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And he could no longer trust himself to live with Emily and not make love to her. His time was up.
He picked up a six-pack of beer on the way to the base that morning. And once he was settled in the furnished one-bedroom unit he’d been assigned, sheets and towels included, he popped the top on the first bottle. He could put them away with the best of them. Just hadn’t done so in a long time.
He did that Sunday. He finished off the six-pack. Thought about taking a walk for more, but ended up lying on the bed, watching football. One game. Then two. On to the night game. He couldn’t say who was playing, much less who won. Didn’t give a rat’s ass about who ran for how many yards, how many completed passes he saw, or who was out with injuries.
He cared about Emily.
When it started to get dark, he called her.
“Hello?”
He hadn’t really expected that she’d pick up. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“I’m sorry, Em. So sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“What did you do today?”
“Bought a wardrobe of clothes for Tristan Dane, three different sizes, sheets and little hoodie towels, disposable diapers and a year’s worth of baby wipes.”
He’d asked.
“Tristan Dane?” She was naming the child after him? Even then?
“I know you didn’t want him to have your first name, but he’s part of you and a boy needs to feel like he’s part of his father. Since I can’t guarantee that you’ll have an active role in his life, I at least want him to know he was important enough to you to carry part of your name.”
Lying on his bed, only the television’s glow for light, he wished he had more beer. “You decided all that today?”
“Most of it. I’d already decided on the name.”
And she hadn’t changed her mind. For the child’s sake.
He’d muted the television, but the game was back on, following the commercial break that had finally pushed him into calling her. It was hard to forget your marriage was over when you were watching an insurance commercial depicting a happy family living a great life.
Maybe if he’d bought some of that particular insurance his unit wouldn’t have ended up on the wrong end of enemy fire.
“Why’d you pick up when I called?” he asked, the beer no longer making him sleepy, but still affecting him enough to allow the question to slip through.
“You’re Winston. I’ve picked up every time since the very first time you called me.”
He figured it would only be a matter of time until that changed. Because everything did.
She didn’t ask him about Afghanistan. About any of it. And since he had nothing that could help her, he rang off.
The next evening, he was right in the same exact place. Lying propped up on pillows on the double bed, a football game on the television. He’d brought another six-pack of beer back to his place, along with a sub, but was only on his second drink.
He’d had a good workout that day, followed by another Coronado beach run. Then a meeting with a group of men and women who were working to keep the United States safe from terrorist attack. He’d had no idea he’d retained so much information during his time in captivity, but was glad he had. At least he was good at the thing he was built to do.
He’d canceled his meeting with Adamson. He’d catch up with her later in the week.
Lobbing the sub bag toward the trash can in a corner of the room, he gave himself two points for making it. And the phone rang.
Emily.
“Hello.”
