Heartbreak Warfare

by Heather M. Orgeron

  “Toilet!” Sammy shouts, giving me a shove.

  I leave a trail of vomit the whole way, unable to stop the violent eruption once it starts. While my sister holds my hair, I purge every drop of liquor and then some before resting the side of my face on the cold porcelain. I can’t even allow myself to think of how disgusting it is to have my cheek pressed to the toilet seat because right now, it feels too damn good.

  “You text me begging for a girls’ day, so I knock off work and drive over to find you like this?”

  Everything inside me starts to crumble as I recall my earlier conversation with Mullins’s mom.

  Her weepy eyes find mine as she asks the question I’ve been dreading since the shock of her sudden arrival. She’s driven nearly three hours, from Arlington, to ask me this question. Guilt, fear, and a hundred other emotions race through me as I join her on the swing Gavin installed for me.

  “What happened?”

  Her presence only makes what happened more real. I haven’t visited her because I wasn’t prepared, and by the way I’m feeling, I never will be.

  “Alicia,” I whisper mournfully, “she was hurt really bad after the explosion. Those injuries were grave.”

  I’m hoping for cloudy skies.

  The clear image of Mullins on her knees, visibly shaking, with that monster above her, has me reeling. Her mother studies me with red-rimmed eyes.

  “Did she suffer?”

  “Not long,” I say, without adding more detail. I can’t do this, and I know I can’t, but I’m being cornered, and there’s no way around it.

  “I’m so sorry I missed the memorial.” She jerks her chin, dismissing my apology. She’s not interested in that. She came for answers.

  “Katy, please tell me about my Jessica. I can’t keep wondering about how my daughter died.”

  Biting my lips, tears come easily as I think about my best friend, about the way she looked at me, giving me permission to end her life to save my own. I’ve avoided this for so long, and that avoidance was countering a destructive tidal wave. Alicia takes my hand in hers. “Mija, take your time, but please tell me.”

  Mija. Daughter. She’s calling me her daughter. I know little Spanish, but I do know that term of endearment. With no idea on how to navigate the horrific way she left his world, I decide to answer the questions she asks as honestly as I can. It’s not until sometime later that I realize I’m having a panic attack right in front of her. She consoles me until we’re both sobbing on the back porch. Alicia leaves a little more enlightened than when she came, but I can still see her hesitation to go as she waves at me from the side of her truck.

  “You look like hell.” My eyes move across the room to where Sammy’s standing with her arms crossed on her chest. She looks pissed.

  Responding would require too much of an effort, so I merely nod and groan.

  “Why are you doing this to yourself?” I try to ignore the tremor in her voice because I simply can’t handle any more guilt right now.

  Shrug.

  Her face turns beet red as she slinks down the wall, sitting on the other side of the commode. The woman I respect more than any other releases a sigh of defeat.

  “What the hell did you survive all that shit for, if you were just going to come home and fucking kill yourself?” She pulls her knees to her chest, hugging them close. “At least if you’d died out there, it would’ve been with some dignity.”

  Her words should strike a chord, and I’m sure they will fester later. But right now, all I want is for her to go away and stop looking at me with such disappointment. I want to wallow, and for the first time since I left Germany, I want to grieve my best friend.

  “Can you go?”

  Sammy’s mouth gapes open. “No, I will not go. You need me.”

  I shake my head. “I’m sick,” I mutter, dry heaving into the bowl.

  “You’re not sick. You’re fucking drunk. My God, I didn’t realize it’d gotten this bad.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You are so far from fine.”

  “Jessica’s mom visited me today.”

  Sammy’s eyes bulge slightly, and I can see the understanding pass through her.

  “I know that was hard, Katy, I do, but yesterday was fucking awful. And despite what you’re going through and how you’re trying to handle it on your own, you’re fucking up more than you’re actually handling anything. So, this, dear sister, is your impromptu intervention.”

  I’m too dizzy for this conversation. Squinting, I try to focus on her face, to make it stop moving so I can read her expression and decipher just how angry she is with me, but it’s of no use. Between retching and the brain fog I’m in, I just can’t participate in this right now. Lifting my hand to shoo her away is a monumental task, one that only further incites her rage.

  “You need to talk to someone.”

  “You mean you,” I mutter. “And you don’t want to know what happened.”

  “I have an idea,” she whispers, “but if you don’t want to tell me, Gavin deserves to know.”

  “Fine, thanks for the advice, because there’s no shortage of that in my life. I’ll make girls’ day up to you.”

  “I’m not finished with you just yet,” she snaps, jumping to her feet.

  Great.

  “Can you hurry?”

  My sister scurries out of the bathroom, returning with a book in her hand. One I’m intimately familiar with. “What the hell is this?” She waves the journal Dr. Schmidt gave to me, the other hand resting on her hip.

  “What if Gavin walked in here and found this shit instead of me, huh?”

  “It’s homework,” I slur.

  “Homework? This thing is filled with letters to another man.”

  “Dr. Schmidt told me to write to him,” I drawl, trying not to gag. “I keep it locked up.”

  “You keep it locked? Well, how’d I get my hands on it then?”

