I laugh as he hands me another beer. Six is my limit.
Maybe seven tonight.
“I’m not even going to ask why you snapped. That’s obvious. But damn, Drew. That was one calculated snap.”
“Yep.”
“And you jeopardized your entire business for it.”
I say nothing.
“I understand the vendetta.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Then help me understand.”
“Why?”
He gives me a look made of granite.
“You really have to ask that? I’m not answering with a list, Drew. I’m asking because watching you throw away everything you’ve built because you can’t keep your fists by your side in the face of an enemy isn’t you.”
Huh. Word got around fast. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Now you sound like some eighteen-year-old recruit who doesn’t know the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground.”
Because sometimes it feels like I don’t.
“Blaine was one of the three attackers.”
“I got that loud and clear. Knew that already.” He takes a swig of beer and peers at me. “But you’re a better strategist.”
“I got him in a dead zone.”
“That’s still sloppy. You know better.”
“My temper got the best of me.”
“Not good enough, Drew. Still doesn’t explain it. I’ve watched you over the years. You came to Afghanistan like a hollowed-out robot, with a cold, calculating intelligence that masked a rage I’ve never seen in anyone other than shell-shocked guys with months of IED evasion under their belts. You were fucking scary when we met. Eager scary. And with some taming, that mind of yours became our best weapon. You’re smarter than this.”
I chug the rest of my beer, toss the empty in my recycling container, and reach into the cabinet for reinforcements, finding a bottle of Scotch from my parent’s house. I don’t drink hard liquor.
I do now.
“It’s personal.”
“More than personal.”
We bathe in the silence between us. The only sound is the trickle of amber fluid from the bottle into a shot glass. I pour two and shove one at him. He holds up a palm.
“No way. I need to get back to Carrie tonight in one piece. Beer’s good for me.”
I slam back one shot. “Liquid courage.”
“You need courage to talk?” Mark’s eyebrows shoot up. “This must be bad.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and starts tapping on the screen.
“Who you texting?” The room is a warm cocoon suddenly, and Mark is my best friend.
“Carrie. Looks like I need to stay here after all.”
“No. Go back to your woman. She’s waiting in your bed. Go make love and have fun. Smell her neck. Run your hands up her thighs and open them like she’s a honeycomb and -- ”
Mark grabs my arm with more force than he has any right to use. “Don’t talk about Carrie that way.”
“Wasn’t talking about Carrie.”
His grip softens.
“This is about Lindsay,” he says under his breath.
“It’s always about Lindsay,” I say, like someone’s ripped my vocal cords in two. “Always. But what I did to Blaine today was as much about me as it was about her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The words are on the tip of my increasingly numb tongue. I want to say them. Need to say them. I’ve only ever spilled my guts to one person, and she has a Ph.D. and an M.D. after her name and can write a prescription to help me with the obliteration.
My hands shake as I pour a second shot.
“It means I’m a fucking fool.”
He puts his hand on mine and carefully removes the shot glass from me with a look that says enough. “That was established long ago.”
“Then my foolishness expands.” The word foolishness sounds slurred.
“Man, I’ve watched you get shitfaced before. After we found that bombed-out village with the kids in the school building...” His voice trails off and he gets the thousand-mile stare I know all too well, except right now, I don’t give a fuck about anything.
I tear off onto my deck, where a giggle greets me.
“Drew!” It’s Tiffany, my fifty-something cougar neighbor who is wearing a gold bikini at midnight, with a bucket of makeup on her face and a huge pitcher of margaritas on her table. She’s smoking a clove cigarette. A gust of wind blows hard just as Mark stomps after me, coming up short when he realizes she’s here.
“Oh!” she purrs. “Who’s your friend?” Tiffany stands.
She’s wearing high heels. Gold ones. They match the string bikini. For a woman my mother’s age, she’s in great shape.
But definitely not my type.
Mark does that thing with his voice that guys do when they’re surprised, but are trying to hide it.
“I’m Tiffany!” she chirps, shuffling over on stilettos and holding out her perfectly manicured hand.
“Mark. Hi.”
“Hi there,” she says back, giving me a wide-eyed glance. “Drew! You look like a bear ate you and spat you back out.”