Walking Wounded

by Lauren Gilley

  It’s just like all the other major airports he’s been in in the last few years, but it reminds him how very different his adult life is from his child life. A memory catches him off-guard, knifes through his ribs with a quick pain and makes him draw in a deep breath.

  “Hey, remember that summer,” he says, before he can catch himself. “Our sophomore year, when Abby’s cousin visited from France?”

  “Yeah,” Hal says, snorting a laugh through his nose. “What made you think of that right now?”

  Luke gestures to the woman walking ahead of them, her perfect physique wrapped tight in red cashmere, speaking in rapid French to the suited man who walks beside her.

  Hal laughs again. “Shit. I hadn’t thought about that in years.”

  “What was her name again?”

  “Celine.”

  “I forget. Did you sleep with her?” Luke asks, grinning, to be a pain in the ass.

  “You know that story, asshole.”

  “I swear to God, I forgot.”

  Hal gives him the side-eye.

  “I’m serious! My memory’s not what it used to be. All the smokes and coffee.”

  Hal makes a face. “We were in Abby’s bedroom.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And she took her top off…and I embarrassed myself immediately,” he says, delicately, going red in the face.

  Luke loses control of his laughter and it slips out through his teeth like a hiss.

  “You already knew that,” Hal accuses, knocking his shoulder into Luke’s.

  He’s strong as an ox these days; his shoulder is more massive than Luke’s whole body. Luke stumbles, laughing out loud this time, grabbing at Hal’s arm for balance.

  The Frenchwoman ahead of them twists around to shoot them a glare.

  “Sorry,” Hal tells her, and rights Luke with a hand on his arm. “You’re in town five minutes,” he says, mock-exasperated, “and you’re already making me look like an idiot.”

  “I don’t have to try real hard at that.”

  Hal’s hand is still on his arm, and he gives Luke a firm shove, dragging him back again, until they’re almost too close together. “Missed you, man.”

  “Yeah.” A lump forms in Luke’s throat, sudden and firm. “Missed you, too.”

  2

  Hal drives a dark blue Jeep Wrangler which seems a little casual for private security, but definitely Hal-appropriate. It smells like a pine air freshener and Hal’s cologne, of which Luke got a noseful when they hugged before. He likes that smell. He likes…lots of things.

  When they’re on the road and headed deep into DC, Hal says, conversationally, “Did your editor tell you I was the one who recommended you get the story?”

  Luke chokes on his own spit. “Wh-what?”

  Hal tosses him an amused smile and faces the road again. “Matt knew there was gonna be press all over the place after ‘the assault,’ and I told him my best friend was a journalist and that he should request you get the story.”

  “Matt?”

  “Matthew Maddox.” Hal grins again. “Sorry. He doesn’t like the whole ‘Matthew’ thing.”

  “Huh.”

  “Are you pissed?”

  “What?” Luke feels a little like he’s tumbled around in a dryer for a while.

  “Are you pissed I recommended you?”

  “No, I just…” He just had no idea, is the problem. “I didn’t know you…I mean, you didn’t have to. I mean, it was great of you to look out for me, but–”

  “I was looking out for Will, actually. Matt’s dad,” he explains. “Matt didn’t want jackals falling on him. But I knew we could trust you.”

  Of course it’s about work, and not personal. Of course. “Oh. Okay.”

  “I think you’ll like him,” Hal continues. “Will. He’s kinda…delightful.”

  “Did you just say ‘delightful’?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Okay, so what makes him delightful?”

  “Come on. I didn’t say it like that.”

  “Uh, pretty sure you did. Maybe you should be writing this piece instead of me.”

  Hal reaches across the center console to shove lightly at Luke’s shoulder. That’s twice now that it’s happened in the past half hour, and Luke’s stomach flutters stupidly. Why all this touching? He wouldn’t have thought Hal would even want to be close enough to touch after…

  “…tonight?”

  He’s zoned out. “What?” He shakes his head, trying to get clear, hoping he isn’t blushing.

