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Taron
December
A matchbox-sized red Chevy truck is in this month’s care package, along with a photo of Akela looking down at a burned hoecake. Another picture of Noel holding the sides of her hair out over an accounting textbook makes me laugh, and a newspaper clipping of that little red-haired girl holding an Autumn’s Bounty candle.
A two-page, handwritten letter explains everything, how Noel hasn’t been able to make a decent hoecake since I left, which I don’t believe. How accounting finals are this week, and how the local paper did a feature on her product line—endorsed by the new Princess Peach.
The red Chevy needs no explanation…
I trace my finger along the swirls of her handwriting, thinking how valuable such a thing feels to me now. We text little notes to each other every day, all day, and we Facetime every night. Still, this is special. Things she forgets to tell me or saves for these monthly missives. Holding it to my nose, I take a long inh
ale of her signature scent, and my longing for her is soul-deep.
“Dad wants to know how much longer we’ll be in Mexico.” Patton Fletcher is in his bunk across from mine scoffing at his most recent letter. “He’s not impressed by the lack of danger in our mission, says we should inquire about getting out early, since we’re clearly being used for National Guard duty.”
“He’s busting your balls.”
“Maybe… but not entirely.”
“He’s worried the Nashville business community won’t find decent real estate without you.”
Patton’s dad owns Fletcher Properties, and for years, he’s been claiming he’ll retire and give the company to his son. I’ll believe it when I see it. George S. Fletcher, Sr., is the Queen of England when it comes to his fledgling enterprise turned multi-million-dollar corporation. They’ll pry those reins out of his cold dead hands.
“He still doesn’t understand why we’re here.” Swinging his legs off the side of the bunk, Patton walks over to the desk and wakes his laptop. “He thinks I enlisted so I could run for senate.”
My brow quirks. I never thought of that. “Did you?”
Black eyes cut to mine. “I have no interest in politics… other than how it affects my business.” He shifts that laser focus to the computer screen. “We came here to make a difference.”
His words became a sort of mantra between us. I remember us sitting around at the Y after a day of shooting hoops. Patton always wanted to do more. We’d see military observances, and he was always interested. As the world became more chaotic, more obsessed with appearances and possessions, he’d talk about how the military kept it simple, grounded—serve and protect.
It was unexpected coming from him, the kid who grew up with the silver spoon in his mouth, but I agreed with him. My home life hadn’t give me much to be proud of, and I didn’t have many prospects. Hard work and discipline didn’t scare me, and the idea of the three of us doing it together seemed like a good plan. We spent most of our time together anyway. Then we met Sawyer.
Then I met Noel.
She’s so beautiful. She has dreams and so much ahead of her. I want to bring something to the table as well. Sure, I can never be a prince, but I could be a hero. I’ve trained for it. If I could do something, come back with a medal, a badge of honor, no one could say we don’t belong together. I want to give her that. I want to deserve her…
And I really want to be with her on her birthday.
Nights of talking through the computer screen or seeing her beautiful body on my phone are wearing on me. She’s going to be nineteen in a few days, and I’d give anything to be there with her.
“Wish we could get a few days leave.”
Patton looks at me like I’ve lost it. I’m frustrated we’re still on the border. We go where we’re told, but this mission feels more politically motivated than strategic. Primarily because we’re not seeing much action.
“What the hell are you interested in doing? Visiting your mom? Jerome?”
He knows after my mom moved back to the mountains, I pretty much lost contact with her. My uncle is someone I have no intention of visiting ever.
“Just feeling cooped up. Antsy.” Deployment in my mind was going to be more active and farther away—Afghanistan or Venezuela like we’d been told, not right here at the edge of our own country.
“You know what would be great right now?” Marley comes in, dropping on the foot of my bunk. “Edibles.”
Pulling my leg up, I give him a shove. “I told you not to spend your leave partying. Now you’re withdrawing.”
“Cannabis is not addictive.”
“Maybe not, but I imagine you get used to being high all the time.”