  “I was writing to him this morning, and I forgot, and because you’re too nosy to—to give me any fucking prrrivacyy.”

  She flips through, reading letter after letter, her eyes narrowing in my direction. “Are you in love with him?” There’s no accusation in her tone. This is pure fear. She’s afraid I’m going to lose my family. Ruin my life. Well, welcome to the club, Sis. So am I. I don’t need her concern.

  “I miss him…stop reading that, please. No one else is supposed to read it!”

  The book slams shut, and my sister slaps it down on the counter. She stares at me for a moment before her features begin to soften. “You need help.”

  “I’m getting help.”

  Her tears make me feel even more like shit than I already do. I’m beginning to sober up, and shame is quickly setting in.

  “I don’t think it’s working.”

  Rolling away from the toilet, I rest my head against the wall, looking up at her forlorn face. “You think I don’t know this?” I stammer.

  Tears line my sister’s cheeks as she moves to sit beside me.

  “Babe, families take care of each other. Gavin loves you so much. We all do. You’ve got to wipe your eyes and realize we aren’t the enemy.”

  “I’m not her,” I confess. “I’m not the one who left.” I look over to my sister. “And I don’t think I ever will be.”

  “Fine. You’re someone else. I love you anyway, and I’ll always have your back, but I’m not going to stand by and watch you continue to fuck up. You can have all the time you need, but this”—she holds up the pint of vodka—“this isn’t the way you’re going out.”

  She stands up and starts a shower. “Your son’s going to be home soon, and I’m pretty sure your husband is ready to throttle you. Get your ass in this shower, and I’ll make you look presentable.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I love you, Katy,” she says as she pulls a clean towel off my shelf. “But it’s time to try and get back up, okay? Even if you only make it to your knees. And if you get knocke
d back down, I’ll be there.”

  “Promise?” I ask.

  “Promise.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Gavin

  I park outside our lifeless house and peer through the big bay window as memories of our first months here fuel the ache.

  I’ve lost my patience, and that’s the one thing I need in abundance. She deserves it, not only because of what she’s suffered; but because of who she is, or was, what we were, and what I know we can still have. Every day I fight my own selfish needs to see that hers are met, but I feel like each time I step into our house I’m falling into darkness without a sign of light in sight. The struggle to remind myself it’s temporary is a daily battle.

  Eight months. It’s been eight months since I’ve made love to my wife. I’ve been fixated on that fact for days. My resolve is fraying with my every botched attempt to close the space.

  While intimacy isn’t everything, it played a large part in our relationship. But the woman I love sits inside our house battling demons she refuses to admit exist and doesn’t seem to care at all about it, so I can’t afford to either.

  Daily, the same questions plague me—what more can I do? Who in the hell do I need to be to get through to her?

  I’ll wait. And I’ll keep waiting until she makes her way back to me.

  Anger prevents me from opening my door on this night.

  She’s put me in unfamiliar territory, and the hardest part for me to swallow is that I didn’t even realize she had a drinking problem.

  I’m losing her.

  Gripping the wheel, I do my best to muster the strength to face her. I’m tired of the anger, the hidden resentment, but I’m not sure who’s harboring what anymore. I snubbed her last night and heard her crying when I’d come back calm enough to talk. Instead of offering her arms I knew she would refuse, I sat outside our bedroom door listening until she went silent. The fact that she was breaking down was encouraging, the fact that she would never let me bear witness to it had me shedding tears right along with her.

  I love Katy, and I know no matter what happens, I always will, but for the first time since she came home, I don’t want to be here, and that scares me.

  Pity party over, I pull into the garage and step inside the living room with enough determination to see my promise to her through. It’s what I see that stops me in my tracks.

  Katy is standing in the middle of the living room, her too-thin frame clad in a sexy nightgown that used to hug her subtle curves. Her hair is fixed, and her makeup is done. She looks absolutely fucking beautiful, and if it weren’t for the look on her face, I would take consolation in the fact I know the effort she made is for me. I watch her for a few seconds as she flips back and forth between Fox and CNN.

  “Katy?”

  “They’re liars. All of them are fucking liars. No one knows the truth.”

  “Tell me the truth,” I urge as tension rolls off of her in waves.

  I get the same silent answer I’ve grown used to and feel the distance between us more than ever.

  “Call the Today Show,” she whispers, her voice unrecognizable to me.

  “What?”

  “Tell them I’ll do it.”

  The idea is ridiculous, and I step into her line of sight to ax it. “Katy—”

  “I know exactly what I’m asking, Gavin,” she says as her eyes flit to mine. She’s seething. In the years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her so angry.

  “I need this,” she tells me. “I need this, and I’m asking you for this. You want to know what I need from you? I need this. Please.”

  My response is instant.

  “Okay.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Briggs

  Left.

  Right.

  Left.

  Starting out slow, I pick at the heavy bag in front of me with taped wrists instead of gloves, knowing how much damage I could do but needing the pain to feel relief. I’ve become a masochist of sorts, reveling in the burn. “After Rain” by Dermot Kennedy sounds through my earbuds on repeat. I never thought I’d be the type of guy to have a song that reminds me of a woman, but as it turns out, I’m just that fucking guy. If there was ever a song that represented how I feel—about me, about her— it’s this one.

