Nights Without Night (Fox Lake Book 2)

by Marina Vivancos

  Isadoro stops in his tracks, face falling in surprise, and then lighting up completely.

  “Callie!”

  “Surprise!” She grins back, and they meet in the middle, embracing. Isadoro holds her tight, and my heart squeezes for him. I am starkly grateful for this trip, this moment, these people, for putting that expression on Isadoro’s face.

  “Okay, okay, let’s sit down,” Doc says. Isadoro and Callie break apart with a laugh, and we all ignore its watery quality, sitting around the round table.

  Between ordering drinks and food, the table is a beehive of conversation. I sit back and listen, watching their familial interactions and jokes. They catch each other up on civilian life. Doc talks about his recently-born baby and how he’s going to transfer to a military hospital based in the U.S. at the end of the next tour. He shows us pictures of the baby, who looks like a small fox, peering at the camera through narrowed eyes.

  Muhafiz talks about his new girlfriend, breaking all military stereotypes by blushing as he speaks about her, to Ricky’s delight. Callie is asked about her mom, who is now out of the hospital after a gallbladder operation. We order food to share and Ricky and David argue over the pronunciation of the word ‘Worcestershire’. Ricky gesticulates wildly but stops himself short with a wince.

  “Be careful, will you? You’ll undo all my good work,” Doc admonishes.

  “What happened?” Isadoro says, and it’s clear they haven’t told him about this.

  “Just a bit of shrapnel in the shoulder. May have miscalculated just a smidge on one of the demolitions.”

  “It wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t stupid enough to insist on watching your own explosions,” David says, and it’s obvious this is an old argument with an undercurrent of real fear and frustration.

  “But they’re so pretty!”

  “If you want something pretty I’ll give you a picture of my face,” Callie says. “Don’t fucking do it again.”

  Isadoro is silent throughout all of this, and Callie turns towards him, pointing a finger at his face. “And you. Don’t you dare do whatever it is you’re doing right now,” she barks. Isadoro startles slightly. I look around, taking in the other’s sudden seriousness, Doc’s cutting eyes.

  “I’m not-”

  “Yeah, you are, and I get it. We all get it. But you gotta trust us, even if that means letting us go a little. You were a great team leader, Dorado, but I’m just as good. Each of us has parts to play in life, and this one is over for you. I’m sorry if that hurts, but it’s gotta be this way. You gotta respect us enough to know that we were good with you, and we’re good without you, and that even if something happens I will have done everything you would have, and more. You got that?” Callie says.

  Isadoro looks at her. There’s a complicated expression on his face. It’s one of those emotions that don’t have names, that are fragments put together, a mosaic of mourning, acceptance, fear, respect.

  Slowly, he nods. I watch in silence, my heart rabbiting. I know this isn’t going to cut through all the ties still hooking Isadoro into his feelings of responsibility, but it might weaken them just enough to make a difference.

  “Aw, Papi is having a hard time watching his kids grown up. Don’t worry, I’ll still hit you up for pocket money,” Ricky says, breaking the tension. Isadoro rolls his eyes, reaching over the table to punch his arm.

  “And now you have other people to take care of,” Muhafiz says, pointing his chin at me.

  “You mean to be overbearing of,” I joke, sticking my tongue out at Isadoro when he looks at me.

  “How’s the degree going, by the way?” Doc asks me. My eyebrows raise a little in surprise.

  “Oh. Good. Finished. I get my grades when we go back,” I say.

  “We hear your pictures got chosen to be shown at an exhibition,” Muhafiz says. Now my eyebrows really lift up. I look at Isadoro, who must have told them.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m actually really looking forward to that,” I say, and the conversation stays on me for a while. It’s not intrusive, but I’m stunned at how much they know about me. Sure, I’ve talked to them every once in a while, but the conversation had been composed of superficial banter. Now, they seem to be aware of everything, from old jobs to current projects.

  “At least you’re not at that catering gig anymore,” David says.

