Heartbreak Warfare

by Heather M. Orgeron

  “You owe me an apology,” I say in a tone that sounds uncertain even to me.

  “She’s sick, Daddy! You left when she’s sick! And you can’t ’spect her to get better without her medicine.”

  Noah’s gaze falls on my shaking hands before I set the rods down and stalk toward him.

  “I’m her medicine,” he declares, stopping me in my tracks, “and you are too!” he shouts as his heart cracks in front of me, and my own follows. “You’re her medicine too! She said it. She said we could make her better.” His lip quivers as he puffs out his chest before letting out a painful cry in his exhale—his face crumbling. Within seconds, he’s in my arms, letting his ache show as he fists my T-shirt. I’m buckling fast because his cries sound like hers, and I feel every implication, every part of the guilt he’s placing as he soaks my chest and neck with his tears.

  “She was better before we went to Disney,” he hiccups. “I saw it. Grandma said it too. All you had to do was come home and see she was better!” He pushes at my neck, trying to escape as I hug him tightly to me.

  “I’m not leaving you, Son, I promise. I swear to God, I’m not leaving you.” Noah furiously shakes his head at my chest before he pulls away. I can’t hide my tears as her eyes stare into mine.

  “Her too, Dad. Mommy too.”

  He’s choking on his cries with a look I never wanted to see on his face, a look I swore I would never be the one to put there— disappointment.

  “Her too,” he begs, gripping me so tight I’m fighting for air. And now I know I’ve failed them both.

  “I’ll try, Noah,” I choke out. “I promise you, I’ll try so hard,” I cough out as he crashes into me, and I catch his fall.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Briggs

  “Read ’em and weep, motherfuckers,” I taunt as I pull in my newly earned stash.

  “Fuck you, Briggs,” Ortez barks, shoving away from the table. “I’m exhausted.”

  Henley gives him a death stare. “Dude, you just want to call the Mrs. and play with your dick before we get to the cots. Do me a favor and use your own fucking sock this round.”

  “Fuck yourself,” Ortez mutters. “You’re just mad because you’re ugly, and there isn’t a piece of ass on any continent willing to put up with your shit for longer than the fifteen seconds you last.”

  “No,” Henley retorts, “my dick is scary, there’s a difference. Most can’t handle it…Ask your mother.” He puckers his lips. “Now come kiss Daddy goodnight.”

  Ortez shakes his head, flipping him the bird as I shuffle the deck. It’s only after Henley stares a hole through me that I acknowledge him.

  “I’m prettier, I agree,” I offer, breaking his trance. “But I’m not into the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ so don’t get fixed on me.”

  “We’re all wondering why you came back.” I was wondering how long it’d take for the questioning to start. Time to rip this fucking Band-Aid off so I can get back to trying to forget.

  “You shouldn’t have wasted your time wondering,” I say, shuffling, “and just come out and asked.”

  “What happened down there in that bunker?”

  I light a cigarette and toss back some whiskey from my haul. Two rangers pull up seats at the table, telling me they were only hanging around for the same prodding conversation.

  “It’s exactly what you’d expect,” I shuffle. “Pure torture. You starve a lot and lose every shred of your dignity, only to be pulled from a hole and realize you were being bullied by the dumbest fucking humans to grace the race.”

  “What about Scott?” one of the rangers asks as he pulls at the cards I give him. “How’d she fare?”

  “Better than half the hard-ons in my unit would have.” I toss another shot back. “Better than that. When push came to shove, she pulled rank on me and practically spit the creed in their faces.”

  The rangers lean back, fanning their cards.

  “No shit,” Henley says. “Then what?”

  I fell in love with her.

  Maybe it happened before or maybe after, but I know for certain that I’m a goner.

  A table full of expectant eyes prod me, and I shrug. “You know I can’t jaw the details, but it’s what always happens,” I say, swallowing the last shot out of the bottle, anger bubbling to the surface. “They fucking failed,” I add with finality as I start tossing cards, trying my best to get past the burn in my throat that has nothing to do with whiskey. “If I win this hand, you ladies have to tell me what color panties you’re wearing.”

  We’re four deep in a Humvee on the same road that altered the course of the lives of eight people, mine included. Henley looks over to me in the back seat and reads my posture.

  “They’ve been calling for sweeps practically every day.”

  “I’m good,” I say, making sure my M4 is strapped tight. Instead of letting Henley see my hesitation, I speak up among the rattle in the cabin. “I probably should have said this before, but I’m not in the fucking mood to babysit today. Keep close, watch your corners, and do not make me question you twice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Roger that.”

  We’re first in to clear the perimeter for the rest of the convoy, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Bombings are becoming more frequent, and the radicals are getting bolder with their attacks, resulting in massive amounts of civilian casualties. As team leader, I need to keep them sharp, tight, loaded, focused, and alive.

