Lindsey strokes my face, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Come to bed with me . . . man of my dreams.”
* * *
“Are you sure?” I ask, standing with her outside the security gate of Newark Airport. My flight's in an hour, but I've already checked my bags through. All I've got is a paperback Neal Stephenson book and my wallet right now. There's really nothing left.
“I'm sure,” Lindsey says sadly. “Last night. This morning. They were incredible. Perfect. And the memories will help. But we know the truth, Aaron. Our moment of fantasy is over.”
“And what if I don’t want it to be over?” I ask in a whisper. I swore when I woke up this morning, her naked body nestled in my arms, that I wouldn’t make this harder than it needed to be. But now, I can't let her go. I don't want to let her go.
“Nor do I,” Lindsey says quietly. “But by the time we could see each other again, that Gray Line's going to be Blue. I won't have you risk everything you’ve worked so hard for. I care about you too much. Go on. Please. If we stay here much longer, I’m going to start crying.”
I lean in, and we kiss. One last time. It's tender and soft, everything I want to remember about her, and when our lips part, she's smiling too. “Goodbye, Aaron Simpson. Be well.”
Before things get out of hand, I turn and join the security line, forcing myself to face away from Lindsey for as long as I can. Finally, I turn around, but she's left already. That's probably for the best. But still, I wish I could have said goodbye.
I wish I could have said a lot of things.
Chapter 8: Lindsey
It's kinda nice, watching the fireworks over the Puget Sound. It's a lot different from any other way I've celebrated the Fourth of July, even if it is a bit lonely.
The grand finale starts, blast after blast going off over the water, and even though I'm miles away, I'm buffeted by the sounds that pepper the air. I feel bad for any PTSD vets in the area. They've got to be going through hell listening to that, so much like artillery or even machine gun fire. I can understand why there were safety notices on the radio as I drove into the area.
Mom and Dad don't understand why I insisted on driving to Washington a few days early, but at least they didn't say anything about it. I guess after having me hang around the house for a week more or less constantly moping, they figured that they'd ask their questions later. I'm glad for that, because right now, I'm not sure I could trust myself to give the answers that they need to hear.
The truth is, I miss him. Walking away from that security checkpoint before he could say goodbye was the hardest fucking thing I've done in my entire life, and my last two weeks at the Academy before going on leave were pure hell. Twice, I found myself walking down by Central Post, not for work but just to be there, wishing he'd come around the corner by the library, his smile dazzling in the summer sun. I even ate a pizza at Grant Hall, or I tried to before the sadness made me leave. I couldn't eat another bite, knowing that even though I wanted to do nothing more than share the pizza with Aaron, we'd never be able to. I gave my half-pizza to some poor cadet who was stuck at the Academy doing summer school and walked out. Last semester, I looked up at Grant Barracks and wondered which window was Aaron's before leaving, trying not to cry.
I've been doing that a lot lately. More mornings than not, I've woken up to find that my pillow's a little damp, and I haven't even found the energy to ride my bike. It’s still strapped on the bike carrier on the back of my Honda.
The last of the fireworks goes off, and the silence reigns heavily over the water, except for the cheers of the crowd that's gathered lower near the shoreline while I'm up here in my hotel room. I know I could have checked into my unit early. They'd have just let me crash out until my official report date in two days, but I just didn't want to be near the Army for a little while.
The Army. The fucking Army. With their stupid fucking rules. Rules that tell us how to dress, how to walk, how to run, how to eat and how to sleep. But the Army never put out any guidelines about love. Oh, sure, they've written some rules about sex, about fraternization, but they've never given any guidance for when I found the man I still dream about and fall in love with him. They can't even tell me if I was right or wrong to not say it, or if I was right to be greedy and self-centered and demand that we never say that word. His chain is still around my neck, and I'm never, ever going to take it off short of orders.
I sigh and get up, dusting off my jeans. I can't let myself get down. It's not what Aaron would want me to do. Sure, he sometimes was a little rah-rah when I would bitch about work after he knew I'm an enlisted soldier, but he never wanted to see me frown, let alone cry. I can do that much, at least when I'm awake.
