So much has changed since then.
My mom’s reaction when I walked in the door is one of the reasons I haven’t been to brunch in nearly three years. After I returned from my first tour, any time she would peer into my eyes, hers would well with tears. She’s always had a knack for knowing when her children are hurting, so she saw right through the covert ruse I dangled in front of her.
She’s so in tune with me, when I was younger, she knew I’d skinned my knee before I even fell off my bike. Although I still visit my parents regularly, I prefer my mom’s tears to be shed in private. The only way I could achieve that was by avoiding brunch. But last week, I told Ava I would be here. Being a man who always keeps his promises – here I am.
This is hard for me to admit, but my mom has a legitimate reason for her tears. I’ve changed a lot the past few years. I’m no longer the little boy who used to beg her for an extra cookie with my glass of milk before I went to bed or the one who would agree to any dare Chase conjured up, no matter how crude it was.
Although a lot of people say my change was part of riding the crazy rollercoaster from adolescent teen to mature adult, for me, that wasn’t the case. I changed because I joined an industry I should have never been a part of, an industry that nearly tore my life apart.
Afghanistan was nothing like I was expecting. Like every teen, I playedMedal of HonorandCall of Dutyfrom sun-up to sun-down every weekend. I held the number one spot in the rankings for over three months, completed every mission to the precise detail, collected every medal there was to achieve.
But it wasn’t until I was over there, killing on demand did I realize it wasnothinglike the video games portray. You can’t smell the scent of death through a TV monitor. You don’t hear the cries of mothers when their babies are killed or the sounds of fathers on their knees begging for their sons to be returned home, safe and in one piece.
Here, once you’ve finished your mission, you switch off the TV, gallop down the stairs, and eat blueberry pancakes until you need to heave. There, it never switches off. The game never ends. But even more concerning than that was finding out the men I was playing the game with, my brothers who were supposed to have my back, were the biggest enemies of them all. When I was in the field, I was always on alert, seeking out potential threats. I should have been looking in my own backyard, because that is where the real danger laid.
My attention is pulled back into the present when a warm hand curls over my clenched fist. Lifting my gaze, I am met with the Ava’s wide, concerned eyes.
“Are you okay?” she asks, staring into my eyes. “You’re shivering. Are you cold?”
Not waiting for me to reply, she moves to the back entrance of the kitchen and gathers my dad’s wool-lined raincoat from the rack. A smile curls on my lips when she drapes it over my shoulders before retaking her seat across from me. I’m not smiling because of her thoughtfulness. I’m grinning because after Ava’s little fire incident, the temperature in this kitchen is sitting well above 100 degrees Fahrenheit.
It’s so hot, Ava’s forehead has a small layer of sweat beading across it. The shivers havocking my body have nothing to do with being cold, and everything to do with the hell I’m still trying to forget.
Shrugging off Dad’s jacket, I place it on the island counter beside the items I gathered from the bathroom. Ava watches my every movement but remains as quiet as a church mouse.
After soaking a cotton ball with iodine, I remove a small needle from mom’s sewing kit. Ava’s tongue darts out to replenish her lips with moisture when I run the alcohol wipe over the needle to sterilize it. The fretful scowl marring her face amplifies when I scrunch up the alcohol wipe and throw it into a bin full of egg shells and empty blueberry containers under the counter.
“Are you ready?” I ask, grasping her hand in mine.
The smile on my lips turns genuine when the hairs on her arms bristle from my meekest touch. When she nods her head, I move the needle towards the nasty looking blister on the side of her palm.
Just as the needle is about to pierce her skin, she screams, “Wait!”
When her eyes zoom in on the needle in my hand, her pupils widen and her entire body trembles in fear.
“It won’t hurt,” I assure her.
“Says the guy who’s about to jab me with a pointy object.”
The fret marring her beautiful face fades when she hears my quiet snickering.
“Don’t be rude; we’re in your mother’s kitchen,” she reprimands, gazing over her shoulder to make sure our earlier spectators have left. She tries to keep her face serious, but the smile lifting her lips gives away her deceit.
“Trust me. That counter is the perfect height for fucking.”
The smile on her face weakens, and her earlier gaunt appearance returns from my inaccurate tease. I may have been a little mischievous in my younger days, but our house was rarely empty, and I was too busy keeping the guys in my grade away from Ava that I’ve never had the opportunity to test out the theory.
“Here, I’ll show you,” I say.
Ava’s breathing quickens, and her eyes widen. Her chest rises and falls with every breath she takes.
“Not the counter height,” I say with a chuckle.Although if she keeps looking at me like that, I may not have the strength to fight her alluring pull any longer.“That the needle won’t hurt,” I clarify.
Before she has the chance to protest, I lift her uninjured hand and prick the end of her pinkie finger with the needle.
“Ouch,” she whimpers as her eyes dart down to the small bead of blood sitting on the tip of her finger.
Her cries of pain are muffled with a moan when I soothe the sting of the needle with the lash of my tongue. Heat scorches my veins when she squirms in her seat. Once the tangy taste of blood is gone, I drag her finger out of my mouth. A loud pop sounds from my mouth when her finger twangs the corner of my lip on the way by. Ava’s pupils are heavily dilated, her lips parted, revealing she is aroused by my flirty tease.
