“Bactine,” Hal says with an elaborate frown.
Together, they recite: “Of course it stings, that’s how you know it’s working.” They dissolve into soft, breathy chuckles that echo off the locker faces.
“How is your mom?” Luke asks, just a whisper.
Hal’s face softens; he’s downright pretty when he gets like this. “She’s really good. Gardening club, book club, staying busy.” His eyes flick to Luke’s, there and away again, guilty, as he unwraps a Band-Aid. “What about yours?”
“She gets by.” Luke sends her a portion of his paycheck every month, which is why he eats stale doughnuts bound for other people’s garbage cans sometimes, when he’s had a bad night.
“I’m sorry,” Hal says, softly. He concentrates as he pinches Luke’s split brow together – Luke hisses again – and lays the bandage down with careful fingertips.
“What for?”
“Just…your mom…everything.”
Luke catches his wrist as he starts to withdraw, a sudden impulse to keep touching. He isn’t ready to move away from Hal, in so many ways he’s not.
“My mom’s okay. She really is.”
Hal’s eyes crinkle, a sad non-smile that wavers. “I’m glad.”
The locker room door squeaks open again and someone, Mitch, Luke think, calls, “Guys! You in here? Luke, did you die?”
“Ugh,” Hal says, smiling and rolling his eyes. “Yeah, we’re here, and nobody’s dead.”
Luke lets go of his friend, scoots back a fraction on the bench so they don’t look so cozy. He imagines Hal looks almost disappointed, but then Mitch comes around the corner, followed by Diego and Lee.
So much for bonding.
“Aw, man,” Diego says with a wince, coming closer to peer at Luke’s war wound. “Did you put alcohol on that?”
“I did,” Hal says, and Luke works hard not to squirm under the scrutiny.
Diego whistles. “You look like you went a few rounds in the ring with this one.” He tips his head to indicate Lee.
“Dude, you should totally tell everyone you got it in a fight,” Mitch says.
“I did. A fight with a treadmill. And sort of a wall.”
All of them laugh, and, shockingly, it doesn’t sound like they’re laughing at him. Hal’s friends look at him with sparkling smiles, no traces of mockery or distaste. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Luke doesn’t think so. He thinks…maybe…they really are good guys.
“We’re getting breakfast,” Lee says, and points at Luke. “You’re coming. Pancake Day.”
“Pancake Day,” Diego, Mitch, and Hal repeat in reverent unison.
Luke takes a deep breath, glances sideways at Hal’s supportive, fond smile, and says, “Okay.”
~*~
Pancake Day breakfast happens in a small, trendy café spot on M, only a few doors down from the Italian place Hal took him night before last. Despite the hipster interior, the pancakes are fluffy, sugary, and perfect, slathered in butter and real maple syrup. Luke eats more than he would have thought, thigh pressed against Hal’s in their narrow booth.
After, they head to the Maddox place.
“Call you later,” Hal says, like a promise, and squeezes Luke’s bicep before he goes to change so he can escort the senator to Capitol Hill.
Damn. If this keeps happening, Luke might just melt through the floor.
As it is, he accepts a mug of hot coffee from Sandy and goes to find Will in his usual place in the library.
“Morning,” Luke greets, setting his bag down, getting out his recorder, notebook, and pen.
Will grunts something that might be a hello. “What happened to your face?”
“Gym accident.” Luke settles down in the chair and flicks the recorder on. “You ready to start?”
Will frowns at him. “Gym? You don’t look like you go to the gym.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“Not what I meant.”
Luke sighs. “What?”
“Nothing. You ready, or what?”
“Yeah.” Luke picks up his pen. “Or what.”
~*~
October 1950
Because he didn’t expect to be, it came as a great shock when Will turned out to be an extremely competent Marine-in-training. He followed orders well, he learned quickly, and he had no ego to get in the way of his obedience. He was already tall and strong, and the rigors of Parris Island quickly chiseled him into someone stronger, someone who could throw a full-grown man over his shoulder with ease, who could carry forty pounds of gear for miles, who didn’t complain about his blisters or his sunburn or the deep ache in his chest that flared up when he thought about home, and the comfortable university atmosphere he’d left behind for this.