  “Fuck, that was the worst. At a Christmas shindig, one of the guests took a shit right in the middle of the bathroom floor. Like, not even behind a stall. Right in the middle. And the tickets were like $700 a pop! Who even pays that much for a ticket and then spends it on taking shits on public floors?” I whine.

  “Rich people. They be like that,” Ricky says. “Dealing with other people’s shit is shit. Back when I was an officer I’d always get Wag Bag Duty. We’d have to stir the shit whilst it burnt…man, those were the dark days.”

  “Oh my God. You never told me about that!” I say, turning to Isadoro.

  “I didn’t have to do it much. The lippy ones who pissed the commanding officers off got that job,” he shrugs. Everybody looks at Ricky.

  “Hey, I am a delight,” he says, pressing his lips loudly against the tips of his bunch-up fingers in a chef’s kiss. “All the Fobbits love me.”

  “Didn’t you almost get kicked out of the schoolhouse?” Callie deadpans, referring to the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Centre and School, the primary training grounds for the Special Forces.

  “That’s hearsay!” Ricky exclaims. Everybody looks at him. “Okay, okay, there might have been a tiny—miniscule, really—incident with a pipe bursting in my vicinity.”

  “Bursting or exploding?” David asks, clearly already having teased Ricky about this before.

  “It might have allegedly exploded a little tiny bit,” Ricky admits. The group laughs, shaking their heads.

  “What about the time the Quartermaster almost killed you when you kept asking for non-regimented goods?” Doc teases.

  “Hey, I wore him down in the end! He got me that bottle of cheese-wiz, so help me God.”

  “That’s what you were asking for?” I ask incredulously.

  “I needed the can for a…project,” he says.

  The food arrives in big plates for sharing. We dig in, and Muhafiz sighs as he chews on fresh shrimp.

  “Man, remember surf and turf days when we were officers? That shrimp came in trash bags. And the meat, damn, you had to saw through it. It was the best thing that could possibly happen to us back then.”

  “What miserable bastards we were,” Callie says.

  “Were? Don’t you remember when we ate at Bongo Drum’s—that’s what we called the leader of one of the Sunni families cause of his, you know,” he says the last bit to me, drawing a half circle against his stomach with his hands and then patting it like a drum.

  “Wow. The level of Special Forces diplomatic tactic is blowing me away,” I say sarcastically.

  “Hey, there are like seven hundred Yazid’s in one village. You try keeping them straight.”

  “How about Yazid One, Yazid Two…”

  “Oh yeah, those are memorable,” Ricky snarks. “Anyway, the point is that his food was so good I went straight to nirvana. Oh, man…they do something to the rice, man. I barely listened to a word he said.”

  “Spoken like a true Green Beret. Elite of the elite, right?” I tease.

  “Fuck the Navy! Viva los Green Beret!” Ricky shouts. The whole table cheers, raising their glasses and drinking. I laugh, shaking my head, but toast to them.

  The conversation weaves in and out of shop-talk. It’s obvious Isadoro is interested, so they talk about some of the non-classified going-ons. Callie complains about how the soldiers in a recent camp they visited didn’t even know the western hand-sign for ‘stop’ is the Iraqi equivalent to ‘welcome’, and were all outraged when none of the locals stopped their cars when they were signed with an outstretched palm facing them.

  “You’d think the few soldiers that
are left would know that,” she grouses.

  A few times Isadoro will lean into her and ask her quiet questions, obviously about more sensitive missions. Despite their talk about letting go, it’s easier said than done.

  It’s clear I’m completely out of the loop. But Isadoro, who had once been right in the middle, is now in the periphery, and that transition comes with loss.

  The conversation turns to lighter subjects and Isadoro gets up from the table, heading to the toilet. The moment he’s out of earshot, all eyes are on me. I freeze with my drink half-way to my mouth.

  “How is he doing, really?” Doc asks me, watching me with his animal eyes. I put my drink down, pressing my lips. I don’t want to betray Isadoro’s trust, but if there is one group of people to tell…

  I shake my head slightly. “Not great,” I admit. They all look at each other.

