Fighting Absolution

by Kate McCarthy

  He sets himself down beside me and lets out a long breath. We’re both now staring at the floor. “Fuck that was hard.”

  I want to curl myself into a ball and cry like a damn baby. I settle for loosening the knot of my tie. “Yeah.”

  Ryan swallows. “Jake was …”

  “I know.”

  He slaps a hand down on my knee and pushes himself up. “Get changed. We’ll go drink.”

  He leaves my room.

  Ryan is not okay. He’s shut down. A total brick wall. All he talks about is returning to Afghanistan. The walls are closing in here. He wants to get back over there and do something, and I know the feeling. Hopelessness. Anger. Futility. As if being stuck here not actively fighting in the war is a dishonour to Jake’s memory.

  Murphy,

  The size of my (healthy) ego is in proportion to other important parts of my body. Just an FYI.

  Yeah. He got Captain America. I used to joke that the sun shone out of his ass so it seemed appropriate. I know life isn’t meant to be a competition, but he won everything. You can imagine the constant blows my (flagging) ego had to suffer through. The bets I always lost. The money. I was trying to save for a house.

  I took great satisfaction in discovering his shitty efforts in the kitchen. He even burnt ramen. I know because I was at his cottage when he did it. Granted we’d had a bit to drink, but it’s only noodles. Not haute cuisine!

  He put them in the bowl, added the flavour and vegetables, and stuck it in the microwave. I was raiding his cupboards for snacks while we waited (the two-minute cooking time was too long) when this nasty burning smell invaded his little kitchen.

  I grabbed the bowl out, and DUDE! He forgot to add water. Even I knew you had to add water.

  We still ate it (after adding water and re-cooking it). We were hungry.

  So … One more week of deployment. Have you made a decision about where you’re spending your leave? (hint hint: here)

  Your (well-endowed) friend,

  Brooks

  It’s eight a.m. and I’m at the butcher’s when my phone dings from my back pocket. Having spent five minutes trying to choose between pork, berry, and truffle chilli sausage, or lamb, mint, and halloumi sausage, the distraction is a welcome relief. What the hell is truffle chilli anyway? Or halloumi for that matter? Who the hell even cares? I just want to barbeque some meat for fuck’s sake, not entertain the Queen.

  “Give me a minute,” I tell the guy behind the counter. I step away and the customer behind me takes my spot, shooting me a dark look for taking too long. I’ve formed quite the queue with my indecision. Not that it matters what I choose. I’m planning to visit Fin for dinner at the cottage. Word on the street is that she isn’t eating. Tonight is my attempt to feed her. Myself too because it’s been hard to care about food since losing Jake just a few short weeks ago.

  Grief seems to rip your taste buds out along with your heart. Nothing tastes good, but I force it down my throat, same as Ryan does. Our bodies need to function so we don’t fall down on the job.

  I tug my phone free. A notification from Messenger sits on my screen. It’s from Jamie, the message a first. My brows wing up in surprise, yet I can’t help the smile that steals across from face.

  Jamie Murphy: I’m returning to WA for my leave.

  I delve inside our conversation settings on the screen, adjusting our names to our old nicknames for each other. Then I stab out a reply, hitting delete more than once because my fingers are too large for the tiny, stupid keypad.

  Bear: You made the right choice.

  Dots appear. She’s replying. I press my back against the wall of the butcher’s, letting all the impatient customers in the store go before me. It’s hard not to yell at each and every one of them. Who cares about standing in line for an extra fucking minute or two when there are good people out there fighting for their country? Dying for their goddamn country? How can they not see how lucky they are? Why are they not grateful for every minute of life they have?

  My phone dings, Jamie’s message calming the anger burning in my chest.

  Little Warrior: I didn’t book the flights. Wood did. And they’re non-refundable.

  So he gave her no choice. I bet that riled her cute, stubborn ass. Way to go, Wood.

  Bear: Send me your flight details. I’ll pick you up from the airport.

  Little Warrior: Erin can do that.

  I pout like a toddler being denied his favourite toy.

  Bear: But I want to.

