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13
WILL
My date with Aria on Saturday night couldn’t have gone better. After we’d established that we were in love, and dating, we’d spent hours talking and laughing on the dock like we used to. It was as though the weight on my shoulders about running into my mom had been erased by the magic of that lake–ofher–just like always.
The only thing that remained on the edges of my mind was the old fear I’d been pushing down. There was still a chance I could end up like my dad. But between Donna and Ms. Hattie, I had to admit their pep talks made me feel lighter about that. Like I wasn’t my dad, and like my story didn’t have to end up like his. I could be happy. We could be happy.
But now, I had to tell Paul. And even though I’d spent every minute since that night on the dock trying to figure out how to do it, the words kept sticking in my throat. Not only that, but I’d barely seen the guy. He’d spent all day Sunday with Shelby. In the car on the way to work today, he spent the whole time talking my ear off about his wedding, or their house-hunting adventures, or his work stuff. There never seemed to be a good segue into the conversation. But maybe that was because I was scared of his reaction, so I was only being a chicken.
Paul’s wedding was this weekend. If I wanted him to process my confession and be cool with me in time to stand up as his best man, I needed to take care of this. Today.
I plopped my cranial on the desk when I entered the shop from the hangar, hooking my tool pouch on the wall. I had an hour for lunch before I had to get back to work. That would be plenty of time to meet up with Paul and tell him the truth. Chase always ate lunch with us, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted an audience for this conversation. Sure, it might be good to have a witness to my murder. But at the same time, if Paul decided to beat me to death, I didn’t want Chase to do anything stupid like try to stop him. I sure wouldn’t. If he felt that strongly about me being with his sister, I’d let him hit me.
When I crossed back into the hangar with my phone in hand, I scanned the faces of the other Marines, looking for Chase. He was supposed to meet me in the shop so we could head to lunch as usual, but he was nowhere to be found.
I stopped a corporal as he walked by. “Hey, you seen Mitchell?”
His face darkened. “Flight line.”
“Thanks.” Quirking a brow, I turned that way.
“Sergeant Paxton?” the corporal asked, hesitating when I looked back at him. “Sergeant Roberts is really on him today.”
Knowing it took a lot of courage for him to tell me that, considering Roberts outranked him and it was generally bad form to tattle on your NCO, I figured it must have been pretty bad. I gave him a curt nod. “I’ll handle it. Thanks.”
He bolted without another word, and I turned back to the flight line. I saw Chase almost immediately, struggling under the weight of a BRU-32. The seventy-six-pound bomb ejector rack was over three feet long, and even though Chase was a pretty strong kid, he looked like he was having some trouble with it. I rushed out there to help him, my boots slapping against the asphalt beneath them.
Chase looked up when he heard me approaching, his knees buckling slightly. Sweat poured down his red face, and I stuck my arms under the rack just before he let it slip from his grasp. Hoisting it up so I could get a better grip, I looked around for the jet he was carrying it to.
Finding none that needed one, I scowled down at him. “Where were you taking this?”
Chase put his hands on his knees, panting. “Nowhere.”
“Nowhere? So, what, you decided to take a nice leisurely stroll around the flight line with it?”
When his gaze met mine, an all too familiar ache took root in my chest. No. He hadn’t decided to take the bomb rack for a walk. He’d been told to. Been ordered to. I swallowed back the bile that threatened to rise. “Roberts?”
He didn’t need to respond. The guarded look in his eye told me everything I needed to know.
“He ordered you to carry this thing around? For how long?”
Chase opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Unlike the corporal who’d spoken up earlier, Chase was in no hurry to rat out his superior. Even to me. Even when what Roberts was doing was wrong on so many levels. It was abuse, plain and simple. And I would know.
“Come on,” I said, my voice much gentler than the anger inside of me wanted it to be. “Let’s break for lunch. When we get back, you’re on CADS and buckets for the rest of the day.”
It was an easy job, but a necessary one. I turned on my heel and headed for the hangar, my blood humming with the urge to find Roberts and beat him over the head with the BRU-32. I shook my head to clear it. No way. That wasn’t me. Even if he did deserve it.
The war within me continued to rage on as I brought the bomb rack back to the shelf that housed it. With Chase on my heels, we headed to lunch. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to run into Roberts on the way or not. Probably better that I cooled down first. I hadn’t used my fists in anger since I left my own home, and I wasn’t about to start now.
“Hey, guys,” Paul greeted us when we made it to the chow hall.
Inwardly, I let out a long sigh. Paul. I needed to tell Paul about Aria. But my palms were still sore from how hard I’d been clenching my fists, and I needed to get Chase some food and water before he collapsed. I had no idea how long he’d been out there with that rack, and he didn’t look good. To say I’d been triggered by his whole ordeal was an understatement.
“Whoa, Mitchell,” Paul said, concern creasing his forehead as he looked Chase up and down. “What’s up with you, man?”
Chase shook his head. “I’m good.”
“You’re not good,” I snapped, closing my eyes and wishing I could claw back the words. He didn’t need that from me. Not now. I cleared my throat, trying again in a softer tone. “You’re not good, Chase. Have a seat. We’ll go get you some water.”