A part of Will thought that when Finn finally started camp, he’d awaken from his long-held fantasy and realize none of this was what he’d wanted after all. Oops. Guess it isn’t as fun as I always hoped. But he should have known better. Finn took to the whole process with the jubilation of a schoolboy at summer camp. Mopping the barracks and breaking down their rifles might as well have been making s’mores, as far as Finn was concerned.
Will hadn’t wanted to come here, not in the way that Finn had. But he didn’t regret it now. They were together; he didn’t think he could have ever forgiven himself if he’d let his best friend run off and join the Marines by himself.
“Hey,” Finn called down softly from the top bunk. Will glanced up from the letter he was reading and a moment later Finn’s head appeared. Upside down and still alien with his new haircut. “Help me think up a way to describe Sergeant Conway to a delicate female.”
“You writing to your mom?”
“No. Leena.”
Will snorted. “Delicate. Right, sure. Just tell her the truth.”
Finn’s eyebrows did something that might have been a question, and might have been gravity.
“I hate to break this to you, but your girl? She isn’t exactly the type for white lies and minced words.”
Which she’d proven wholeheartedly the night Finn told her they’d enlisted. Finn had gone off with a bouquet of red roses, wearing his Sunday best. “Wish me luck.” Will had.
He’d shown up at Will’s house the next morning, deep in thought, unusually subdued.
“What happened?” Will asked.
Finn released a deep breath. “She slapped me.” He glanced up through his lashes, his smile small and sad. “And she tried to get me to stay.”
He proposed to her two days later, and she was wearing his ring back home right now.
“Will,” Finn said, all seriousness, “I can’t tell my fiancée the man’s the asshole to end all assholes.”
Will bit back a chuckle and pretended to consider the problem carefully. Finn’s face was starting to turn red from hanging upside down like this, a vein popping out in his forehead. “Hmm. No, I guess you can’t.”
“Uh, no.” Finn made a what then face that was ruined by all the blood rushing under it.
“Tell her he’d remind her a lot of you.”
“You’re a terrible friend,” Finn deadpanned, and disappeared back into his bunk.
Will laughed. “I’m the friend who’s following you into war.”
“I’d like to amend that statement,” Finn called down.
The barracks door opened and Sergeant shouted, “Lights out, ladies!”
///
Leena sent letters weekly. One evening before lights out, Finn passed one down to Will. “The P.S. is for you.”
The page was filled with Leena’s thin, graceful cursive. Will caught the word “love” and felt like an interloper. He carefully folded the letter so all he could read was the postscript.
Dear Will, it read. I can’t say I’m glad you’re there, but I’m glad Finn’s not alone. I know how dear you are to him, and that your friendship will give both of you great comfort in dark times. Please look after my stupid fiancé – see that he doesn’t get himself killed. xoxo
> Face warm, Will handed the letter back, silently promising to do as she asked.
November 1950
On the 25th of June, the North Korean People’s Republic invaded South Korea. On the 28th, the South Korean capital of Seoul fell. The first wave of US ground troops entered the fray on the 5th of July – and were ill-prepared to meet the NKPR army.
On the 4th of August, the Pusan Perimeter was established: that tiny toehold was all that remained of the American and South Korean-held peninsula. The rest belonged to the communists.
Seoul wouldn’t be recaptured until the 26th of September. On October 7th, U.N. troops crossed the 38th Parallel. South Korea was unified once again.
On the 12th of October, the first Chinese communist troops joined the fight.
///
Will was twenty-years-old and he’d grown up in a small Virginia town full of original Colonial buildings and the gentle Southern influence of a state that sat on the Mason-Dixon line. He’d attended Georgetown University for two years, had a good job working for an accountant, and had left behind stacks of treasured books at home. He defined himself too much by his friendship with Finn Murdoch. He was a Marine recruit, and he listened attentively when news of Korea rippled through the base.
