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“Dad, she’s so pretty. Is she why you haven’t come home?”
I looked over my shoulder to see him jerk his head to cut her off. I made my way to my bedroom and plucked a book from my shelf. I was curious as to why his daughter would be encouraging him to date. And after meeting her, I was curious about far more than that. Ignoring the constant clench in my stomach and the new warmth that spread through me, I successfully immersed myself into the pages.
An hour or so later, there was a soft knock on my bedroom door.
“You decent?”
I was tangled in my body pillow. “Yep.”
“Sorry, I don’t want to make you feel like you have to retreat in your own house.”
“This isn’t my house,” I said with a wink. His gaze moved from the book I was holding to the bare leg that gripped the pillow.
“Trust me, I’m good here.”
“What are you reading?”
“Outlander.”
“Ah,” he said with a smile. “My daughter loves those books.”
“They’re amazing,” I said, sitting up.
“Well, I just wanted to say goodnight.”
“Thanks for dinner.”
“No problem.”
“There’s some extra pillows in your closet.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Goodnight.”
THE NEXT DAY AFTER WORK, Ian wasn’t home when I got there so I did the twenty-minute prep for dinner. Foil, almonds, salt, butter. Simple and delicious. I went to my bathroom and disrobed before I realized I was out of shampoo. Knowing my hair would be a rat’s nest if I used soap, I wrapped a towel around myself and crept down the hall to Ian’s room and knocked out of consideration, which I was sure he would appreciate before I walked into the bathroom to grab the extra bottle. On my way back through the bedroom, I saw an open letter on his bed. Against my better judgment, I peeked. It had Ian’s signature on the bottom. I glanced around briefly before I picked it up.
Tara,
I used to be the guy that gave the other guys hell. You know the guys who whined about home. I was the ballbuster, so to speak, and the perfect wingman, but hell on the family man. I was the one who swore the metal in his hands and his country were all that mattered.
In the mess hall tonight—if you want to call a tent in the middle of hell a hall—I finally figured out the issue with those sad bastards. They weren’t sure if they would get to see the faces of the woman they decided on.
I get that agony. I’m living it now because I decided on you.
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t looked your way when you smiled at me. Sometimes I think it would be better if I were out here with a clear heart and nothing to lose. But, the sweet agony, the burn of missing you, needing you, it feels phenomenal. And I get it. And I’m swimming in it because I know without a doubt, what we have is as real as what the sad bastard next to me has.
I miss your laugh, your face, the feel of your skin, the little moan you give when our lips connect. I miss your shitty jokes and giving you the answers to your mid-term prep questions. I miss the feel of your breasts on my back and waking up to fight you for bedsheets.
There are so many things that a soldier looks forward to, a hot shower, a decent meal, a good night’s sleep, Chapstick, and a day without a bullet whizzing past their head. But even in a third-world country, where these things really matter, when a man has the comfort of a woman’s eyes to concentrate on, the soft feel of her lips and fingers, it’s like a lightning strike of ache that can’t be ignored. I took you for granted even before I left your side. I didn’t stare long enough, I didn’t kiss you long enough, I didn’t tell you how much that smile mattered. Because it mattered. It’s why I chose you.
For the first time in my life, I’m that sad bastard.
It fucking hurts, but in the way that lets me know coming home will be the end of it.
Please send Chapstick.
I love you.
