the surf and out into the water. After twenty-f
our hours, we’re so exhausted we could sleep for a week. Rivers nearly falls into the water with fatigue, and I have to grab him and hold him inside the boat.
Then they put us back in the water for hours on end. In the cold, we tread water, trembling. When we’re allowed to come out again, they make us do more push-ups, torture us in the surf, and make us crawl through the mud some more…
And then the bell sounds for the first time.
Shock runs through me. What does that mean? When I look up, I see our first comrade admitting defeat. But it seems more like a victory for him, because he’s walked back to the beach and handed donuts and coffee, while we’re still suffering out here.
The DI walks through the rows of our formation with a megaphone, trying to convince us to quit, parading donuts in front of us, showing us how great it would be to step out right now. I grit my teeth. I don’t want to give up. I cannot give up. I want Mac to be proud of me. I want to be the man she deserves.
When our second night begins, I have never been so tired, so exhausted, in my entire life. That is the only thought drifting through my body. It feels like all my brain cells have died off. This is the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. Every fiber of my body is screaming. It is complete and utter madness to force so much pain and suffering upon yourself. Voluntarily.
The DI’s voice is soft as he offers us a way out of our pain. It sounds so tempting. So incredibly sensible. Just ring the bell, and it’ll all be over. One thought keeps me from doing it. Mac. I cannot give up, because it would not bring me one step closer to Mac. I have no idea whether this madness is going to impress her, but I have to try.
And, finally, it’s time for food again. Food! God, food! I have never heard a word so beautiful! We sprint inside the mess hall, though we were faster forty-eight hours ago. I put the fork to my mouth, and feel mashed potatoes on my tongue before I lose consciousness.
Killian nudges me. “Wake up!”
He drags me up and outside to the courtyard, where they make us do push-ups again. Back to the beach, back into the ocean, back into the freezing cold. But they ring the bell more and more often now, and every time, my mouth waters when I smell the coffee served to the quitters.
At the beach, somebody is having a party. There’s a campfire, laughter. The smell of charcoal and barbecued meat wafts over to us. God, what I wouldn’t give to be there with them instead of standing here. It’s right there a ways down the beach—I could just ring the bell and leave. It is my own decision. Nobody can force me to stay.
Now and then, the medics take a look at us, so nobody suffers any serious damage.
Again and again, the bell rings, and the sound is so sweet! It symbolizes the end of the pain, a hot shower, food, sleep… Every time I hear the bell, I want to give up, want to join my companions. I mean, it’s okay not to make it through this. Hardly anybody makes it. But every time I want to give up, I see two shiny brown eyes in front of me, soft, brown hair, and long, sexy legs in a beautiful little summer dress.
I don’t want to do anything but sleep—a sweet, blissful nothing—and maybe dream of her. And then have a steak. God, steak!
“Into the water!” the command comes.
I let myself drop into the water over the edge of the dinghy. We swim back to shore, lie in the surf, and crawling through the sand.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I hear somebody say next to me and look to see who it is.
Donovan is getting up. Even though my hand is so tired, even though every single one of my muscles is aching, every tendon is screaming, I grab his arm and drag him back into the sand. “Does a sailor give up when there’s a Marine still left in the race?” I ask him quietly.
He snarls and starts crawling through the sand again.
At long last, the call comes:
“Hell Week is secured!”
The liberating words! Five and a half days are over. My gaze seeks Killian’s, and I see the same pride there that I’m feeling. Hell, yeah! We have made it through Hell Week!
All I want to do is sleep. I don’t even want to take a shower first, even though I have mud stuck in every bodily opening and other places where it certainly does not belong. Sand is rubbing against the skin inside my ass crack, and I’m going to be so sore I might as well try anal. Which couldn’t possibly be worse than this. But none of that matters right now. All I want is sleep.
Hell Week has been hell. There’s no other way to put it. But it has also been an experience we’re going to benefit from for the rest of our lives. Seventy-five percent of our group gave up. The rest of us developed a really solid bond. Fuck, we survived Hell Week! I don’t think anybody’s ever been as proud as we are. The boys who got through it with us feel like brothers. It’s a new kind of camaraderie because we know now that we can’t survive without our team. I helped Rivers and Donovan, and Killian helped me. We only made it through this because our teammates didn’t let us give up.
