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“How’d you ask her?”
I shrug. “Smokey and I met her out on the softball fields. She was there practicing with Morgan. Smokey told her how he was worried about her on account of this wedding she’s going to is going to have some untrustworthy people at it and she needs someone to watch her back. Then I asked her out.”
Grandma Eileen cackles like a hyena. “You had Dixon be your lead-in? And you didn’t even really ask her? I’m surprised she only hit you in the jewels and didn’t really teach you a lesson.”
I bristle. “I asked her. Literally, I just told you I did.”
“No. You and Dixontold her. You didn’t ask her. Didn’t charm her. And you sure as heck didn’t respect her. All you two boys did was just barge into her life when she was trying to relax and tell her how it is. Now, I know that may work with some girls you and that motorcycle club run around with, but did you really expect that to work on Danielle Green? Do you even know the girl, or were you just blind to her all these years?”
I’m quiet a moment, thinking, and adjusting the frozen peas as they’ve started to defrost. My mind circles Dani, happily, and relives a hundred pleasant memories that make my heart pump faster and the pain fade away.
Suddenly, I find it. The answer.
My grandmother’s right.
I know just what I need to do to change Danielle’s mind.
* * * * *
The next day, early afternoon, I park my bike in a small suburban neighborhood of Costa Oscura. The smell of fresh-cut grass hits my nose and the laughter and shouts of kids playing at a nearby playground fill my ears.
I slip off my bike and pause a minute to check myself out in the rearview mirror, smoothing lines and making sure every piece is perfectly in place. I haven’t worn my dress blues in ages, and whatever Marine Corps event I wore them for was not nearly as important as what I have ahead of me: the chance to salvage my pride and clear my debt with Smokey. Everything must be perfect.
Even if wearing this uniform isn’t easy.
It hurts to wear this outfit again, to put on my body a reminder of all the pain and nightmares I suffered through. There's pride in it, yes, the same pride that comes with knowing I beat something dangerous, something enormous, yet every time the fabric of my uniform shifts, it's like a knife cutting open old scars.
Twice I check myself to see if I'm bleeding, to see if that spot where I was shot has suddenly reopened to spill a scarlet memento all over my body.
In this uniform, I feel it — the pain, the fear, the rage; I smell it — the blood, the smoke, the choking desert sand; I hear it — the crack of the gun, the wet pop as the lead punctures my body, the screams. It’s not there, but it’s real; it will always be real; it will always be with me.
That's the thing that few people will ever understand. Only those who have been through it get it. When you come out, when your service is over, you are changed. It's not all waving flags and flying eagles, fireworks and fourth of July parades; you've lost a part of yourself. You bleed it out in the sand, cry it out in shameful tears you hide in the darkest corners, scream it in rage from the purest depths of your heart.
It's sacrifice; of who you are, of other people's lives — your life, the lives of your friends, and the lives of your enemies that you’ve taken and that you will carry with you until the end — until there’s this void inside you that’s nothing but pain and lack.
I often wonder if anything will make it better.
I've spent a lot of time looking, and I've yet to find something that doesn't make it worse.
I sigh. Straighten a line in my uniform. Take a deep breath.
When I’ve finished giving myself an inspection more thorough than a drill sergeant with an ax to grind, I open the saddlebag of my bike and take out a clutch of roses. Red. Traditional. An enormous bouquet, three dozen, at least, and every leaf and petal perfectly in place, just like my uniform.
Now to locate Dani.
Which isn’t actually too hard, because there are signs with her face on them all over the place in this neighborhood. Though the smiling face I see on the signs is a far cry from the tomboyish face I remember. This one’s wearing makeup that highlights delicate cheekbones, a million-watt smile, and has her hair done up in a way I never imagined Danielle could do. She looks… good. No, better than good. She looks beautiful.
After taking a moment to gawk at her sign, I follow the arrows to a nice two-storey family home half a block away. There are five cars parked in the driveway, a driveway which sports a basketball hoop and leads into a two-car garage. Most of the vehicles are sensible family sedans and there’s one minivan. And there is one sparkling silver, late-model Lexus sedan.
That must be hers.
I stop at the front door for a moment, hesitating. Nervous.
This isn’t how I normally ask a woman out. Things work differently in a MC, they’re far less verbal — you meet eyes across a biker bar, you justknow,and then it happens — and they’re the same as when I first got out of the Marines and thought I could drink that pain away; two people with needs, with pain, with ghosts, find each other in the night and seek what solace they can find in each other’s company.
This is different — this is roses-in-my-hands real.
I look through the bay windows of the living room. Dani’s inside, dressed in a form-fitting navy blue skirt, white blouse, and navy blue suit jacket. It’s an outfit that would be mundane on anyone else, but on her, she’s a fucking knockout; she’s got curves I never noticed under the collection of baggy band t-shirts and torn denim jeans she used to wear all the time.
