Three months passed. Six, and then eight. Whitlock used me for night patrols nearly every single shift, which was fine by me. The city lit up with gunfire after the sun went down. We played cat and mouse through burned-out buildings, hunting down insurgents, disarming bombs, providing backup to Seal teams and support to the marines, and through it all I was confident in the knowledge that Ronan was safe back in the States.
I spoke to him every few days at first, and then once a week. As our communication trailed off, I told myself it was because he felt guilty. We didn’t talk about the missions I was going out on, or the danger I faced every day. But I knew it was hard for him—seeing the uniform made him visibly pale and uncomfortable. When Magda started answering her phone less, I figured…I don’t know what I figured. We went from talking every day, her missing me, her loving me, her crying every time I said goodbye, to her screening my calls and rarely picking up at all.
I knew what was coming deep down in my bones, but I wasn’t prepared for it. Exactly nine months after I’d assumed Ronan’s identity and sent him back to the States to pretend to be me until my return, I got the call that changed everything. Not a call from Magda or from Ronan, but a call from both of them. I knew the moment I saw them on the laptop screen, sitting at the table together, chairs pushed too close, hands hidden under the table, that they were about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.
“We didn’t mean for it to happen,” Magda said, tears welling in her eyes. “But living together, spending so much time together, pretending all the time... It was inevitable, Sully. We couldn’t help it.”
Ronan looked like his shame was eating him alive. “I don’t know what to say,” he whispered. “You gave me everything, and I took even more. It’s unforgiveable.”
I stared at the screen, trying to figure out if it was all a huge joke. God, it had to be, right? How could it possibly be true? And then Magda drove the final nail into the coffin. “I’m pregnant, Sully. I’m so, so sorry. We’re having a baby.”
Baby?
The word rattled around inside my brain, setting off explosions that clean took my breath away.
“I still love you,” she whispered. “I love both of you. How can I not?”
“So, what?” I choked on my laughter. “I get done out here in a couple of months, come back to New York and then we all live together? One big, happy family? Ronan gets you Monday through Wednesday, I get you Thursday through Saturday, and we take alternating Sundays? Jesus fucking Christ, Magda.”
She cried, unbearable, gut-wrenching sobs, hands covering her face, and it was Ronan to put his arm around her and comfort her, not me.
“How long?” I demanded. “How far along are you?”
They were both silent for a moment, and then Ronan gave me an answer that made me want to throw up: “Sixteen weeks.”
“Four months? Four fucking months?”
“I know, brother. I’m so, so sorry. I know there’s nothing I can say to make this right, but—”
“Don’t call me that. Don’t call me brother. We’re done here, Ronan. You’re right. This is unforgiveable.” I slammed the laptop shut, cutting off the connection. It wasn’t enough, though. I picked it up and threw it, sending it hurtling across the tent.
It was over. It was all over. The world as I knew it was gone. Magda was having Ronan’s baby, and I was still stuck in Afghanistan, pretending to be him. I rushed out of the tent and ran across the base, my head thumping, my heart galloping in my chest. It didn’t take me long to find the colonel. He was bending over some intel reports in the comms room, squinting through the wire framed glasses he’d taken to wearing. When he saw me, he drew himself up to his full height and cleared his throat.
“What can I do for you, Captain? Where’s the fire?”
“I want to extend again, Colonel.”
His frosty expression thawed a little. “That’s not possible, Fletcher. Much as I’d like to keep you on out here, you’ve been in-country too long. The higher-ups will demand you go back to active duty in the States for at least six months before we can have you—”
“With all due respect, Colonel Whitlock, do you think I am unfit for duty?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Do you think I’m mentally competent?”
“Normally, I’d say so, but right now you’re looking a little crazed, Ronan. Might I ask what’s brought this on?”
“Just the need to serve my country, sir. The need to protect those I love and keep them safe.” This was the perfect spiel to reel out to Whitlock. Blind patriotism got him in the feels every single time. He scratched his nose, looking at me, and then gave a perfunctory nod.
“All right, then. I’ll have the paperwork drawn up for you to sign in the morning. I’ll write a personal letter of recommendation requesting that your application for another extension is granted, but I can’t guarantee it’ll be accepted.”