  Little Warrior: It makes sense for Erin to do it. We’re staying at her place after all.

  “Mate, you want to order those sausages now?”

  I look up from my phone. The store has cleared. All the impatient customers are probably stuck in their cars now, tapping their fingers against their steering wheels, stuck in Saturday morning traffic as they fight their way home.

  “Yeah, sure. One sec.”

  Bear: Fine. I’ll give you a day to settle in. Also, what is halloumi?

  Little Warrior: It’s a salty type of cheese.

  It hits me then. Afghanistan is almost four hours behind us. It’s four a.m. back on base. My fingers tap the question out quickly.

  Bear: What are you doing awake?

  She doesn’t respond straight away, so I tuck my phone back in my pocket and step up to the counter, ordering the lamb and halloumi. Next up, the bakery. I ask for a freshly baked loaf of white bread.

  “Sliced?” the server asks.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “Thick or thin?”

  “Thick please, mate,” I reply, because I like carbs. They help me push harder in the gym, and that place has been my second home of late.

  After tucking the food away in the saddlebags of my motorcycle, I swing a leg over and kick up the stand. I know I told Jamie that Jake was a shitty cook, but I wasn’t much better. Sausages on buttered bread was my signature dish. My only dish, pretty much, and only marginally better than burnt ramen.

  I turn the key. The engine responds with a throaty growl, vibrating deep down inside my soul, soothing me the tiniest bit. The Harley is big and black. A beast. She’s also brand new. I might appreciate vintage machinery as much as the next guy, but I also appreciate my bike staying underneath me—thank you very much—the parts where they’re supposed to be rather than littering the road behind me.

  After arriving back at the barracks, I toss the bread on the counter of the small galley kitchen. The sausages go in the little fridge. I tug my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor. I’m switching out my jeans for gym shorts when my phone dings. I tug them on and grab my phone from the counter.

  Little Warrior: I can’t sleep. I should probably get a workout in, but I can’t seem to move. Tell me about that house you were saving for?

  A heavy sigh escapes me. I hate the thought of her stuck there. It leaves me feeling helpless, which is the absolute worst. If my emails or messages help bring even the smallest smile to her face, then it’s got to be better than nothing … right?

  I take a seat out on the tiny balcony of my lodgings at the barracks. There’s room for two craptastic little chairs. They’re white, plastic, and have seen better days, having been stuck outside in the elements for well over a year. I take a seat in one, the sun hitting my bare chest as I kick my legs up on the railing and cross them at the ankles.

  Bear: It’s going to cost me a bit, this house.

  Little Warrior: Why’s that?

  Bear: Because I want to live by the beach. My bedroom has to have a balcony that overlooks the ocean. I want to lie in bed at night with the doors wide open while I listen to the waves crash against the shore.

  Little Warrior: You like the beach?

  Bear: Yeah. I’ve never told anyone this, but sometimes I’ll grab a towel and go crash on the beach at night. It helps me sleep. Don’t know why. It gets a bit cold in the early hours, but nothing beats waking to the hazy pink and orange across the horizon. I want to be able to do that e
very day without getting sand stuck in my crack.

  Little Warrior: Poor little Bear, getting a bum rash from sleeping on the beach.

  Bear: Careful. You cracked a joke. Isn’t that your quota for the year?

  Little Warrior: Ha!

  She laughed. It makes me feel like I’ve achieved something important.

  Bear: So this house has to have at least five bedrooms. And it doesn’t have to be some impressive mansion. Just a home. I don’t need to compete with the neighbours on either side of me. My dick is plenty big enough.

  Little Warrior: Five?!?! That seems a little excessive.

  Bear: I want kids. Lots of ’em. I haven’t told anyone this before either, but I want to be a dad. So bad.

  I want to find a girl and fall in love. I want to know what it feels like to look at someone knowing I could never live without them. I want to get married. I want to watch her walk down the aisle towards me, my heart busting from my chest at the knowledge she was mine. I want to feel my babies growing inside her belly, and watch them grow with her by my side. I want to fill that house by the beach with all their little personalities. Take them camping. Teach them about the Earth, and life, and what it means to be a good person. I want it all.