Will Maddox didn’t want to go to war, and he didn’t want to kill anyone. But he could disassemble and reassemble an M1 Garand in under a minute. And every nine out of ten shots at the range landed in the bullseye.
Will Maddox didn’t want to kill anyone…but he knew how to. And he damn sure wasn’t going to let anyone kill him first.
He was a Marine. And he understood completely what was expected of him.
///
Will missed autumn in Virginia. He loved to watch the trees come to life in their red, and orange, and yellow finest. Missed the crackle of leaves underfoot, and the smell of them when they burned. Fall back home was all pumpkins and cider and long wool skirts swirling around the stocking-clad legs of the girls who walked past Alan Ware’s office windows.
But South Carolina had its own charms, when he was able to notice them on long runs down the beach. The air was thick and smelled of brine, echoed the cries of gulls. The sun glinted off sand dollars half-submerged in the sand, and the waves crashed with slow, methodical insistence. Fall had a soft touch here; there were no rolling hills and foothills, no sharpness of approaching winter. It was beautiful…but it wasn’t home.
///
“How do I look?” Finn asked, holding his arms out and doing a slow turn for inspection. He was in uniform, his brass polished to perfection, gloves spotless. Everything correct except his hat, which he’d cocked at an intentional angle. He’d looked in the mirror; he had to know he looked dashing, sharp-featured, and strong. Hollywood’s ideal cadet, fit for a poster. But they were headed home for Thanksgiving, and Leena was going to be waiting for them at the train station.
“Terrible,” Will said, biting his tongue hard to keep from smiling.
Finn reached up and flicked the bill of Will’s hat, tipping it back on his head. “Jealous.”
“Obviously.”
Finn took a deep breath and let his nerves show. “I’m serious, though.”
Will clapped him on the shoulder and let his smile break through. “You look fine.”
Finn nodded. “Yeah. Hope so.”
They took the train to DC, side-by-side, Finn in the window seat because Will knew he liked it and the blur of colors tended to make him motion sick anyway.
He tipped his head back and shut his eyes, the swaying and faint clacking of the train lulling him. It was warm, almost too warm, but he kept his leg pressed all down the length of Finn’s leg, even when he got sweaty behind his knee inside his uniform pants. He was almost asleep, but he felt the subtle shifting of the seat when Finn leaned back and mirrored his position. Heard the gentle intake of breath before Finn spoke.
“Hey,” he said, just a whisper.
“Hey,” Will said back.
Finn swallowed, an audible gulp. “She’s angry with me.” There was no need to clarify who “she” was. “I dunno…what if she – what if she doesn’t want to stay my fiancée?”
“She will.”
“No. Don’t just tell me what I want to hear. I’m serious. You think she’ll stick around? Or is what I did unforgivable?”
“You joined the Marines, you didn’t step out on her.”
“Sometimes I think she’d prefer that, though.”
“Finn,” Will said, more sharply than he’d intended. He cracked his eyes and saw the couple sitting on the other side of the aisle glancing at them. He lowered his voice, softened it. Finn didn’t express his worries unless they were really weighing on him. “Leena isn’t the kind of woman who makes decisions on a whim. If she accepted your proposal, she means it; she isn’t going to take it back just because she’s angry.”
“Mad as hell,” Finn corrected.
“Just because she’s mad as hell. She’s not.”
Finn leaned into him until their shoulders were pressed together. “I hope you’re right.”
Of course he was right, and that became instantly apparent when they reached their families at the station. Both Will’s parents, and Julia with the girls. And Leena, stunning in a blue dress and overcoat, eyes shiny when she launched herself toward Finn. No, Will thought, there weren’t a lot of women who’d look at a ring Finn Murdoch had given them and regret their decision.
9
Sandy offers to let him stay for lunch, but Luke doesn’t feel like it. He makes his excuses and walks back to the apartment, letting the cold air and the brisk pace clear his head.
