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We spend our days here immersed in death—women, children, and loved ones killed on a daily basis—and when we go back home, we aren’t the same as we were when we arrived.
Is Lt. Drexler’s pain as raw as mine?
Does he think about us as often as I think about him?
Pressure builds behind my eyes, making them burn, and a few tears manage to slip past the confines of my lashes and drip down the side of my face.
If I gave him the opportunity to explain or apologize, would he take it?
Is that something I’m strong enough to do?
A wave of heat washes over me, and without warning, a strangled cry flies from my mouth.
Don’t treat your grief as we do.
Don’t let this one man and his actions change who you are and who you were meant to be.
Don’t let him own your existence.
Clutching at my stomach, my shoulders curl inward, heaving as my body expels three months worth of grief, pain, anger and guilt. “Oh, God,” I moan, slipping my hands in my hair, wrapping them around the windblown strands. Slow and steady, my body rocks back and forth as my mind replays all the times I’ve taken my emotions out on my family. I’ve ignored them, shut them out and refused their comfort and love. I’ve said hateful things in fits of anger and sorrow … things that I can’t ever take back. I tug roughly on my hair, needing to feel some sort of physical pain in exchange for all the pain that I’ve caused. My breath hitches when I suck in a deep breath and another round of sobs wrack my body.
Lifting my head out of my hands, I tilt my tear-streaked face up to the sky. Raw, nervous energy courses through me and I push to my feet, needing to move somewhere—anywhere. Walking toward Mac, I grab onto his reins and lead him toward the creek. “What is wrong with me?” I mumble, my eyes searching the clouds for some hidden answer. “I don’t want to do this anymore.” My chin trembles and I swipe away the tears running down my face, but they keep coming and I eventually give up.
Minutes tick by, or maybe hours, but the sobs finally subside. I’m exhausted—beyond exhausted—and already regretting the decision to pick up an extra shift at work tonight. Every muscle in my body aches, and I feel as though I could crawl in bed and sleep for hours on end. I take a deep, cleansing breath and blow it out slowly, letting everything from Devin’s letter sink in.
I have absolutely no idea why his letter hit me the way that it has. His words are merely a different version of the same thing everyone else has been trying to tell me, but they feel different. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Devin. There’s a reason he was my best friend for so long. He was the first person I gave my heart and body to, and maybe that’s the reason I haven’t been able to shake this unmistakable connection to him—even after ten years.
There’s also a reason his name was on that pen pal list. I’ve been treading water in a choppy sea of guilt and anger, and he just inadvertently threw me a lifeline. If it were anyone else, I’m not sure it would’ve made the same impact. So, without thinking twice, I make the decision to grab on to that lifeline he tossed me, and I’m going to hold on to it with every ounce of strength I have left.
Something nudges my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts, and I turn around and come face-to-face with Mac. Using his nose, he frisks my shirt for treats and I laugh, patting him gently on the neck. “Sorry, big guy. There’s nothing in there for you.” He lets out a soft huff before dropping his head to graze on the grass. My eyes drift to my bag that is propped up against the tree, and I notice that Devin’s letter is exactly where I dropped it. “There’s one more thing I need to do before we go, Mac.” I give him one last quick rubdown on the head and then make my way to the tree.
Sitting down cross-legged, I grab the letter and read over it once more. This time, however, my heart feels lighter and I can’t help but grin as different parts of the letter begin to stand out.
You know I loved you.
Those moments we spent together are the best memories I have.
Devin’s words slice through me, leaving me feeling more open and vulnerable than I’ve felt in a very long time. He has the power to hurt me again. How is it possible to feel such a strong connection with someone I haven’t even talked to in a decade? I mean, seriously, he treated me like shit, and yet after a very simple apology, I’m dying to reconnect, dying to tell him everything. That should scare the hell out of me, but it doesn’t.
I have no idea who this man is anymore. Sure, I know the boy he used to be, but I have no idea what type of person he’s turned into. What happened after he left Tennessee? What was his life like in Pennsylvania? Did he meet someone else and fall in love? Did he go to college, and if not, why?
Sure he touched on some of those questions in his letter, but the woman in me—the woman who clearly still harbors some sort of feelings toward her first love—wants details. And lots of them.
A slow smile spreads across my face, and when I take a deep breath, I have an unexpected release of tension. There is no doubt in my mind that a higher power is at work here, and I smirk at the thought that I could very well have my dad to thank for this. Shaking my head, I close my eyes. It would be easy to hold on to my resentment and anger toward Devin, but when I look back on our friendship and all the things we’ve been through, I’m grateful to be given a second chance.
I’m not sure why, and maybe it’s foolish of me, but I have a feeling deep in my bones that I can trust him. A tiny voice pops in my head telling me I shouldn’t be feeling this way after everything that happened with Wyatt this morning—especially considering both of our pasts with Devin—but I push it aside.
The need to write Devin back grows with each passing second, so I grab my notepad and pen from my bag, intent on doing just that. He needs to know that I may have lost so much of who I used to be, but one thing hasn’t changed—my ability to forgive. Now, I may not be able to forgive Andrew Drexler, but Devin is a completely different story. I want him to know that the words I wrote, although true at the time, were written out of anger and confusion, but that his words have touched me. The process may be slow, but I will make things right with my family and with Devin.
So as my pen hits the paper, I open up the deepest part of me and let it all out, hoping against hope that I hear back from him again.
“Lover, You Should Have Come Over” – Jeff Buckley
I WAKE BEFORE THE SUN has checked in for the day and scan the tent, noting my men still sleeping heavily. My morning ritual, at least the days I have time to do it, requires a bit of privacy, and I make certain I have it before I begin. Most of these clowns will just jerk it from their cots in the middle of the night with the rest of us passed out around them. There’s always been something odd about that to me. On a regular basis, I've woken up to the sounds of heavy breathing and skin slapping skin, and it pisses me the fuck off. If I’m not dog-tired, they’ll get a boot heaved in their direction, aimed straight for the dick and with the express purpose of putting them out of business for a while.
No, jackin’ the beanstalk in public isn’t for me. Unfortunately, that leaves only one other place to do it—the Drop Zone. Porta-shitters, as we like to call them, sit for weeks without being emptied and capture every bit of the sun’s heat. It’s like a fucking greenhouse in there, and one breath in that motherfucker while beating off and your dick is in full retreat.
So there’s a trick to doing this just right; you have to prep him first. You get him up and going, and then you quickly finish in the shitter. For most of these guys, the bikini-clad chicks above their cots or the porno mags stashed in their bags are a