  “You falling asleep over there already?” Hal asks. “I asked what you wanted for dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, um, whatever you want is fine. I’m not picky.”

  “You’re picky as hell.”

  He has his preferences, sure, but he can’t afford to overlook free break room leftovers these days. And at home, there are lots of ramen nights. He, if pressed, would admit that just a week ago, Mrs. Leibowitz asked him to carry a box of stale doughnuts out to the garbage chute on his way out of the building…and he might have eaten a week-old Boston cream en route. And he might have found a smudge of cream on his chin three hours later when he looked at himself in the men’s room mirror.

  “But I figured you still liked orange chicken, right?” Hal says.

  That perks up his stomach. A rumble works its way past his post-flight nausea. “You’ve got a good takeout place?”

  “No. I’m cooking it.”

  Luke can’t help it. A loud, shocked laugh bursts out of his mouth. “What? You can’t cook.”

  “I’m a damn good cook.”

  “Since when?”

  “Hey, a guy can change in three years.”

  That clams him up quick. Yeah. Things can change in three years. For instance, people can forget awkward, terrible, awful misfires that…

  Shit. Why can’t he stop going there in his head?

  Probably that whole three years apart thing.

  “I don’t believe you,” Luke says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as unsteady as it feels in his throat.

  “You’ll just have to wait and see,” Hal says, mysteriously.

  Luke is shocked to realize they’re heading into Georgetown. The cobbled sidewalks, the trees in full autumn foliage, the innumerable coffee shops and upscale fashion boutiques he can’t afford to even peer inside. He feels the safety and affluence crowd up against the car windows, pressing for entry, ready to eject him.

  “Georgetown?” he asks. He twists in his seat to face Hal fully, get a read on his expression.

  The half of face he can see in the dash lights looks as if it’s blushing, that faint wash of color along Hal’s noble cheekbone. “My place doesn’t look like this,” he says, and gestures to the townhouses flashing past now: multi-story, brick-faced, handsomely outfitted with polished doorknockers.

  Luke thinks of his own hellhole apartment and slumps a little in his seat. “There’s no such thing as a bad place in Georgetown.”

  “Hmph.”

  “How much is this senator paying you?”

  Even in the dimness of the Jeep, Hal’s blush has become fantastic. “Enough,” he says, and clears his throat.

  “Moving up in the world,” Luke says, mostly to himself.

  “Don’t make it sound like that.”

  “Like what?”

  Hal sighs and doesn’t answer.

  A building looms on the right, pale in the darkness, a combination of brick and stone, going by the shadowy threads of texture down the façade; a tall boxy structure with narrow Federalist windows. Hal turns the Jeep into the drive and pilots them down the winterized lawn to a parking lot in back.

  “This is you?” Luke asks.

  “Apartment two-oh-four. Yep, this is me.”

  They park between a Honda Civic and a Mercedes SUV, which tells Luke that this is an eclectic group of tenants. Hal insists on carrying his bag – “Dude, this is stupid” – and leads him through a glass door into a marble-floored
lobby flanked with gold mailbox fronts.

  Luke whistles. “Shit.”

  “Act like you’ve been somewhere before,” Hal jokes, and knocks his shoulder into Luke’s as they step on the elevator.

  “This elevator smells expensive.”

  “You smell like an airplane.”

  “All the more reason to see what kind of fancy soap you keep in your shower.”

  Another shoulder knock.

  Luke is almost giddy. He feels like they’re boys again, the smell of fresh-cut grass in his nose and the taste of Bomb Pop in his mouth. Skinned knees and shared popcorn and crap movies on the Rycroft’s console TV. Luke feels like the three years and The Incident haven’t happened; that they are the truest and deepest of best friends again.

  Maybe, he thinks, seeing their reflections in the fake-gold plating of the elevator wall, this is a new beginning for them. Maybe they can go back to the way things always were. Maybe he can convince himself that’s what he truly wants…the way things were.

  The elevator arrives with a soft, tasteful ping and they walk down a white-carpeted hall, footsteps silent. The door numbers are gold, or some approximation.