I force a smile on my face, looking up at the stars, wondering if perhaps Aaron is looking up at the same stars. Probably not. It's late back east, and he's just wrapping up Airborne school. Maybe they're giving him a long weekend. That'd be nice. Give his knees and ankles a chance to heal up from the pounding. I've heard Airborne's a major beating on the legs. Either way, a girl can wish, can't she?
“Hey, Aaron . . .” I start, forcing a smile on my face. “See? I'm smiling, just like you'd want me to. I hope . . . I hope that you had a happy Fourth. Take care of yourself, and take care of those new cadets when you take over there. I . . . I love you.”
Even if I couldn't tell him, I know how I felt. How I still feel. And if I can only tell the night sky, then so be it. I go to the shower and turn it on hot. Maybe the warmth will ease away the chill that's been inside my gut for the past few days. I hope I'm not coming down with something, I haven't been feeling so great lately, and I don't want to start off sick with my new unit.
* * *
“Specialist Morgan,” the Captain says, reading my file. “Hmm, really?”
“What's that, sir?” I ask, checking the name again. Captain Jellisco.
“You were stationed at the Academy prior to this. Not too many people get that straight out of AIT,” he notes, handing my orders back to me. “How'd you like it?”
“The falls were nice, sir,” I reply, standing at attention still. I don't know if Jellisco likes to play things by the tin soldier act or not, but he didn't tell me to stand at ease after I saluted to report, so at attention I stay. “I got lots of opportunities to ride my bike.”
“Yes, I saw that strapped to the back of your car outside,” he says, glancing out his window. His office has a view over the parking lot, on the ground floor. “Well, I hope you can still find the time. Okay, let me give you my rules, then I'll turn you over to the First Sergeant and your platoon.”
I let him run through his little speech as he outlines how he likes to run things, only answering when he's finished.
“Hooah, sir.” Hooah, the Army's universal reply for damn near anything. Useful when you don't know what else to say.
“Good. Okay, get out of here. They’ll get you squared away.”
First Sergeant Lincoln starts by personally driving me down to the clinic to get my physical. “Hey, Sergeant?”
“What's up, Morgan?” he asks, turning left. Lincoln's a nice guy so far, but I don't know for sure. Anyone can be nice up front. And First Sergeants have a reputation for being nice guys until you piss them off.
“Nothing. Never mind. Let’s just get this over with.”
Things go smooth at the physical until the doc takes a look at my history. “Says here you're feeling a bit under the weather. What's up?”
“Just not keeping breakfast down the past few days, ma'am,” I tell her, shrugging. “Probably nerves.”
The doctor, a First Lieutenant from the bar on her shoulders, hums. Medical officers tend to be unique in that most of them know they were only commissioned because the Army insists that all MDs have a commission. Guess it makes up for the suck of going to medical school. “Well, let's have a look. Let me draw some blood, and you get to go pee in a cup for me.”
The blood draw doesn't take much time. I'm no baby on
that, but then the doc comes in while I'm putting my ACU top back on, the band-aid still fresh on the inside of my elbow. “I've found the problem.”
“Wow, that didn't take long,” I reply, buttoning my top. “What was it, bad sushi in Chicago?”
“No . . . you're pregnant.”
My fingers freeze at how easily she says it. I look up at the doctor, who gives me another reason to not like Army medical. Seriously, I've just been told I'm pregnant. Aren't you supposed to be fucking smiling? Even if I'm now instantly scared shitless? “I'm pregnant? How?”
I don't think she was expecting that question, because the doctor looks concerned. “I thought you'd know how that happens, but basically, you had sex, his sperm got inside you at just the right time, and viola. You're pregnant.”
I sit down, the breath rushing out of me. “I'm pregnant.”
The doctor nods and takes a seat in the chair opposite me. “I take it this isn't expected. If I can ask, have you been sexually active recently?”
“Not since the end of May,” I tell her, thinking. That night, we had sex so many times, and we definitely weren’t careful. It was the last thing on our minds. “How far along am I?”
