Carter uncrosses his arms and leans forward, watching me, his elbows propped on his knees. “You sound like you should go into politics. Run for office.”
“Me? Phhpt. I’d suck as a politician.” Although he’s effortlessly struck a secret dream I know will never come to pass. Can never come to pass, because I’m no ass-kisser, I think both major parties suck, and I know for my own reasons that I would be too much of a liability as a politician and refuse to live my life like that.
Yet I can’t bring myself to admit to Carter that I know that it’s nothing more than a dream.
I get the feeling Carter sees more than the average person, because now he’s studying me.
“What?” I mumble.
“I’d vote for you, if you ran for office.”
Now I know he’s got to be fucking with me. “You just met me. You had to teach me how to fold my dang clothes.”
“Doesn’t matter. I already trust you. That’s a really hard thing to earn from people.” He shrugs. “If I see it in you, why wouldn’t others?”
* * * *
I take my shower, Carter’s words running through my head.
Sure, in my fantasies I run for governor and win, and then kick ass making good changes in our state. Protecting our environment, fixing our screwed up public school system, things like that.
But the reality is I don’t come from a politically entrenched family, I have no clue how to go about running for public office in the first place, and, hellooo, Carter had to teach me how to fold my damn clothes.
Like I’d be able to keep track of campaign finance laws and all that bullshit.
Besides, I’m not exactly some narcissistic, macho asshole who can go grab the highest office in our state by the balls. I’m not built like that. I’m more a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. My ignominious start in the dorm this year notwithstanding, I’m usually a pretty organized kind of guy. Power behind the throne.
That’s where I’m most comfortable. Especially since I don’t want to trade my personal freedom for public attention.
I helped a friend of mine get elected to student council all four years in high school. He went to college in Colorado, though. But I helped out with student elections here last year. Helped with campaign organization.
I’m great with that kind of stuff, analyzing data and making it make sense, crunching numbers, seeing patterns.
I want to do something…bigger than myself. With bigger meaning.
Make a name for myself away from my mother and her voice in my head slicing through my hopes and dreams and telling me that I’m not smart or persevering enough to make it on my own without her help and her money.
I need to survive college first. That’s step one.
Step two? Law school.
Passing the bar exam is step three. A pretty big step, because it’s fucking hard to pass.
Carter turns in before I do, so I use my laptop and earbuds to watch Netflix instead of turning on my TV. I don’t want to keep the guy awake after how nice he’s been.
I also don’t know him well enough to risk watching porn tonight. I need to get to know him better before I take those kinds of risks around him.
It’s around midnight when I finally shut my laptop off so I can get up to use the bathroom before turning in.
Removing my earbuds, that’s when I hear it.
A muffled moan from the other side of the room. It does not sound like a sexy moan, either.
I peek around the end of the bookshelf. Carter lies splayed on his bed, facedown, both hands tightly fisted in the covers and his face buried in his pillow.
He’s thrashing a little, and I realize he’s having a nightmare.
Torn, I stand there watching, listening, feeling guilty and uneasy. He warned me not to scare him, so I’m afraid to walk over and touch him and shake him out of it.
I also realize he’s crying.
Whatever nightmare currently has him in its grasp, I don’t want to know the details. It must be miserable to make him sound like that.
I end up taking the coward’s way out and fake a loud cough before stepping into the bathroom, where I close the door behind me with the amount of noise I would normally make if we were both awake. I make no attempt to stay quiet as I do what I need to in there.
When I emerge, Carter’s sitting on the edge of his bed, near the end, feet on the floor, head in his hands. In the dim light spilling through our shared window, I can see his chest heaving, like he’s just run a marathon.
“You all right?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he hoarsely says without looking up.
I get settled in bed. On the other side, I hear him stand, a long exhalation of breath, and then more sounds, like he’s straightening the covers.
“Thanks,” he softly says in the dark. “I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” I wish there was more I could do for him.
Unfortunately, I suspect it’s a battle only he can fight.
Chapter Five
Saturday morning, Carter is up and moving a little after seven. I don’t mind the early hour, even on a Saturday, because while I’m not exactly a morning person I’ve never had trouble shifting my schedule around someone else.
Thanks, Mom.
Yeah, that’s sarcasm.
Deep, dark hollows that weren’t there yesterday shadow Carter’s eyes, and he’s moving slowly, with a decided limp that’s far more obvious than last night. Since he’s wearing shorts I can see the gnarled, twisted scars along the backs of both legs.
I’m not sure how to handle the nightmare topic, so I take the chickenshit’s way out and decide not to mention it unless he does.
“Today’s going to be a slow amble.” Carter practically grunts the words, every syllable pained and grating. He’s sitting on the end of his bed, bent over tying his sneakers.
“No worries. I probably need to build my stamina to keep up with you.”
He lifts his head and I spot the hint of a smile there, although I don’t understand what’s so funny.
“I’ll probably run your ass into the ground once I’m feeling better.”
