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PRESENT DAY - THREE YEARS LATER
“Swear jar money. Pay up.” Samantha opened her palm, not missing a beat after I dropped an F-bomb in her kitchen.
“Matthew’s not even back from daycare yet.” I reached into my pocket for loose change but came up with a twenty instead.
“I’m trying to teach the men in my life to lose their sailor mouths so my son doesn’t copy them.” Samantha made a come-hither motion with her hand.
I laughed. “Fair enough. Here.” I said goodbye to the bill a girl had stuffed into my pocket as a tip an hour ago. Her name and number were scribbled on it in black ink. “Consider this an advance. I don’t have high hopes I’ll change.”
Samantha eyed the twenty, noticing the name and number on it. “Aw, keep it. You probably need to get laid.”
“Funny.” Or at least it would have been if she wasn’t right. “I’m not interested.” I waved away the money.
“Lucky for her, she gave this to you and not my husband.” She stuffed the bill in the nearly full jar, then placed it back inside her cabinet over the stove.
“Owen would never accept a tip with a woman’s number on it, so you won’t have to throw down with some flirty girl in the future. No worries.”
“True.” Samantha slid onto one of the barstools at her kitchen island.
I’d served with Samantha’s husband, Owen York, before I became a Tier One operator for DEVGRU. We’d kept in touch over the years, even when he left the Teams in 2013 to work private security and run his family’s tavern in Charleston. The man must have thought I was an idiot to believe a Teamguy like him would up and quit so early in his career.
Nah, there was more to his story, but I respected his privacy. If he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—tell me the truth, then I wasn’t one to press.
Whenever they were both in town, Samantha and Owen rotated picking up their three-year-old son. Since it was Owen’s turn to handle pickup, I’d driven Samantha home from the tavern. Plus, it was my night to make dinner.
One of the few things I could cook was spaghetti and meatballs, which I was now preparing. Growing up with an Italian father meant you never actually plopped the meatball on top of the pasta. Pasta first. Meat after that. That’s how it was usually done in Italy unless a restaurant catered to tourists. Well, so Dad told me.
We never had a chance as kids to visit as a family. My only time in the country was a quick trip to the Naval Air Station Sigonella in Sicily as a sailor before making the Teams.
“I’ve told you this before, but you’ve been a lifesaver at the bar.” Samantha’s words redirected my attention from the stove her way. “Not to mention watching Matthew for us when we have to travel at the same time. We seriously owe you.”
“You’re kidding, right? I love hanging with the little dude.” I was getting old, and taking care of Matthew was the closest I’d probably ever come to being a father. “I owe you two. You’ve let me stay in your guesthouse for months. Gave me a job while I figured my life out. We’re nowhere near even.” I crossed my arms and studied her.
“And have you figured your life out?” Samantha drummed her black nails on the counter.
“Fuck no.” I winced. “See, this is why I gave you the twenty.”
“Keep it up, and Matthew’s college fund will be all set,” she joked. After a quiet moment passed, she said, “In all seriousness, I know you told us that you were only planning to spend three or four months here, but don’t feel rushed. You take all the time you need. I mean, you have become Charleston’s favorite bartender. Who knew you had Tom Cruise’s skills from Cocktail?”
“You’re a horrible liar.” I had a lot of skills, none of which helped behind a bar. “I appreciate your offer to stay longer, but you two close the bar in the winter, and I think it’s time I part ways.”
“Well, what about going to Charlotte? I’m sure your mother would love to see you.” She clasped her palms together.
“Heading home is definitely not the plan.” I owed her a visit, sure. But . . .
“So, then . . . what do you want?”
“What I want is to be on the Teams.” I let go of a deep breath, angry at myself for allowing the conversation to take the same turn it always did when we chatted about my future.
My grumpy self still hadn’t gotten over the fact I’d had to stop operating three years ago, practically to the day. As much as I hadn’t wanted to report the hospital incident to my CO, I beat that Charlotte doctor to the punch and told him about the blackouts and my headaches. I had to know for certain I was solid before I stepped outside the wire with my teammates again. I didn’t mind risking my life, but I wouldn’t risk my teammates.
Unfortunately, after the Navy ran more tests, they came to the same conclusion as the Charlotte doctor. No more operating. That had been the second darkest day of my life. My father dying had been the first.
When they pulled me from Alpha Platoon, they offered me an instructor position with Green Team—the selection course for SEALs hoping to join DEVGRU as Tier One operators.
I wasn’t a teacher. Not by a long shot. But I reluctantly accepted the job because leaving the Navy before my twentieth year was an even worse option.
I officially retired in June, canceled my lease in Virginia, and shipped my belongings home to my mom’s in Charlotte. Though, for whatever reason, I couldn’t bring myself to go home yet.