“I’d think you would know that better than me. I'd have to schedule you an ultrasound to check,” the doctor says. “Specialist Morgan, you realize I have to tell your commander, right?”
“I know,” I reply, my mind whirling. Family care plans, updating life insurance policies, wills . . . all the paperwork runs through my head. I've been doing it for other people for a while now. I have the form numbers memorized. “Jesus.”
“Well, at least look at it this way. It's lucky that you got assigned to the Mobilization Brigade. If you'd been assigned to the 7th, they'd have had to bounce you around because you're non-deployable now. I've had to look after some people like that. The Infantry doesn't like those types of soldiers.”
“Thanks,” I say hollowly, sighing. Aaron. But what do I tell him? Oh, hey, I know I insisted that we break it off, but I'm pregnant, so call me maybe? No, I can't tell him. I know that much for sure.
Captain Jellisco isn't quite so friendly the next morning when I report to his office at nine o'clock along with First Sergeant Lincoln and my platoon leader, LT Brown. “I gotta say, Specialist Morgan, you know how to make an entrance to a new unit.”
“It wasn't planned, sir,” I tell him. He's at least had me relax and take a seat, but I feel sort of small and puny with Lincoln and Brown still standing, flanking my chair on either side. “Apologies.”
“Don't apologize,” the CO says, shrugging. “I guess congratulations are in order, however. Okay, we can adjust fire on this. It won't take that much. The docs say you'll still need to do your APFT, rifle quals, stuff like that. We'll just have less time to do it before your pregnancy profile starts. Also, if I can ask, has the father been told?”
“No, sir,” I reply, and CPT Jellisco raises an eyebrow. “I'm not planning on telling him, sir.”
“Why not?” Lieutenant Brown asks, and I look up at her. “Seriously, why not?”
“It's complicated, ma'am. The father and I were . . . well, it wouldn't be good for him if he finds out.” Not good is an understatement. There's a simple rule in the Corps of Cadets, one I double checked on my phone last night. Cadets must be single. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Married? Sorry, you can't be in the Corps. Have a child? Nope, can't be in the Corps. Even a female cadet, if she gets pregnant, she has to drop out and then give up legal custody of her child in order to rejoin in a later year group.
So the fact is, Aaron can’t be the legal father of my baby. He'd be tossed out of the Academy, and of course, that would bring our relationship to light, ruining my career too. No, I won't destroy his future out of fear. If I love him, and I do love him . . . he can't find out.
“I see,” Lieutenant Brown says, clearly not understanding at all. She probably thinks the father was married, that I was an affair or something. Ah well, I'll deal with it. “We'll discuss this later.”
“You can discuss it while you work out the Family Care Plan,” Captain Jellisco says. “Okay, Morgan. Like I said, it's one hell of a way to land in the unit, but I have another rule. We support the mobilizations, and we support each other. So, if you want to make that choice, we'll do what we can to support you on it. In the meantime, let's get on with the day. I think Morgan needs a chance to go meet her day-to-day office supervisor and get settled in. Dismissed.”
Outside, First Sergeant Lincoln turns left, leaving me with Brown. His day-to-day job is in supply, while Lieutenant Brown works in the same building I do, although she's in the housing group. While we walk, Brown gives me a look. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead, ma'am,” I reply. “I'll answer if I can.”
She nods and puts her hands behind her back. “I'm not going to ask the details, but you might be interested to know that I'm a West Pointer,” she says. “I graduated four years ago, so I don't know any of the cadets there now. All my Corps have graduated. But . . . well, there are lots of young guys there. Not too many young enlisted though.”
“Perhaps so. Your point, ma'am?”
Brown hums and shakes her head. “Nothing. Your choice, Morgan. Just . . . someday, the father might want to know.”
I'd like nothing better . . . but I can't. “Perhaps, ma'am.”
“I had a friend at West Point,” Brown says, her face grim. “Nice girl, smart as hell, except that one time, she let the guy shag her without protection. She got pregnant, and instead of just coming clean, she went up to Cornwall. They've got a clinic up there, and she had the pregnancy terminated. She ended up getting a reg board, but she graduated on time. Still . . . not a choice I'd like to make, and it’ll probably haunt her for the rest of her days.”