  “I feel like Jack Nicholson’s about to come through one of these doors with an axe,” Luke quips.

  “Audrey just might,” Hal says.

  “Who?”

  “I have no doubt you’ll meet her soon enough.”

  “And you aren’t gonna arm me with info before I do?”

  “You can take care of yourself. You’re scrappy.” Hal tosses him a grin and unlocks the door of 204.

  They step into a small, but tastefully appointed place. White-painted brick on the far wall, where a narrow window overlooks the street. Tiny kitchen, eating area with café table and two chair. Luke spies a bedroom through an open door. The bathroom sits beside the kitchen. When Hal flips on the lights, chrome accents flare like matches. Granite counters in the kitchen, craftsman cabinets, stainless appliances. A giant flat-screen TV dominates one wall of the living room, across from a plush cream sofa.

  Just like at the airport, Luke is struck by a sense of adulthood. Maturity. A grownup lives here. A man who wears casual brown shoes and button-ups under canvas jackets. A man in charge of protecting a controversial senator.

  “Like I said, it isn’t much,” Hal says. “I’ve only got the one bedroom, so you’ll have to sleep on the fold-out in the sofa.” He makes an apologetic face.

  “Are you kidding?” Luke says. “That thing looks nicer than any bed I ever owned.”

  Hal’s brows flick together with concern and Luke regrets saying it. Shit. He isn’t looking for pity here.

  The moment holds the potential to spin into something uncomfortable, so Luke says, “So you know I won’t believe you can cook until I see it with my own eyes.”

  Hal looks relieved. “Right.”

  ~*~

  A half-wall separates living room and kitchen, and there’s a bar there with stools. Luke climbs onto one, well out of the way, and settles in to watch.

  Hal is another person entirely. He rolls up his sleeves, washes his hands, slices open a chicken package with a wicked knife from the magnetic strip on the backsplash. He lays the chicken breasts on a wooden cutting board and cubes them with quick, practiced movements.

  “This isn’t happening, right?” Luke asks with a laugh. “I’m in The Twilight Zone.”

  “Nerd,” Hal accuses, blushing. Blushing again; this is twice now, counting in the car before.

  Luke shouldn’t feel triumphant on that front, but he does, a little.

  “Excuse me, I wasn’t the straight-A student of the two of us.”

  “That’s because you didn’t try. Not because you aren’t a nerd.”

  “I ought to resent that.”

  “You should. You’re the sort of person who resents stuff.”

  “Well one of us has to be a miserable little bastard, and you’re not that little.”

  Hal chuckles and starts putting together a flour dredge in a casserole dish.

  Because Hal is a guy who owns casserole dishes now. Green ones, with white ceramic interiors.

  It’s such a simple, domestic, and yet intimate detail. Luke feels a sudden twist in his gut. He wants to know everything, suddenly. Every little tiny thing he’s missed that transformed his lifelong friend into this guy with mad culinary skills.

  “I’m impressed,” he says, to cover the way his throat feels tight.

  “Nothing to it, really.” Hal gets a skillet on a burner and pours in vegetable oil.

  “Yeah, but you had to learn somewhere.”

  Hal nods, cheekbones still dark, and doesn’t look up. “I might have dated a professional chef.”

  Luke ignores the way the twist in his gut becomes a deep ache. “Hit it, learned to cook from it, and quit it?” he guesses.

  Hal shakes his head. “Nah, she dumped me, actually.”

  “Hold on. What? Should I get a pen for this? This has to be front page scoop right here. A girl dumped Hal Rycroft?”

  “Asshole,” Hal says, lightly. He adds the dredged chicken to the skillet and it sizzles. “Yeah, she did.”

  “Was she…brain damaged?”

  Hal flicks a ghost of a wry smile. “She said I wasn’t really ‘present.’ I dunno. I think maybe she was right.”

  Luke chews at his lower lip, an old habit he thought he’d kicked until this moment. “She sounds high maintenance.”

  “She was nice.” Hal sounds a little wistful.

  “Since when do you like nice?”