  “Not great like I can’t get a job not great, or not great as in-” Ricky makes a choking sound, letting his head flop to the side as if snapped by a noose.

  “Jesus, Ricky!” David says as everybody groans.

  “Hey! Everybody was thinking it.”

  “Literally none of us were thinking that. That’s not where Isadoro would go, especially not when he’s got Iván,” Callie says. I immediately feel uncomfortable at the insinuation.

  “I don’t think it works like that. I don’t think one person can just save another like that, not if they don’t want it.”

  “But Isadoro does want it. And a person can keep someone afloat long enough that they can find the strength to swim to shore. And—I’m sorry to put the responsibility on you, but that’s what you are to him. He don’t gotta say as much for us to know. You gotta…you gotta take care of him, yeah?” she says.

  “Yes,” I agree immediately. “And…yeah, things have been rough but…I don’t think you have to worry. The fact he’s here now…yeah. It’s…it’s good,” I say. They all relax.

  “Call us, if you need someone to back you up. Some things may have to come from us,” Muhafiz says. I nod.

  “Thank you,” I say, truly meaning it. By the time Isadoro gets back, we’ve switched the subject and I’m feeling tired but light.

  I hadn’t really realized fully until I said it out loud, but the fact he is here now is a promise to the future.

  The hanging lights around the patio turn on as the sun sets across the water. It’s all red and orange until its black. The lamps flutter with bugs, shadow-puppets moving against the glowing yellow. When the restaurant closes, dessert scraped from our plates and coffee dredges at the bottom of our cups, we continue the night, taking a walk around the pier. We sit by the water in the warm air, surrounded by the clean, salty smell of the sea, the sound of its rhythm.

  I watch them all interact, and my soul aches for Isadoro. In empathy, because his return home meant a sudden absence of his support system. His family. But I feel relief too, knowing these were the people who took care of him while he was away. It’s like I’ve finally peeked inside that world in a way no amount of watching the news could give me.

  Day to day, this is what really mattered. The iron skeleton of his deployment. The people he fought and rested and feared and laughed with.

  I lean my head against his shoulder and he wraps his arm around me. I close my eyes and just listen to them talk for a while, the sound like the lull of the sea.

  The sun is already rising when we part. The goodbyes are short and efficient out of emotional necessity. I get tight hugs, and my embrace is just as thankful in return.

  “We’ll see each other soon,” Callie says.

  “Inshallah,” Isadoro replies with a smile.

  In the light of the new dawn, we walk back. The town around us is already waking up, fishermen and bakers ready for the day.

  “I’m glad you have them,” I tell him softly as we walk down the docks. “Because you still have them. You know that, right?” I say. He slings an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close. He stays quiet, but it’s not an isolating silence, its walls soft and permeable.

  I’m exhausted when I finally crawl into bed, but it’s a satisfied feeling, well-earned. Isadoro climbs in after me. I shift towards him instantly. Despite my tiredness, I want to feel him close.

  I sprawl over him, straddling one of his thighs as we kiss lazily. It’s all tongue and lips as I run my fingers against his scalp with the back of my fingernails. Isadoro’s hands press against my back, travelling down until they’re cupping my ass, one cheek in each palm. He squeezes, shifting me up slightly, and I moan against his mouth as my crotch rubs against his hip. I press my thigh against his hard cock and start rocking slowly, rubbing off on him like we’re kids again and too impatient for prep.

  “Isa,” I murmur. He squeezes my ass again and I stutter against his cheek.

  “Fuck, you feel good,” he mutters. Our movements are the slow erosion of waves. We move with the boat, a sway of bodies, feeling the pleasure rise in increments. Hard and fast can be good, but so can this, the feeling of wanting more and not having enough, the delicious act of denying yourself speed or more friction, the desperation it breeds.

  We breathe against each other, its own kind of kiss.

  Orgasm hits Isadoro first. I watch him through the haze of my pleasure as he arches against me, head thrown back, the tendons of his neck straining. Feel him grip my ass hard, push against my own dick. Feel him come against me the moment before I tip over into the same high, that same deep.