Killian is named Honor Man because with his discipline and team spirit, he’s actually helped a lot of us. He was a shining example in the darkness of Hell.
However, my assumption that Phase Two would be easier is irrefutably wrong.
Okay, maybe we don’t have to crawl through the sand anymore, but we’re definitely still as soaked as we were during Phase One. Phase Two is basically seven weeks of combatant diving. I’m glad I’ve always been like a fish in the water—and glad for the head start we got in our earlier training. I don’t know whether I would have survived this otherwise. One thing is clear: The Navy is no less crazy than the Marines.
No wonder the SEALs say their program is the toughest in the world. It doesn’t just challenge you physically, but mentally, too. When you’re out on special missions, you need to be able to rely on your comrades one hundred percent. If there is even one unstable person in there, you risk everybody else’s lives.
Somehow, we manage to get through it together, and as we stand, facing the last seven weeks dedicated to land warfare, I realize that I’ve grown. Not physically, but as a human being. I’ve grown stronger than I was before. And I’ve learned that I can surpass even my former self. That I can rely on myself and my skills when the worst comes to the worst.
12
Mackenzie
As I shove laundry into the washing machine, I go through pockets. What’s this? Digging through a pocket in Carter’s pant, I pull out a piece of fabric. It’s a thong.
Incredulously, I stare at the tiny piece of cloth, unable to process what I’m seeing. When I finally do, I drop it on the floor like I’ve been burned.
It isn’t mine. We haven’t had sex in ages, so it can’t be. Well, maybe he took it out of my drawer… But he’s never even been into panties. I mean, he might put a thong in his pockets in the heat of the moment, but to seek it out? No. I take a closer look at the thong on the floor… No, it’s not mine. That much is clear.
Those must have been Carey’s pants, and I didn’t realize. They must be. Carter would never… No, not him. I grab the pants the thong came out of and march upstairs. Carey’s sitting on the couch playing some video game.
“Are these yours?” I ask, praying he’ll say yes.
He looks up for a second. “Are you serious? Those are old-man pants.”
I nod. Yes. They are… And I know exactly when Carter was wearing them, too. The day he got back from New York. I can still see that smudge on them. I made macaroni and cheese, and he dropped some on his thigh. We were laughing and joking about it, and for the first time in ages, things didn’t feel so tense between us. I don’t remember where Carey was, but he wasn’t home.
Carey pauses his game. “Why do you ask?”
I shake my head and go back downstairs. I don’t want to tell Carey what I’m thinking. It wouldn’t be fair. Carter is his dad…
How ironic this all is. Carter left Lauren because she cheated on him, and now he’s doing the same to me.
I hear footsteps on the stairs. Carey, obviously. I should
have known. I don’t want to touch the thong, but I don’t want Carey to see it, either. I’ve just convinced myself to pick it up when Carey asks, “What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I try to hide it.
“Is that yours?”
I should just say yes. I should, but I can’t. I don’t want to burden Carey with this, but I just can’t help myself. I shake my head.
“Was it in Dad’s pocket?”
Even though I don’t want to, I reply with a hesitant nod.
And then he punches the wall. “Fucking asshole!”
“Carey!” I call out in shock. I’ve never seen him so aggressive. He’s always so laid-back.
“I’m so sorry, Mac,” he mumbles quietly.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know…”
And then we just stand there. Me with another woman’s thong in my hand, Carey with his knuckles bleeding.
“Just put that down,” he says after a while.
I nod, but my muscles refuse to move. I keep holding it. I don’t know why I can’t put it down.
Carey’s hands close around mine. His warmth makes my fingers move again. As the black lace sails onto the floor, Carey takes my hand and interlaces our fingers.
“It’s you and me, Mac.”
I know what this means, but I can’t do that to him. He can’t choose me over his dad. He can’t.
“You can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can. You’re my family, Mac.”
That’s all he needs to say. I’m family to him, and he’s family to me.
Later, I’m sitting on our bed that no longer feels like ours. It has become a lonely place. How long have we not slept in this bed together? I don’t even know.
I realize one thing now. My feelings for Carter have faded. Maybe true love lasts even if you are not loved back. But my love for Carter hasn’t. I need more. More emotion, more attention, more affection. If I can’t get that, if I don’t feel like the other person loves me as much as I love him, my feelings wilt.