Page 5 of Dozer

"Then why do you argue like you've shared a bathroom your whole lives?"

"Practice." I pointed at him.

Ryan laughed so hard he nearly spilled his beer.

God...

I miss his laugh.

It's been fifteen years.

Fifteen years since Afghanistan.

Fifteen years since Hunter knocked on my parents' front door wearing civilian clothes because he refused to let strangers deliver the news. He knew what it would do to them to have two soldiers in dress blues show up. He’d made a promise to Ryan. One I’m sure, Ryan had also made.

I was the one who opened the door and saw Hunter.

Saw his eyes.

And I knew.

He never had to say the words.

Some moments carve themselves into your bones forever, that moment was one of them. Hunter stayed at our house for days. He was there when the men showed up and the causality assistance officer. He handled the phone calls for my parents, made the endless supply of coffee for the visitors who kept showing up. He was the one who opened the door and accepted the casseroles from neighbors, neither of us remembered eating. My mom couldn’t leave her bed. Dad, well, he started drinking a few minutes after the uniformed soldiers left and I don’t think he ever stopped.

Hunter didn’t try to explain war, or offer meaningless platitudes, he simply remained by my side. He knew if he’d left, I’d have been alone. Maybe not physically, but definitely emotionally. He taught me that sometimes grief doesn't need fixing. It only needs witnesses.

After the funeral I expected him to disappear back into whatever classified world he lived in.

Instead, he showed up again on my birthday, then on Christmas and the first anniversary of Ryan’s death. He kept showing up, never making a fuss. He’s never pretended that Ryan could be replaced. No, he just refuses to let his teammate's little sister become alone in the world.

And somewhere along the way... even before Ryan ever died, he became family. Chosen, yes, but sometimes, the bonds between chosen family can be stronger than those created out of blood.

"You still with me?" Hunter asks.

"Hmm?" I’d been lost in my thoughts and wasn’t sure what we were even talking about. I do that a lot. Hunter, just like Ryan, never judged me for it.

"You drifted."

"I was thinking."

"You thinking? That’s awfully dangerous."

"For everyone involved." I can’t help but laugh. Hunter is intimately familiar with some of the situations my brain has gotten me into over the years.

"Usually, but sometimes it’s brilliant." He says.

"To answer your previous question, I'm always working," I say. "It's my defining personality trait."

"No."

"No?" I ask.

"You paint."

"I paint badly."

"You do not. You are very talented,” he counters. I look toward the canvases lining the living room. Hunter saw some of my artwork when he helped me move and I immediately apologized for how amateur they looked. He told me I wasn’t allowed to apologize. Then, he stood in front of one of them for a long minute.