  We lay, sticky and sated in the aftermath. We’ve slid the door mostly down, and the slat of sunlight peeking through makes Isadoro glow. A fan whirs in the space, pushing air around. Everything is thick with heat and the calling of sleep.

  “Isa,” I say as I fall into the dark, just to drag him with me into rest.

  **********

  Sometimes, in that swaying dark, Isadoro will open up and talk, unprompted. The words fall like overripe fruit from a tree, cracking on the ground and exposing the pulp of fear and doubt within.

  He shares his guilt over things left undone. The fight for Helmand in Afghanistan. The misery in Syria. The crumbling foundations of our own home. He talks about how there were successes, but at times it felt like they were just there to fix a machine they broke.

  There is nowhere his guilt won’t stretch to. It is a blind, enraged minotaur in a maze of his own making.

  He tells me about the jarring difference between how his team saw him, and how the locals did. How it felt to go from an environment of complete comradery to one of intense hostility. In a way, civilian life is similar, only reversed. Isadoro tells me about how every time he rolls out of the wire, no matter what land he is in, he feels like a transplant from another world. It is only at home that he’s safe from that feeling.

  “I get that,” I tell him, stroking his face. “But you’re a soldier. Isn’t rolling out of the wire what you do? Rain or shine or fear or doubt?”

  He doesn’t respond, but his hands are tight against my back.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It’s our last stop before turning back. The return trip will be straight-sailing, with pit stops for rest and fuel.

  On our first of two days there, we decide to just go to the beach. We buy some fresh towels and a large, lime-green parasol and head to the sand, walking along the shore until the crush of people diminishes and we find an open spot. We lay our stuff on the scorching sand while I dig a small hole, spearing the parasol in as Isadoro finds some rocks to keep it steady. By the time it’s in place, we’re both sweating and head straight into the water.

  It’s like old times. We swim into the deep until our feet have to tread water, the floor far below. We dive through the warm surface and into the cooler tides at the bottom, playing at who can surface the largest handfuls of sand until we’re spluttering as we throw them at each other.

  We swim a little inland, stopping just before where the waves break. We bob with their swell and dips. There’s a strong breeze and the water rises
impressively. We make a competition out of catching the waves without bodies, letting the momentum of the rise take us into the foamy crash and further.

  “I win!” I crow as we both stand up at the tail of a wave, a few feet closer to the shore than Isadoro.

  “It’s cause you’re so skinny,” he protests.

  “It’s cause you’re so skinny,” I mimic in a high voice. “You’re such a sore loser. I’m just better than you. What, did they not teach this in training?” I tease.

  “Brat,” he says, shoving me into the next wave.

  “Hey!” I splutter, lunging and yanking at his leg until he falls. I scream in delight as he bursts out of the water and toward me, swimming away from him and into deeper, calmer waters.

  When we exhaust ourselves like children in the waves, we walk out into the heat again. We spread our towels in the sun and lay there, the water evaporating from our skin and leaving salt behind. When the sun’s itch becomes too much we move under the parasol and nap in the breeze.

  I blink awake as I hear Isadoro get up next to me. I watch him through slit eyes as he goes into the water and then back again to sit right at the wave’s edge. I follow his lead, taking a dip before joining him.

  “Let’s build something,” I suggest. He smiles at me.

  We don’t have any tools, but it doesn’t stop us. We carry wet sand away from the water’s reach and I get to constructing a castle as he builds a protective moat around it for when the ride rises. We used to do this all the time in summer when we were children.

  “Remember the time we started a sand war with those kids we didn’t even know?” I laugh.

  “Oh my God. They looked so fucking surprised when you lobbed that first ball at them. Everybody was always on about what a troublemaker I was, but you were just as bad.”

  “We were a couple of little shits,” I agree. Isadoro was always more of a thrill-seeker, but I was responsible for a fair share of misadventures. “Or, oh my God…remember that restaurant we used to terrorize?”

  “Fuck! I had almost forgotten about that.”