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“You vile —” I check myself because I don’t want to berate my son's mother in front of him. He’s already looking back and forth between us in confusion. “Buddy, you go with your mom for your ice cream and we’ll have a story when you get back,” I say calmly.
“You’re going to see that I’m right,” Lisa says.
“No. No, I’m not.” I stand and walk away before I say something ugly in front of Caden.
After they leave, I send Rylie an email.
My weekend sucks with no response from her and I bury myself in activities with my son even if everything reminds me of the time she was with us.
When Monday morning rolls around, I still haven’t heard back from her.
On Tuesday I call her, but she doesn’t answer. I leave a voicemail, “We need to talk, please. You’ve misunderstood some things.” I have no idea if she’s listened.
Wednesday night I realize my situation is hopeless. Rylie didn’t just run away from Hawaii and her aspirations to work here, she’s run away from me. I have to come to grips with her decision and try to forget about her. I wake up in the middle of the night after I dream about her. I toss and turn, eventually jerking off to the image of her gorgeous sensual body dancing in front of me.
On Thursday I must look miserable because Blake Graham says, “You look sick, sir. Maybe you should have stayed in bed?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You don’t look fine.” He leaves his comment at that, and we begin arranging files together in silence. After an hour he says, “I think you’re missing something.”
I try to ignore him by staying busy and concentrating the best I can on work, but he asks, “Did you try to find out what happened?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I’m not trying to get into your personal life, sir,” he says, returning to military politeness.
“No, you said something,” I say putting down the file I was working on. “Permission to speak, Lieutenant. I want to hear what you have to say.”
“It’s obvious, Ethan. Can I speak like a friend?”
“Carry on.”
“You miss this Rylie chick. Bad. I think you’re going to actually get sick if you don’t do something. You look like shit, to be honest. And your uniform, your boots, I’m surprised Cole didn’t say something, you look like a slobbing private.”
Shit. I didn’t realize I’d failed to maintain standards.
“Excuse me,” I say. I hit the restroom and look in the mirror. Blake’s right. I do look like shit. I’ve forgotten to get a haircut, too. I splash water on my face and ponder my predicament.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Leaving the restroom, I make my way to the Lieutenant Colonel’s office and rap lightly on the open door. He looks up and motions for me to enter.
“Sir,” I say. “I’ve got to apologize. I think I’m a little sick and I know I look like hell.”
“Take a seat,” he says.
I sit in silence while he finishes going through a stack of papers. “So, what’s problem? Why didn’t you go to sick-call?”
“I didn’t realize it was so bad.”
“I see,” he says.
“Sir, can I put in for a pass?”
“A pass?”
“For a long weekend, sir.”