  Little Warrior: How many kids?

  Bear: At least four.

  Little Warrior: FOUR??

  Bear: Yep. Maybe even five, but that’s a big ask. It’s not me who has to grow them.

  Little Warrior: Three girls and a boy. That’s what you should have.

  Bear: I only get one boy?

  Little Warrior: The world can only handle so many male Brooks at one time.

  I laugh, pushing back on my chair.

  Bear: I’m going to take that as a compliment rather than a joke. You have exceeded your wisecrack quota after all …

  Little Warrior: You would make a good dad.

  Her response fills me with pleasure.

  Bear: I agree. I’m pretty great.

  Little Warrior: I was going to say you had a whole lot of patience. I think “great” is taking it a little bit too far. Don’t you?

  Jamie’s teasing makes me ache a little, but in a good way.

  Bear: I’m glad Jake had you. I won’t say he was lucky, but he was happy, Jamie.

  It takes her a good minute to respond.

  Little Warrior: I should go. Time to get up.

  Shit. My last comment must have hurt. I rise from my seat and toss my phone on the bed, reaching for my sports shoes. Dressed, I go hit Ryan up for a run. We’re gone for a good solid hour and return hot and sweaty, shirts off and tucked into the backs of our shorts.

  “I’ll be at Fin’s place later this afternoon. Going to barbeque some lamb.” We climb the stairs to the first floor. “Wanna come?”

  “Nah.” Ryan doesn’t look at me. “I’m tired.”

  I huff, frustrated. Ryan has been crushing on Jake’s sister for years. Years. And he’s done nothing about it. Not even after she split with her old boyfriend.

  “You sure? I swear I saw that shithead’s car parked at her house the other day.” Total lie. As if I’d be lurking around her street like a creeper. “What’s his name again? Igor? Ignatius?” I know damn well his name is Ian. “You know, the guy Jake said you punched out at their family dinner because he threw a glass at her face.” I decorate my comment with a clueless shrug. “Maybe they’re getting back together. Or maybe he’s being a pest and won’t leave her alone.”

  Ryan grunts and opens the front door of the unit beside mine. “I know what you’re trying to do, Brooks. You’re about as subtle as a turd in a toilet bowl.”

  “Then grow a ballsack and come eat with us.”

  “Like I said, I’m tired.”

  “Whatever, dude.”

  He pauses, his jaw going tight. “Don’t whatever me like a damn girl.”

  My brows rise. “Oh, I’m the girl here? That’s rich.”

  Ryan’s nostrils flare. I’ve pushed him into feeling something. Good. That’s one brick I’ve managed to knock from his stupid-ass wall. Only a thousand more to go.

  “One more wisecrack from your ugly face and I’ll knock you the fuck out.”

  I lift my chin. “Do it if it makes you feel better.”

  Ryan comes at me in the blink of an eye. He grabs me by the throat and shoves me back against the side of the door, his face red with fury. My head cracks hard against the timber frame. “Nothing will make this shit feel better.” He shoves me again. “Nothing.”

  My throat clicks as I swallow, my eyes starting to burn. Fuck. A deep shuddering breath rips out of me. As if he senses the crack in my composure, he lets me go and walks away. “Just leave me the hell alone.”

  “Consider it done,” I rasp, not giving him the satisfaction of rubbing at the ache in my throat.

  He stops and turns. “You know what your problem is?”

  I don’t, but I’m pretty sure he’s about to clue me in. “You keep trying to fix everyone around you. Maybe you should try fixing yourself first.”

  “I’m not broken, Kendall.”

  Ryan snorts. “Mate. You try covering it all up with your loud attitude and shitty wisecracks, but you’re barely held together with duct tape. We all are. Isn’t that why any of us join the damn army in the first place? We’re hoping it’s going to perform some kind of miracle and piece us back together. But newsflash, Brooks, it doesn’t. It only makes the cracks inside us bigger.”

  20

  KYLE

  I wake with a start when my phone dings. I roll over in bed, swiping a palm across my eyes and down the side of my face as I reach for it.