  “I always liked nice. You were the one who had to have the danger.”

  “You always did confuse interesting with dangerous.”

  “Yeah.” Hal snorts. “That’s what the guy I had to tackle last week was: interesting.”

  “Shit.” Worry ripples down his arms. Makes him shiver.

  “It was just some idiot.” Hal waves it off. “It’s what I get paid for.”

  “Doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous.”

  Hal doesn’t comment.

  ~*~

  The orange chicken tastes better than even the best takeout Luke has ever eaten. Hal says it’s because there’s no MSG in the homemade kind. They eat on the sofa, socks propped on the coffee table, watching the primetime evening news lineup, talking current events and nothing too personal. Talking about Hal’s work earlier – that little mention of tackling someone – put a damper on things. Brought up their harsh realities. So they keep it safe now.

  The soap in the shower smells like sandalwood. Like Hal. The towel passes across Luke’s wet skin in a comforting way. It feels almost wrong to spit his toothpaste in the clean white porcelain of the sink.

  When he emerges from the bathroom, Luke finds the bed in the sofa unfolded, outfitted with crisp white sheets and a pillow.

  “Need anything?” Hal asks, lingering, expression a tangle of things Luke is too tired to decipher.

  “No. This is perfect,” he says, meaning it.

  Hal retreats to the bedroom.

  Luke climbs under the covers and pulls up Skype on his tablet, calls Linda.

  He isn’t surprised to see that she’s still in her office, still dressed as she had been before, nursing a tall mug of coffee that doubtless contains Jack Daniels.

  “Took you long enough,” she says.

  “I just got settled,” Luke says, not able to control the frown that twists his mouth.

  Linda smirks at him, then her eyes bounce around. “Where are you? What hotel?”

  “No hotel. I’m staying with Hal.”

  “Ah.” She grins. “The mysterious Hal. When can I see him in person?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re too tense for someone who just got reunited with his best friend.”

  “Yeah, well…” What to say, what to say…

  Linda is smooth. “What have you learned about the story so far?”

  “Not much,” Luke admits. “His name is Will. I get t
he impression he’s going to be difficult.”

  “Ugh. That’s it?”

  “Hal said he was delightful.”

  She smirks. “Well. Far be it from me to disagree with Hal.”

  “Linda…”

  “Have fun tomorrow. Stay in touch.” The connection snips off as she shoots him a patronizing smile.

  Luke slides down into the sofa bed – God, it’s comfy – and exhales toward the ceiling. Was he stupid to come here? Probably. But there’s nothing to do now save wait for the morning.

  3

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”

  Luke presses his face into the pillow and groans. “No,” he mumbles.

  A hand lands on his shoulder, strong fingers curling around the joint, and that hits him like espresso. His eyes pop open and his lungs seize. This isn’t a dream, right? This is actually happening?

  The apartment is dark; he can make out pinpricks of building light through the window. The mattress dips toward the heavy weight perched on its edge. Not a dream.

  “Wha’ time is it?” Luke mumbles, forcing his lungs to work. “Four-thirty.” Rustling. “Sorry. Four-thirty-three.” Hal sounds far too chipper and alert for that to be true.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Nope.” The hand on his shoulder squeezes and then releases. “Matt goes running at five-fifteen every morning, so we’ve got to get a move on.” The mattress springs back as Hal stands. “You’ve got twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty? Are you…” Luke manages to push up onto his hands and twist his neck around – ah, shit, he’s got a crick from the plane – to peer at his friend. Just a tall shadow backlit by the window. “What about breakfast?” His hopes for trying one of the fancier coffee shops he’d spotted last night fracture before the answer comes.

  “Sandy will have something, I’m sure. She always does.”

  “Sandy?”

  “Matt’s wife.”

  “Oh.” It’s dawning on him that they’re both going to Matthew Maddox’s place, and his stomach leaps in a painful way. “Um…what’s going on?”

  “You’re getting a shower,” Hal says, still too-chipper. “I’m making coffee.”

  “Right…right. Coffee is a must, understand.”