Page 42 of Point of Contact

Riley tossed the mask into the middle of his bed, making a few more joking remarks, but as Jesse changed out of his swimsuit into a dry pair of shorts, Riley and Smitty huddled in the corner, Riley’s arm around Smitty’s shoulders as he murmured to him.

Jesse opened his eyes, and tears rushed into them at the sight of the mask, still on the bed where Riley’d tossed it. The room was immaculate, dust free, and Jesse imagined Trevor had a housekeeper in periodically to keep it so, most likely with a request not to touch or change anything from the way Riley left it that night.

Jesse put the two boxes down next to the dresser before going to get the last one, covering the whole thing up again with the sheet. He turned in a slow circle, taking one last look around, a few lone tears escaping.

“Miss you, Riles.”

Jesse trailed his fingers along the top of the dresser, then left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

Trevor dumped the stale coffee down the sink, scrubbed out the mugs and started the pot going again, beyond grateful for the mundane task keeping him occupied. By the time he finished, Jesse was back.

“I put them all in his room, Trevor, on the floor next to the dresser.” He was a bit pale but composed.

Trevor touched his arm. “Are you okay? I haven’t been able to go in his room since—well, since.”

Jesse dashed the back of his hand over his eyes. “Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just this stupid clown mask—” He told Trevor about a prank Riley played the night of the party, and Trevor was surprised into a chuckle.

“Oh, my God, he’s had that thing forever. Once, when we lived in our old apartment, I pulled back the shower curtain and he was in there wearing it. The neighbors heard me screaming and came to investigate.”

Jesse snorted. “Over there he’d make tarantulas out of pipe cleaners, and hide them in guys’ sleeping bags.”

“Oh God.” Trevor covered his mouth with his hand. “Rubber snakes in my bed.”

They shared a laugh. “Good ol’ Riles.”

There were tears in Trevor’s eyes, but they were fond tears, and it felt good to wallow in a happy memory with someone who knew Riley. Amazingly good. So many people were afraid to mention him to Trevor anymore, and if they did, usually rushed to apologize right after. With Jesse it felt natural, and right, to talk about him like he—like he’d actually existed.

Jesse glanced at him. “Hey, do you have a stepladder and a screwdriver?”

Mystified, Trevor said he did and led Jesse to the garage, watching in disbelief as Jesse lugged the items into the hallway, then proceeded to climb the ladder and disconnect the doorbell wiring at the little box near the ceiling. When he was finished, he climbed down and rested his hand briefly on Trevor’s shoulder.

“It’s okay to remove your PTSD triggers,” was all he said before disappearing into the garage to put everything back.

Trevor stood frozen, shocked to his core. PTSD? In a million years he never would have given his reaction to the doorbell a name, other than weakness or an inability to cope. With thirty seconds and a screwdriver, along with a healthy dose of understanding, Jesse had solved a problem that sometimes sent Trevor fleeing to his room to huddle in bed, hyperventilating from the rush of adrenaline and fear.

When he came back into the house, Trevor wanted to hug him, restraining himself just in time. Instead he invited him to have more coffee, digging out a box of biscotti sticks to go with it. For the next half hour they shared Riley stories, Trevor talking about how he loved to camp, and Jesse making Trevor laugh again picturing Riley sledding down a slope in Afghanistan on a big piece of cardboard.

“He told me how mountainous it was there,” Trevor said, “but when I think about the Middle East, I always think about desert.”

“Where we were, the eastern part bordering Pakistan, it was really beautiful in a lot of ways. Definitely got cold and snowy in the winter.” Jesse chuckled. “It was so funny, because he and this guy named Watkins almost got in a fight over Christmas decorations of all things. Watty got this string of lights in a care package from home, and he wanted to hang them up. Riley wouldn’t let him string them over his rack until December twenty-third. Everywhere else was fine, but not over his rack, not until the twenty-third.” Jesse shook his head. “Made no fuckin’ sense since those lights were about the only cheery thing in that shithole.”

Trevor was amused at Jesse’s slips into unconscious profanity, probably how he was used to talking with his Army buddies, and Trevor thought it suited him better than the oh-so-careful formality he’d shown up to now.

“Well, Riley had a thing about Christmas. He hated that his birthday was so close to it, so the twenty-second was always ‘Anti-Christmas Day.’ Nobody could mention the C-word, and we never decorated the house until the twenty-third. As soon as it was midnight and the twenty-second was over, we’d put our tree up and it was officially allowed to be Christmas in our house.”

“Shit, he never said a word about his birthday, just made a big deal over the lights,” Jesse said in disgust. “A bunch of guys thought maybe he was an atheist or something, or maybe just an asshole.”

Trevor blinked, alarmed. “Did everyone...like him, Jesse?”

“Oh, fuck yeah, Trevor. Everyone loved him.” Jesse leaned forward, his voice earnest. “Basically if the guys didn’t think you were an asshole to some extent, it meant they didn’t trust you.”

Trevor shook his head, fascinated by the glimpse into military culture. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Jesse got a faraway look on his face, his voice quiet as he said, “Riley was the type of guy who’d take your guard shift if you were sick. Play a joke on you, or come hang out with you if you were depressed. Once somebody was having some really serious problems at home, and Riley let the guy take his spot for refit so he could call his wife.”

Trevor blinked back sudden tears. “That’s my boy. Were you especially close with him, Jesse?”