  Little Warrior: I’m home.

  Damned if my insides don’t do an excited little leap. I yawn, scratching at my chest before I tap out a reply.

  Bear: Like home home? Or home Australia home?

  Little Warrior: I’m at Erin’s apartment.

  I rise up on one elbow, coming awake fully.

  Bear: Why didn’t you tell me?

  She could have messaged when she flew into Townsville. Or from the airport before she left for Perth. Or when she got on the plane. I’ve been counting down the days like a kid at Christmastime.

  Little Warrior: I’m telling you now.

  Bear: Are you rolling your eyes at me? What time did you get in?

  Little Warrior: Yes. And yesterday.

  Bear: YESTERDAY?!?!

  Little Warrior: Don’t get your knickers in a knot. We got in late last night.

  Bear: Another joke? Who ARE you?

  Little Warrior: Har har. We had a couple of drinks at the airport bar before we flew out.

  There’s a blanket ban on alcohol during deployment, for obvious reasons, so you lose your tolerance for it. Coming back home is an exercise in building it back up again, so one or two drinks probably tipped her right over the edge.

  Little Warrior: And maybe a couple more when we arrived.

  I glance at the time. It’s six a.m.

  Bear: I’m coming over.

  Little Warrior: I thought we were going to catch up tomorrow. You were going to give me a day to settle in, remember?

  Bear: I think you’re making up stories. Besides, it’s time for breakfast. You can make pancakes, right?

  Bear: Hello?

  My chest tightens with impatience. I’m eager to see her. To resume the friendship we once had. I know it won’t be the same. We’ve grown up. Changed. But the Little Warrior she used to be is still inside her. I see it in her emails and messages. The cheeky side is starting to show through more as she gets comfortable talking to me again. So is the stubborn. Jamie’s the type that if you told her not to do something, she would not only do it twice, she’d take pictures too, all while giving you the middle finger.

  I jump in the shower to wake myself up. When I’m out, I rub the towel over my naked body as I pad through my little unit, checking my phone like an eager puppy waiting for his treat.

  Little Warrior: I think I just fell a
sleep standing up.

  I shake my head, laughing as I toss my damp towel on the bed.

  Little Warrior: You can come over I suppose.

  Bear: Gee, when you say it like that …

  Little Warrior: Stop pouting and come over. Pretty please with a cherry on top. Is that better?

  Bear: Maybe. But I can sense you rolling your eyes again.

  Little Warrior: Do you want pancakes or not?

  I laugh to myself as I set my phone down. I’m pulling on a plain pair of black boxer-briefs when she responds with the address. Tugging on a pair of navy cargo shorts and shirt, I grab my keys, wallet, and phone before heading out.

  Bear: I’ll bring coffee.

  I knock on Ryan’s door and open it without waiting for an invitation. He’s lying on his back on top of his sheets—a prone lump—naked and staring at the ceiling.

  “You won’t find the answer there,” I quip.

  “The answer to what?” he asks, his voice gravelly with exhaustion, the kind that settles so deep in your bones you struggle to sleep at all.

  “To whether she loves you or not.”

  “Goddammit, Brooks.” Ryan reaches for the pillow behind his head and fires it in my direction. I deflect it with ease and it drops harmlessly to the floor. Stepping over it, I swipe the set of keys from his bedside table. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I want to borrow your car.”

  “No.”

  “Too bad.” I dangle his keys from my finger with a smirk. I don’t actually expect Jamie to cook breakfast. It’ll be easier to buy a tray of coffee and pastries and bring them to her, but not so easy to juggle it all on my bike. “So thanks.”

  I turn and leave, whistling as I go.

  “Scratch her and I’ll put you in the ground,” he yells, half of his sentence muffled because I’ve already shut the door.

  Ryan owns a black vintage Mustang. Beautifully restored, her muscled lines sleek and glossy, her powerful engine a siren song. He keeps her in storage during deployment, tucking her away beneath a heavy cover as if she’s more precious than the crown jewels of England. If I so much as get a dent on her gleaming paintwork, I may as well keep driving across state lines and disappear into a whole new life.