I’m no macho asshole. “Honestly? You probably will.”
His smile widens into something not quite so difficult to look at. When he shoves himself up and off his bed, he makes another pained grunt and I fight the urge to rush over and help him.
If he wanted help I’m sure he’d ask for it.
He braces himself against the counter holding the sink we share and does some stretches. In my space, I do the same, not wanting to hurt myself in case we do pick up the pace. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough in front of the man. I’d like to at least hold my own in some way.
When he finishes that he cracks his neck. His T-shirt clings to him, and I feel…inadequate next to him. Here’s a guy who lives with pain, who’s survived horrors I can’t even imagine, and he’s pushing himself to do more. And he still looks like he’s in way better shape than I am.
What am I doing? Whining about my mommy issues.
Yeah.
I decide then and there I’m going to hold Carter as my example, someone I’ll aspire to emulate.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No cane?”
“Not today. We’ll take it easy.”
Taking it easy means taking the elevator down instead of the stairs. He sets off at a pretty fast pace and I have to quicken mine to keep up. It doesn’t matter that his rolling, loping limp makes him bob back and forth. I’m quickly breathing heavy in just a couple of minutes.
“This is a slow amble?” I manage.
He laughs, not sounding the slightest bit out of breath. “No. This is our warm-up.”
A few minutes later, his limp has eased a little and, sure enough, he picks up the pace. It’s a slow jog that I finally settle into, matching him, eventually finding the right combination of stride and breathing where I feel like I’m not going to keel over.
We keep this up acro
ss campus, heading south toward the Sun Dome. There are others out this morning, running, walking, biking, but not a lot of traffic. It’s warm and humid—Florida, duh—but not oppressively so.
Yet.
I can already see that, this year, my benchmark for being “in shape” is going to climb if I truly want to keep up with Carter. Last year I got most of my exercise walking back and forth from my dorm to my classes. I didn’t want to mess with a bicycle.
Once we hit the Sun Dome, we lap the parking lot before Carter finally slows to a walk, pausing in a shaded, grassy median to do more stretching.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, too winded to talk right now, but I take the time to stretch. If this is him on a bad day, when it comes to keeping up with him on a good day…
Well, I’m going to be absolutely fucked.
“You’re doing great,” he simply says.
I drop onto the grass with the obvious excuse that I want to do more stretching, but frankly, I need the break.
“Try doing this with a forty-pound pack and in full uniform, in Afghanistan, in summer,” he says.
When I look, his gaze isn’t on me. He’s facing west, but his focus is thousands of miles away. Even I can see it.
“How bad was I last night?” he finally asks.
“I only heard you the one time. I’d had my earbuds in, though, so I don’t know how long it’d lasted before I noticed. Sorry.”
He slowly nods, then turns to me. His gaze pins me in place as he stares into my eyes.
“Stuff I tell you, it stays between us, unless I give you the okay to share it. Understand? About my health, or about my time in, or about anything personal like that.”
I nod.
“Car bomb.” I have to strain to hear him. “We were on foot patrol, away from our Humvees. Our unit took fire and we got penned in. Little town we’d never had trouble in before. Three of our guys were hit. We called for air support while our guys back at the vehicles tried to come in after us, at least give us some cover.
“This little fucking piece of shit car heads toward us, can’t even tell what color it is because it’s so thick with dust. No doors, no windshield. Driver dives out of it and I yell at everyone to take cover. I threw myself over the three guys we had down and took the brunt of the blast.”
“Oh, shit.”
He shrugs, that typical Carter no big deal shrug. “Lost three guys, seven more wounded, in addition to me and the three already down.”
“What about the three guys you protected?”
He shrugs again. “They made it.”
“You’re a hero.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until he smirks.
“I’m just a grunt, kid. Just another nameless grunt. I woke up a week later back in Germany and wishing they’d kept me knocked out longer. I’d already had four surgeries in addition to the emergency field triage the medics did to keep me alive. That was my first step to returning home and civvie life.”
After a few more minutes I suspect are completely for my benefit, I can tell he wants to set off again, and we do. He’s still limping but his strides are more even now, less of the side-to-side rolling movement than before, and I have an easier time keeping up with him. We return to the dorm and both of us take long slugs from the water fountain in the downstairs lobby before riding the elevator up.
He’s not looking at me when he speaks again. “You did good today, kid.”
An unexpected flush of satisfaction fills me. “Thanks,” I mumble.
“No, I mean it. Dibs on the shower, though.” I finally look at him and he’s grinning. It takes a few years off his features. “After you get your shower, I’ll teach you how to make French toast and scrambled eggs.”
He holds his fist out, and I bump with him. “Thanks.”