“Nor I, ma'am. I love the father, and I'm going to love this baby,” I tell her, maybe a bit more heatedly than I should. “Sorry.”
“No apologies necessary,” Brown says. We reach our office building, and she leads me inside. “Okay, let me go introduce you to Major Tellis. He'll be your section chief. Good luck, Morgan. And welcome to Fort Lewis.”
Chapter 9: Aaron
It's been a long, strange ride, I think as I pick up my ACUs from the tailor. They look perfect, and I'm impressed at how quick and how cheap the work was.
“Thanks,” I tell the tailor, an old guy whose shop's been around for a long damn time, according to the scuttlebutt. “Perfect work.”
“Eh, no problem,” the guy says, ringing it up. “I wish it was like the old days, the BDU days. The old ones, everything was sewn on, tabs, badges, name tapes, all of it. Back then, three tops like yours would get me thirty bucks easy. Then I had the dry cleaning and starching work on the side. That was even better. These new things, just no money in it.”
“So why do you keep doing it?” I ask, folding my tops and putting them in my bag. “Doing the dry cleaning on dress uniforms can't replace that, can it?”
“No, but I still get enough from the civilian side to keep things going, and I'm retiring in two or three years,” the man says, smiling wistfully. “Besides, us Airborne types gotta stick together, you know? Good luck.”
I leave the tailor's shop, taking one of his cards and making sure I do come by. I don't have a lot of things that need dry cleaned. Even a year after graduation, I still don't have a big clothes collection, and most of it consists of jeans and casual shirts.
Still, he's right. Airborne sticks together. I've only been with my unit two days. I still haven't officially taken over my platoon yet, but the idea that Airborne sticks together winds through everything in the 82nd Airborne. Fort. Bragg is a good-looking post, and it's a lot greener than Benning, where I did Infantry and Ranger school. And with fall coming on, North Carolina is a beautiful area, cooling down nicely. Doing Ranger school in the summer sucked ass. Even the mountain phase sucked.
I circle around post, staying outside the gate until I get to my hou
se. Bragg's got enough space that an unmarried officer like me could use the Bachelor Officer Quarters, but the idea of having to live in a military controlled building is not one that I want to even consider. Not after living in West Point barracks for four years. I like the freedom, and the house is close enough that I don't even need to drive fifteen minutes in the morning to get to the unit.
I see my unit welcome packet on the seat of my car and shake my head, still kind of amazed. Third Platoon, Delta Company, 2nd Battalion, 405th Parachute Infantry Regiment. The ‘Regulators’. My platoon.
It's scary and awesome at the same time, and I'm looking forward to tomorrow when I’m actually formally introduced to the company at morning formation.
I bring my uniforms inside, hanging them up before checking everything else. I've spent two weeks shaping and forming my maroon beret. It's damn near perfect, along with its backup just in case I fuck one of them up.
“Well, Lieutenant Simpson, looks like you're ready,” I say to myself, stopping when I realize that talking to yourself is a sign of stress and something I've been doing far too much the past three years and some change. It started while I was going to Airborne school, really. And I know why. Three years, and I can't get her off my mind.
I wonder if she's still in the service? She could be. She said she'd still be when I graduated from USMA. She could have . . .
“Stop it, you dumb fuck,” I mutter to myself, bitter. “Just . . . fucking stop it.”
It's hard, though, I think as I turn away from my uniforms and plop down on my couch. At Airborne school, when I twisted my ankle on that second jump and still had to force my way through another two days of PT, she was there, telling me she was proud of me. The last two years at school, I drove myself from a solid middle of the class up to the upper quarter, even making the Supe's Award one semester. Hell, even in Ranger school, she was there, in my mind. One of my patrol buddies, a funny kid from Oklahoma, asked me at one point who the hell Lindsey was, because I'd spent ten minutes of sleep deprived zombie status talking to what I thought was her, and it turned out to be a pine tree.
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