"What do you miss about the Army?" I pour my own glass.
I have no idea why I’m sitting here with Caleb, watching as he crawls further and further into the bag.
I can’t help but feel there is something different tonight. There’s a darkness in Caleb that isn’t usually there. Or at least I’ve never seen it behind the bravado and false machismo. Which is good because then I won't feel like I've betrayed everything that I ever thought I believed in by drinking with him.
"The guys. The stupid shit we used to complain about." I know what's coming. The drinking didn't work. Not as a distraction. Instead, the door is wide open for whatever is tormenting him to escape and fill the dark bar with shadows and pain. "I want it to be worth it. I want to know they died for a reason. That it wasn't some stupid boondoggle."
It hits me then that I’ve judged him harshly and wrongly. I never saw beyond the bullshit war stories to ask if there was anything more.
I stare into the shot glass, seeing the past and the hurt and the anger that I've tried really f*ck
ing hard to ignore the last few months since getting out. The shame that had damn near choked me after I realized I hated him because he put into words the thing I hated about myself.
"I can't say it's worth it. I wish I could." I raise my glass, a silent salute to the brothers we’ve lost.
It hurts. Goddamn it, it f*ck
ing hurts.
And yet, it's a familiar hurt that only someone who's been there understands. I can't drink with people from campus. They don't get it. No one does. Unless they've been there.
"You ever wonder why we went?"
I pour two more shots for both of us. "Drink. If we're drinking, bottoms up, brother."
He frowns into his glass, swirling the liquid. Some spills over the side and onto the back of his hand.
I don't know what set Caleb off tonight but now that I'm here, my own bullshit is rising up. The onslaught of anger and bitterness drowns a little beneath the haze of alcohol. I've been trying so hard.
"And yeah. It surprises me sometimes," I say after a moment.
"Huh?"
"Like I'll be listening to the radio and a song will come on from one of my deployments and I just…I go back. This one time, we were on patrol and the LT had speakers hooked up in his truck. We’re getting the shit kicked out of us and then all of a sudden Raspberry Beret comes on loud as hell. In the middle of a firefight, Prince. He never lived that shit down." I grin wickedly at the memory. People who have never been there are horrified when they realize what we can laugh at. The worst times in our lives, the blackest moments, and someone can crack a joke that will have us damn near pissing ourselves.
There’s no laughter now. It's going to be a rough f*ck
ing night.
"How do you turn the shit off? When you start thinking about it?"
I don't answer for a long moment. I can't. Because my throat is blocked by something I can't swallow. And it hurts. It's like a giant lump stuck in my chest.
"I don't. Sometimes, I can distract myself by going for a run or something. Other times, not so much. That's when Uncle Jack comes into play."
He's got a death grip on that glass. "You don’t like me, do you?" His voice breaks a little.
"We've all got our demons, brother."
"I know you think I’m full of shit." He smiles and it’s sad and biting and cold. “I thought maybe…maybe you’d get it. More than the other guys. You worked for the general. You know what it’s like at those levels of the game.”
I frown. “You were in my unit?”
A division staff is huge. And no, I don’t remember ever seeing him before.
“Yeah, man. I worked for one of the brigade commanders. I saw…I know…I was there when Blackjack Nine died.”
f*ck
me. Blackjack Nine was Second Brigade’s sergeant major. He died in a massive bombing when the insurgents started using ten-thousand-pound bombs in dump trucks.
“I’m sorry, man.” What else can I say when I’ve been a complete prick to him?
There is nothing left to do but pour another shot. Wishing I could make the memories stop. For him. For me.
But I can’t.
And sometimes, the only solution is to drink until they leave you alone.
Chapter 21
Abby
The hurt doesn’t magically stop after you cry yourself to sleep. And no amount of Ben & Jerry’s helps either.
I am raw and tender and bruised, and I have to somehow drag my ass to work and smile and pretend that my soul isn’t lying crushed and bleeding on the ground.
I skipped classes today. Every single one of them.
But I can’t skip work if I want to pay the rent this month.
And as is the way with friends, they notice when things have gone to shit, no matter how much you try to hide it.
"What happened?" Graham opens his arms and because it hurts, I go to him. He is the only thing holding me upright at the moment. “Things didn’t work out with Captain California, did they?”
"How did you guess?"