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Katie Devora.
A smile cracks my face. “Thanks, dude.”
I don’t even look at him. Keeping my eyes locked onto the letter, I turn and quickly make my way toward the exit. Before I can get the door open, the shrill voice of Lieutenant Dixon calls out from the conference room. “Clay, come here real quick. We need to go over this shit.”
I slowly turn and fight the desire to strangle him right then and there. He holds up a notepad with a page full of writing and jams a finger into it. My shoulders drop a bit, as I know what’s about to come, and I have to force my eyes not to roll as I walk toward him, reluctantly slipping the letter into my cargo pocket.
My temples beat like drums as I clench my teeth tightly together, withholding all words because the only ones I want to use have four letters. We’re cruising down the road with Thomas at the wheel, Navas in the turret hatch, me in the passenger seat, and our interpreter, “Mike,” seated behind me.
Twenty-five fucking minutes Dixon blabbered on. He has a unique way of making what should take five minutes last a lifetime, and I was too busy getting the squad together afterward to read Katie’s letter. If we were the first vehicle in the convoy and not the third, it’s likely we’d end up in the Euphrates River because no way my mind is focused enough to navigate. I can only think of Katie and the letter that’s currently burning a hole through my pocket.
A buzz over the radio headset draws my attention. “Hey, Sergeant, it looks like Adams’ trucks are falling back. Do you want me to have the lead vehicle slow down?” Navas asks.
“No, they’re okay. They know where we’re going. They’ll be covering for 101st at the southern end of the target area anyway. We’ve got the northern end, so they’ll be cutting out of here shortly.”
I turn my attention to the navigation. It’s loaded with little icons representing all of the coalition vehicles. The raid and defense forces have already positioned themselves around the neighborhood, and we are just a few miles away.
I watch as Sergeant Adams’ convoy pulls off the highway. “Yup, there they go. A mile or so up the road and we’re there.” I shift my gaze to Thomas, who has a distant stare, his body sagging in the driver’s seat.
“Thomas, you awake, guy?” He snaps to attention like a teenager caught sleeping in class and quickly nods his head. “Sure doesn’t seem like it. You get okay sleep last night?”
I know he didn’t. I woke up several times throughout the night, as I often do, and I found him reading with a flashlight or just lying there, staring at the tent’s interior. Since the grisly scene at the checkpoint, he just hasn’t been the same. I haven’t been able to get him to talk either, which isn’t normal for him. He’ll usually at least open up to me.
“Slept like a baby, Sarge,” he lies.
“Alright, I’ll take your word for it.” I point toward a bushel of palms just outside our target neighborhood. “Park under those trees over there. Face that clearing.”
Thomas does as ordered while our other two Humvees station themselves a hundred yards on either side of us in their own defensive positions. The sun is shining brightly overhead, but the outstretched leaves of the palms will keep our vehicle well shaded. A crisp morning breeze funnels down through the turret hatch and teases my face.
Curious bystanders of all ages stand in the middle of the dirt roads that connect the neighborhood, watching infantry squads work. The neighborhood bustles with activity as the troops search homes for weapons, artillery rounds, roadside bombs and insurgents ready for a fight. We can't see much of it from our positions since half walls close off most of the neighborhood, with only a few roads leaving room for visibility. But we can hear American forces calling out orders loudly and an orchestra of Arabic chatter.
I radio Sergeant Adams to ensure his squad has taken up their own positions and then check in with the raid contingent’s leadership. Thomas has his head resting against the steering wheel, already fast asleep, and Navas’s hand is burrowing deep inside a bag of pork rinds.
Ensuring first that Navas can’t see me, I slip the envelope from my cargo pocket and quickly open it.
The first thing I notice—and it’s almost immediately—is her email at the very bottom of the letter. My cheeks hurt from the smile that owns my face. Looks like I’ll be spending a hell of a lot more time at the Comm Center.
Dear Devin,
To say that I was shocked to see a letter from you is an understatement. After the way you left things, I certainly didn’t expect you to respond, and I wasn’t at all prepared for your words. My head is telling me that I’m an idiot for continuing communication; it tells me that I should be angry and that you don’t deserve a second of my time. My heart, however … my heart remembers our friendship, and because of that, I want to believe that in that particular moment in time you really did think you were doing the right thing. Because I know you—at least I did—and the boy that I grew up with, the boy that I fell in love with, wouldn’t have ripped my heart out unless there wasn’t any other choice … at least that’s what I keep telling myself. But I can’t help but wonder if you realize now that you made a horrible decision … because I do think you made a horrible decision.
Oh my God, if she only knew that my heart has ached for her since the day I left. I’d give the world to change what I did. Horrible decision? Try the biggest regret of my fucking life. I won’t tell her about her dad’s talk with me though. I can never tell her that he’s the reason I disappeared without a trace.
And I’m not just saying that because I was the one left. I’m saying that because I know how much you meant to me—how much I loved you—and I know that I would’ve walked to the ends of the earth to make sure that we made it. But you didn’t give me that choice. You didn’t believe enough in my love for you, and as much as I want to forgive you, I can’t. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive you until I know what happened, but it sounds like you’ll take that to the grave.
So, you’re probably asking yourself why in the hell I’m taking the time to write you if I’m still upset with you and can’t forgive you. It’s because even though the scorned woman in me is still upset, the little girl that pushed you down on the playground would still very much like to get to know the friend that she lost.
Fuck, I’d give anything to be back in Tennessee making memories again. I want this girl. I’ve always wanted this girl. How the fuck am I gonna deal?
It’s also because the part of me that’s broken, the part I’m desperate to fix, was more than touched by your words. In fact, I’m incredibly grateful that you pushed the past aside and decided to respond to my letter, despite the fact that the tone of it was less than cordial and no one would’ve blamed you for simply wadding it up and tossing it away.
But I do want to thank you for sharing the story about you and your friend driving drunk. As much as I hate to hear about how much his life changed that night, I’m so very glad that you both survived. And the guilt that you’re holding onto from that night … let it go. Please let it go. The fact of the matter is that, yes, you could’ve caused harm to others, but you didn’t. You didn’t rip apart a family, or take someone’s life, and although I understand where your guilt comes from, I’m begging you to move past it. You’ve learned from your mistake and you used that to make yourself a better person. You should be proud of that. I know I am.
My focus drifts from the letter to the lump that’s formed in my throat. I swallow hard before continuing to read.
And I’m so sorry about your best friend. I can’t imagine how hard it was to lose him. I know it’s not exactly the same, but I feel like I can somewhat relate to that. I don’t think I told you in my first letter—actually, I know I didn’t because I haven’t told anyone—but I have this memory of waking up and seeing my dad for a couple of seconds right after the accident. If I close my eyes, I can remember everything so perfectly ...
He was covered in blood—it was literally running in streams down his face. I kept watching his chest, trying to see if he was still breathing, but I couldn’t focus because I was fading in and out. I don’t remember much else, but it haunts me. I don’t sleep well because when I close my eyes at night that is what I see. Why do I see that though? I have so many memories of him, and yet that’s the one that always pops up. How do you do it? How do you close your eyes and not see your friend? Or maybe you do … maybe the memory of him bleeding out in your arms is what keeps you up at night. It probably sounds sadistic, but as much as I hope that you’re not haunted by those memories, I find it somewhat comforting to know that maybe I’m not in this alone.