  It’s days like today when I have to force myself to breathe, when I see her face so clearly I feel like I can reach out and touch it. Her voice echoes out my name, and I’d give anything to answer, anything to let her know I’m still forcing these breaths out only for her. Last night I let the anger win and purposely picked a fight with a guy twice my size. With every crack of my whiskey-fueled knuckles, I felt a sick satisfaction. But even the rush of adrenaline I’ve been craving wasn’t enough to stifle the emptiness that followed when I brought him to his knees. Empty. Hollow. Hurt. I’m a born fighter, and even with all my training, I can’t defeat the one thing weighing me down. I miss her. I need her. I need her. I need her. And she’s not mine.

  Warming up, I slowly tick off a lick for every day I spent with her in that bunker, until the song picks up, the violin sounds, and heavy drums kick in. Pain streams through me inside and out as I match the building rhythm double-time with my throws. Though my fists scream for relief, I know I’ll refuse them until my chest stops constricting the way it does every time I think of her. The irony of it is that I finally get it—I understand why she had to leave me with my heart in my hands the way she did. When you find this feeling, you have to do anything you can to keep it.

  That realization does nothing as I thunder out my ache, my split knuckles scraping against the tape.

  No amount of reasoning helps the hurt, erases the longing.

  Doesn’t curb the anger, doesn’t ease the pain.

  I still love her. I’ll die loving her.

  My arms finally give out as the song ends, and I hug the bag to keep from collapsing.

  It’s nearing one in the morning when I come stumbling up the stairs from another night out with the guys and a notification chimes on my phone. Bracing my back against the wall, I squint my eyes in an attempt to stop the screen from moving. Who’d be messaging me this late at night?

  “Damn, Briggs…that chick already blowin’ up your phone?” Connors chuckles, fumbling with the keys to unlock our room as I mess around on my phone, still trying to figure out where that tone came from. “You fucked her in that bathroom, didn’t you? Dude, I need to get captured so chicks’ll fall all over my dick too.”

  My eyes roll as I recall bits and pieces of what went down with Emily on the back seat of her car in Rox’s parking lot earlier tonight. “I didn’t fuck her in the bathroom.” I’m not lying. “I didn’t even give her my number. You know me better than that.”

  Our lock sticks, and watching Connors’s drunk ass fight with it is giving me a good laugh.

  “That was Facebook,” he supplies, as he slams his hip into the door and it finally pops open. “Try Messenger.”

  Of course, he knows the app by the damn tone. The man has more social media and dating apps than I could ever keep track of.

  Following his instructions, I pull up Messenger, but there’s nothing new here either. “I don’t know how to work this shit, man. I don’t see anything.”

  “Give it to me.” Connors snatches my phone from my hand and starts clicking away. “Here, it’s Kathryn. Y’all aren’t friends, so it was in your other messages folder.”

  “My wha—” My train of thought is lost when I see her name in bold letters: Kathryn Scott.

  Ambling over to the couch, I stare at the unopened message in disbelief. I do the math. Four months. It’s been four months without a word. Connors reads my expression. “You all right, man?”

  “I’m good. Give me a minute?” His eyes slowly rake over me. “Yeah, sure, I’m gonna hit the shower. Sure you’re okay?”

  No. Fuck. No.

  “I’m good.” By the time he clicks the door shut behind him, I’m staring at the phone in my hand in
a daze. For as long and as hard as I wished for any word from her, it’s fucking surreal that she’s just a click away, and I don’t waste another second.

  Briggs,

  Remember when I said we couldn’t speak after parting ways in Germany? It was the day I broke your heart. What you didn’t know was that I was breaking mine too. I thought they’d be enough—my husband and my son. That I’d get home, and everything would go back to the way it was…

  Before the war.

  Before the ambush.

  Before you.

  But, no matter how hard I try, I can’t erase the trauma we shared. I can’t seem to forget the way my heart beat in time with yours. The truth is I’m lost without you. I thought the nightmare was over when they pulled us from that hole in the ground, but nothing could have prepared me for the war I’d face at home.

  I know it’s selfish of me to ask, but, please, I have to see you one last time...

  All my love,

  Scottie

  Stunned. I’m stunned as I read her letter a few more times. No contact. She said no contact. We never exchanged numbers or emails. It was supposed to be over, only for me it never was. Not by a long shot. Apparently not for her either. I tug at the neck of my shirt, suddenly feeling choked and feverish.

  I don’t know what to do with this. What to make of it. So, I decide to snoop on her page, but it’s brand new. There are no pictures of her happy family. No photos of what she ate for dinner, or her dog, or shit she bought at the mall like all the other girls on my friends list. It’s completely blank. Even her profile picture is that generic white silhouette on the gray-blue background. She made this account with the sole purpose of finding me.

  Before replying, I send her a friend request so all future messages will be where I can find them. She obviously doesn’t know how this thing works. If my roommate wasn’t such a social media nerd, I’d have never known she reached out to me at all.

  “Well?” Connors is lurking next to my bed, trying to peer at my screen. “What’d Sergeant Scott want?”