* * * *
I notice Carter apparently won’t go shirtless around the others in our pod. When I finish my shower, I find he’s wearing baggy sweat pants and a T-shirt. While the dorm building is co-ed, the pods are not, and each floor is divided in half by gender. I know I won’t remember anyone’s names for a while, so for now I think of the other six guys sharing our pod more in terms of features—Tall, Skinny Blonde Geek With Glasses. Short Fat Gamer Dude. Mr. Personality. Probably Wanks In a Sock Guy. Snooty but Hopefully Not Evangelical Christian Bro. Really Cool Muslim Dude.
Labels like that.
Don’t judge me. I’m the dude who needed a literal fucking military hero to teach me how to fold my goddamned T-shirts and how to scramble eggs, all right? I’m not saying I’m perfect.
I help Carter carry what we need into the kitchen. It seems no one’s up and about yet but us. Twenty minutes later, I’m astounded to realize I’m actually making French toast.
Damned good French toast.
He shows me how to slice the bread properly, even though apparently we should’ve let it get stale first.
By the time we finish with the French toast, I’m almost literally drooling. It’s the scrambled eggs that finish me off, however, and convince me that Carter’s a damned genius.
These aren’t merely scrambled poultry parts shit from a chicken’s ass.
These are heaven.
Light, fluffy, perfect, not too dry, not too runny. He shows me how to whisk the eggs, adding in just a little milk. How to keep turning and working them in the pan.
No shit, these are the best motherfucking scrambled eggs I’ve ever had in my life, and I helped make them.
Fuck you, Mom.
By the time we’re sitting down to eat, four of our roommates have wandered out due to the aroma and are apparently disappointed to discover we only cooked enough for us.
Carter takes pity on them. “I’ll leave a grocery list for you today,” he says. “If everything is in the common fridge in the morning when we get back from our run, I’ll cook everyone breakfast.”
Thus starts Sunday Mornings With Carter.
The next morning, I head out with Carter for our run and he’s moving a little better than yesterday, limping less than he was. He takes us in a different direction, north across Fletcher Avenue and past a golf course. We’re running faster than yesterday, but don’t go as far, and I know without Carter saying anything it’s because of me and my trouble keeping up with him today.
“You think they went shopping?” I manage to ask on our way back despite the brisk pace.
He flashes me a grin. “I know they did. I checked before we left. That’s good. Might mean we can use the big fridge after all.”
After returning from our run and showering, Carter and I head to the kitchen. This morning we’re making French toast and scrambled eggs again, and I don’t even fucking care, because at this rate I could eat those eggs and that French toast every damn morning of my life.
The other guys gather around as Carter teaches me how to cook, and I realize he’s teaching them as well. He’s a natural teacher, a natural leader. Even though at six-four I’m six inches taller than him, he still feels…bigger, somehow. I can tell from the way the other guys react to him that they’re feeling something similar.
An unusual jolt of jealousy flashes through me. He’s my roommate, and I get dibs on him.
Which is a stupid thing to think, I know.
He’s now the de facto quad pod padre, and I tell him as much once we’re back in our room after we’ve finished eating—and the other guys have helped out by cleaning up the kitchen and dishes.
There’s that easy shrug again, a hint of a smile in place. “Makes our lives easier,” he says, but he doesn’t clarify and I don’t ask.
It looks like this year is off to a fantastic start for our little group.
If only I knew…
* * * *
The dining hall downstairs will be open tonight. From what I’ve discovered, they have a decent salad bar, so Carter and I opt to go with that after he offers to buy. I spend my post-run Sunday skimming through textbooks and reading lists in preparation for my cla
sses this coming week. When it’s time to head downstairs to eat, I poke my head around the corner of our privacy wall.
Carter’s stretched out on his bed and reading his Kindle. I now realize there are three pictures on the small bulletin board stuck to the wall over the head of his bed. “Who are they?”
He looks up, over his head. The picture on the left is of three military guys wearing dark sunglasses and dressed in desert camo, all sporting shaggy beards and mustaches. The picture in the middle must be a family shot, due to the seven men—one of whom is a younger Carter—gathered around an older man and woman. The picture on the right looks like an older one, of two much younger men, likely still in their late teens, who both resemble Carter so strongly I instinctively realize it’s his two deceased brothers.
Carter shuts off his Kindle and sits up, tucks it away in his desk, and points to the picture on the left. “Gohber, me, Kenney,” he quietly says. “They died that afternoon. We were best buds from basic on.” He points to the middle picture. “Us, before Tom and Pete shipped out on their last tour and we lost them. Last picture ever taken of all of us together.” The picture on the right. “Tom and Pete,” he quietly says. “Tom was two years older than me. Pete was four.”
I watch as he stares at the pictures for a long moment. Then he kisses his fingers and reaches out, touches the picture of his brothers, and of his fallen friends.
And here I am, bitching about a narcissistic mother and an absentee father.
I can’t begin to comprehend what this man has endured and survived. All I know is I can damn sure try to not make his life any more difficult while we’re rooming together.
I stare at the first picture. You can’t see Carter’s eyes because of the sunglasses, but with the full facial hair and the keffiyeh around his neck he looks even older than he does now. All three men do.
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