Me leaving so often is nobody’s fault but my own. I leave because I don’t want to be here.
Both Bryce and Dad are home since it’s Saturday. I rarely know what day of the week it is because they all feel the same to me. But I know yesterday was Friday because of the show. Something I still don’t want to think about.
I don’t like the dreams I have. Even when I’m awake.
Making me colder and trying to take me away.
I rub my eyes with my forefinger and thumb, feeling a growing headache coming from somewhere deep. The only thing I can hope is that it’s not too late to fix things. That I haven’t totally screwed everything up.
The house is dark and quiet when I get inside, so I head upstairs, hoping to find Dad. But as I pass Bryce’s room, my legs lock in place and I can only stare at him, and at what he’s doing.
A large suitcase is open on his bed, half full with folded clothes. A couple of boxes are stacked next to his desk in an empty space where everything once was. His room no longer looks like his.
“What are you doing?” I can’t stop staring because I don’t want to believe what I’m seeing. To believe what it means.
Bryce turns from his closet and gives me a weird look—one that he only gives when he thinks I already know something. “I told you back in March, Kale. I got accepted into KU. You didn’t think I was going to stick around here forever, did you?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
He did tell me.
It’s one of those things you don’t think of because it’s so far away. But suddenly it’s there, smacking you in the face before you’ve had the chance to look at the calendar.
“But that’s not for another two months,” I say, my voice becoming weaker with every word. “Why are you already packing?”
“Did Libby not tell you? She said she would.” I shake my head and Bryce sighs, dropping his shirt on the bed. “I’m going early so I can find a job before classes start.”
“But—”
“I thought you knew,” Bryce says. He glances at me—saying he’s sorry without actually saying it—putting more of a gap between us. Something that’s been growing bigger and bigger over the years. He isn’t supposed to leave until I’ve fixed things with us. Because if I don’t, I’m afraid he’ll never come back.
“Kale?” Bryce takes a concerned step forward. “Are you all right? You look sick.”
I look up from the floor, ignoring my pounding heart and the cold chills running down my spine. “So, now you’re concerned for me?” I ask, my tone nothing under sarcastic. “Maybe it’s better that you leave. This way you won’t have to worry about anyone but yourself.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what? Tell the truth?”
Bryce shoots me a warning look. “Blame everything on me when it’s your own fucking fault. Now tell me that isn’t true, Kale. It’s not my fault you leave. It’s not my fault Dad doesn’t believe you. So why do you have to make me feel guilty for finally getting out of here?”
I’m so cold I’m almost sure I’ll disappear right before his eyes. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, barely able to make the words come out. “You’re right. Have a good life, Bryce.”
I turn to go but he catches my arm. “Tell me what’s really wrong. You used to tell me things—”
“That was before you stopped listening.” He looks uncomfortable at that, so I continue, knowing I won’t get another chance. “You were the first person to ever believe me and the first person to give up. You were supposed to be my brother, but you spent more time with your friends than with me. I’m not easy, I know. But don’t forget who your family is, because they’re the ones who will be there for you when nobody else is. I guess that’s all I’m asking—don’t forget about me once you’re gone, okay?”
I walk down the hall toward my room.
He calls after me. “Kale!”
I lock my door, breathing so heavily my vision blurs and spins. I press my back against the wood and slide to the floor, doing everything not to cry. Seventeen-year-old boys don’t cry. They don’t. Not when they have a brother who would make fun of him, and a father who would call him weak.
Bryce knocks on my door.
I hear Dad coming up the stairs—asking Bryce what’s going on.
“Kale, please,” Bryce says. “Let me in.”
“Kale?” It’s Dad this time.
His voice his hard and I close my eyes. I can’t will myself to stay because I don’t want to stay.
There’s more pounding on my door. I feel every one of them with my back pressed against it. Will they force their way in and find me gone? Or will they give up, not caring enough?
I don’t get the chance to find out.
It’s hard to believe the last time I was here, a bullet grazed my ribs. It feels like weeks have passed since then, and in reality it’s only been five days.
And only one day since I’ve been back.
Yesterday, after I washed the blood from my jacket, I was able to hide the fact I’d been shot. The less questions, the better. A few of the guys swore they saw me go down, but after I assured them it was a near miss, nobody thought twice about it. Or me.
So again, like so many times before this one, I’m stuck in a foxhole. Waiting for my watch to come around, so I don’t have to keep trying to fall asleep.
Boots crunch in the snow somewhere to my right, out of sight. They get louder until Perkins looks down at me, his satchel slung over his chest to keep his hands free. I can faintly make out the white and red band around his upper arm in the moonlight.
He jumps down into my hole and joins me. Pressing his back against the dirt with his shoulder against mine. It’s always warmer on the nights he’s here. Ever since Adams took a hit, the blond medic took it upon himself to fill his place.
I know Captain Price doesn’t want two medics sharing the same hole—for obvious reasons—but I have no idea why he chose mine.
“Isn’t it weird not carrying a gun?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “I used to carry a 1911, but I decided it was extra weight I didn’t need.”
When he offers me one, I take it. Without hesitation. After he lights mine and stows his matches away, he takes his helmet off and puts it on his knee. His short blond hair glows dimly under the moon and the front sticks up from where his helmet pressed against it.
We smoke in silence for a few minutes.
“I heard you made PFC,” he finally says.
“I don’t know why,” I admit. “I don’t do much of anything.”
“That’s not true. You keep your head on straight more than anyone, and when all of us feel the same fear, you’re not one to show it.” He looks over. “You might not know it, but most guys here look at you and see more than Private Jackson. All they see is someone by the name of Ace. They see someone who’ll cover their asses when a sniper’s hiding somewhere they can’t see. Someone who’ll be there time and time again, never missing a shot.”