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“Did I miss it?” Dave yells, his view still covered by my hands.
Riley adds, “You’re lucky I love you so much.” Then she reaches up, quickly unbuttons my shirt she’s wearing, grips the sides and spreads her arms wide, smirking as she does.
Swear, I’m the luckiest asshole in the world.
Thirty-Three
Riley
I pace the kitchen, checking the time for the millionth time. It’s 6:00 a.m. On the dot. I haven’t slept. He said he’d call. Last night he called at 3. He should’ve called already. I check my phone again. 100% charge. Full volume on the ringer. I open the Skype app to quadruple check there are no missed calls. There aren’t.
Panic sets in.
Tears fill my eyes.
He wouldn’t have said he’d call if he couldn’t.
Something’s wrong. I can feel it.
I look at Bacon, fast asleep on his bed. I check the time again. 6:01.
I pace faster, my hands balling and straightening at my sides.
They’d tell me, right? If something were wrong, they’d call? No. They just show up at the door. I’ve seen it in movies. Read it in books. They don’t call.
Did he even change the address on his forms? Or whatever the fuck they have to do to let whoever the fuck know to go to wherever the fuck so they can notify if something happened.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. He probably didn’t change the address.
Without a second thought, I grab my keys, not bothering to dress and jump in my car.
I pull up to Dylan’s dad’s house and check the time on the dash. 6:02.
If it’s physically possible to have your heart beat and die at the same time, that’s what mine’s doing. I step out of the car and march to the front door, my adrenaline and fear overshadowing any sense in the situation. I knock, hard and loud, and when a few seconds pass and no one answers I start to yell and pound my fist.
Eric answers wearing nothing but his boxers, his eyes half asleep at first but when he sees me and my obvious state, he seems to wake up. “What’s wrong?” he rushes out, pulling me inside.
“He didn’t call!”
“What?”
“He said he’d call and he didn’t call. Have you heard anything?”
“Riley!” He grasps my elbows. “Slow down.” Then over his shoulder, he shouts. “Dad! Riley’s here.” He bends down and looks in my eyes—my tear-filled, panicked eyes. “Take a breath, try to calm down. And start again. Please.”
Mal appears down the hall, tying his robe. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
I try to take Eric’s advice.
Breathe. Calm. Speak. “Dylan called last night.” I shake my head quickly. “Not last night, but the night before. And he said he’d call again and he hasn’t. Something happened to him. Did you get a call or—”
“Riley,” Eric cuts me off, grasping my elbows tighter. “Did Dylan say he would definitely call? Or did he say he’d try? Because we can’t make those kinds of promises.”
“I—” I try to think of Dylan’s exact words but nothing comes to mind.
Sydney’s up now, her look of worry matching everyone else’s.
“Sweetheart,” Mal says, coming to me and placing his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure he would’ve called if he could. There are just so many uncertainties over there, it’s impossible…”
Eric releases his hold on me and leans against the wall, his chest rising and falling as he runs his hand through his hair. “So you haven’t heard anything? Official, I mean.”
“No but—”
His dad and he share a look—one of relief.
Sydney asks, “Do you want me to get your mom, Riley?”
I nod, tears releasing with my sob.
“Come on,” Mal says, his hand still on my shoulder as he leads me to the kitchen. He sits me down on a chair and switches on the coffee pot. Then leans against the counter, Eric beside him. They’re looking at me with pity in their eyes and I know what they’re thinking, because I think it too. I’ve just never voiced it. Not until now. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”
“For what?” Eric asks.
“For this. This military life.”
Silence fills the air as I look down at the table, my tears flowing fast and free. Then, unable to keep it in anymore, I release a truth that even I didn’t want to believe. “I thought I could handle it but I can’t. I wanted to believe so badly that I was strong enough for this but I’m not. I can’t deal with another death and I feel like that’s what I’m waiting for. For someone to knock on my door and tell me that another person I love is dead and I can’t. I just can’t.” I wipe my tears, my words strained as I look up at them. “I love him. I do. You know I do, but—”
The back door opens and my mom appears. She’s in her pajamas, her eyes glassy as she looks over at me, Sydney behind her. “Oh, honey,” she coos. Then she smiles. “You’ve had a bad night, huh?”
I nod, releasing yet another sob.
She lifts the packet of bacon in her hands. “Will this help?”
I nod again, and even though I feel like a child—a sad, heartbroken child—having them here, having them understand—it helps.
In hushed tones, Eric, Sydney and my mom make breakfast while I focus on the table, waiting for my heart to settle.