That’s the idea, anyway. He’s supposed to be organizing his story in his mind, mapping out an outline so that he can dive right in the moment he’s back in the apartment. Instead, he spends the scenic, frigid trip replaying that morning’s gym scene.
Hal has always been a kind-hearted, supportive friend. Quick with a hug, a smile, a word of genuine encouragement. But in the locker room, when he was carefully taping a Band-Aid to Luke’s eyebrow, he seemed almost maternal. Worried, caring, and hesitant. A foreign combination of traits.
Luke comes to the most obvious, most heartbreaking conclusion: Hal feels guilty about The Incident. Still. And he’s trying to apologize through unnecessary acts of kindness.
The wind kicks up, sharp little teeth against the back of his neck and the tops of his ears, as he reaches Hal’s building. He hunches his shoulders and fumbles for the keys in his pocket with stiff, half-frozen fingers as he jogs up the walk to the door. Absorbed in his own worries, hurrying against this damn unseasonable DC cold spell, he doesn’t notice the woman trying to do the same until he’s bumped into her and sent her orange three-ring binder flying.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” The building door swings shut behind them, thankfully cutting off the cold, and Luke leans down to grab the binder.
“I’m sorry, too,” the woman says. “I should have been paying better attention.”
“You and me both,” he says, not unkindly.
Several lined notecards slip out of the binder as Luke picks it up, fluttering back down to the floor. “Damn.”
“Here, it’s fine,” the woman starts, squatting down. Trying to, anyway. She’s wearing spike heels and a long, fitted skirt, and she ends up wobbling dangerously.
“I got it,” Luke assures, and bends to retrieve the cards. His eyes snag on Braised Spare Ribs with Smashed Cauliflower before he hands them over. “Recipes, huh?” He doesn’t really care, is just trying to sound polite and not like his usual grumpy self.
“Uh, yes.” She flashes him a brief but bright smile, all straight white teeth and wide pink lips. A pretty woman, in her white silk shirt and long black trench, hair done up in a complicated twist. “I’m a chef.”
Something teases along Luke’s memory, like ants crawling. And then that something bites and takes hold. Chef. Hal dated a chef. But…no, surely not. Surely…
&nbs
p; But before his brain can catch up with his mouth, he says, “Do you know Hal Rycroft?”
Her face tells him yes before her mouth does, blue eyes widening. Then she says, frowning, “Yes. I do, actually.” Then, more sharply: “I haven’t seen you around the building. You aren’t a resident, so I’m assuming you must be a guest of his.”
Luke swallows hard, throat sand-dune-dry and aching. “Yeah. I am. Luke Keller.” He offers her his hand, because despite his efforts to the contrary, his mother had raised him a gentleman.
Her expression shifts again, this time to shock. “Oh. Luke.” Like his name has meaning to her. “Best friend Luke.” She accepts his shake.
“Yeah. That’s me.” He stifles the urge to twine his fingers together like a nervous kid. “Does that make you the girlfriend chef?”
“Ex-girlfriend,” she says pointedly. “Kate Manning.”
“Oh, um…sorry?”
“Don’t be,” she says with a snort, turns and heads for the elevators at a pace that allows him to follow. “It was amicable, and it was my idea, I’m not bitter about it.”
“Well. Um.” He hates that he never sounds like a literary-minded person when he speaks. “That’s good.”
She presses the UP button and gives him a sideways, calculating look. “He didn’t tell you about it?”
“No.”
“You should tell him to. It’s time he was finally honest with himself.”
“What?”
The elevator arrives with a ding and Kate steps on board, turns to face him. “Aren’t you going up?”
“Thanks…no, I’ll get the next one.”
She shrugs as the doors slide shut.
~*~
“Why do you look like that?” Linda asks after her face has appeared on the tablet screen.
“Like what?” Luke says, still numb up past his ears, and not because of the cold.
“Like shit.”
Walking Wounded Page 12