  Something Scottie said at the ranch flashes in my mind. “I’m going to need you to help me, help you. I—”

  The three of them burst out laughing, and I’m instantly pissed.

  “You think this is funny, Specialist?” I glare at Griffin in his rearview as a chuckle dies on his lips. “No, sir. Sorry, Sarge.”

  “Then shut the fuck up and keep your eyes forward. When we land, watch my signal. Communication is key to keeping you vertical.”

  “Yes, sir,” they all say in unison.

  Casting my glare out the window, I study the rocky wasteland.

  Please! Please don’t walk away from me! Not like this, please. These can’t be the last words we say.

  The gnaw won’t let up. No matter how hard I try to distract myself, I still feel the ache, the longing, and I want to take it all back. Hurting her the way I did, with the things I said and the things I didn’t, is my biggest regret. Jealousy and anger won that day because I was trying to protect us both from making promises we couldn’t keep. I have to believe she knows I’ll keep fighting for her, that she’s my reason.

  I’ll get them all for you, Scottie. I’ll make them fucking pay.

  The pain is a reminder, and instead of willing it away, I decide to keep it close. I’ll use it over the anger because it keeps her memory fresh, it keeps me focused, and that’s enough.

  Of all the things loving her has taught me, I know this much to be the truth: even when love is convoluted, it’s real.

  Once the Humvee rolls to a stop, my boots are the first on the ground.

  “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Katy

  “Mom, I’m so tired of this song.” Noah sighs dramatically. “You listen to it every stinkin’ day!”

  “Sorry, buddy.” I turn down The Rolling Stones and look back at him as he fastens his seat belt. “What do you want to listen to?”

  “Anything but ‘Talking Woman.’”

  “That’s ‘Honky Tonk Women.’”

  He looks over at me in the driver’s seat, his father’s stern expression in place. “Why do you play it every day?”

  I think long and hard before I give my answer, and it’s a two-part truth. The first is because it reminds me of the freedom I felt at the ranch, of Chris, but I voice the second. “Because it reminds me one day I’ll dance again.” I’ll smile again without ever having to force it. I’ll let myself go without thinking it’s wrong, and allow some freedom to exist, just for a few minutes, witho
ut worrying about the weight of living.

  “You can play it,” Noah sighs. He looks adorable in his uniform, and I can’t help but to reach behind me and tug down his ball cap. I’ve been working with my shrink all week to get to the point of attending one of his games. It annoys me to no end that I’m nervous about something so trivial, but I was assured it’s just another barrier I have to cross, and that my fears are warranted. I don’t want to be coddled, and Dr. Schmidt has been nothing but blunt, so I’ve been more open. Every day I tell myself it’s working or will work, because I’m still a work in progress, and maybe I always will be.

  And then there are the signs that prove I’m heading in the right direction. I’m sleeping longer. I’m working a hell of a lot harder. I’m isolating a little less. One bad day, or a bad couple of seconds, can make me feel like I’m spiraling back, but instead of wallowing in a self-deprecating bleak cloud, I swallow those days and seconds with a grain of salt and keep going. And it’s because I keep going that I notice the subtle signs.

  Since Noah got home from his fishing trip a little over a week ago, Gavin’s been more responsive to my texts. I’m unsure what it could mean, or if it means anything at all. But I assume it’s an effort on his part for our little boy, and I ignore the hopeful part of it for myself. I’m still ignoring my heart, and because of that decision, life has become more bearable. It’s a small price to pay for gaining stability, which is what both my son and I need. Today I’ll push myself a little further into the land of the living, test myself, and try not to take it too hard if I fail.

  With sweaty palms, I adjust the rearview to check my appearance one last time before starting the Jeep. I’ve been spending endless hours in my garden, and it shows on my skin and in my build. My hair is a bit lighter, and the muscle tone I lost is slowly coming back.

  Soldier up, Katy.

  Instead of being resentful of Mullins’s echoed words, I take comfort in them. In moments like these, I feel like she is looking out for me. No matter how crazy it seems, it helps, and it heals, and that’s all I care about.

  “We Will Rock You!” Noah shouts from the back seat.

  One of his daddy’s favorites. Ignoring the sting of it, because fuck my heart and the havoc it wreaks, I pop in the Queen CD.

  “Time to get you amped up!” I hand him a juice just as the music starts, and he takes it, popping it with the straw. Sucking back his sugar rush, Noah rocks in his seat with crazed enthusiasm. I watch him with pressed lips to hide my grin, because I know if he spots my threatening smile, he’ll stop.

  One day maybe you’ll be the one to teach him to dance.

  We sing at the top of our lungs for the few miles to the ballpark. It’s times like this I know I’m present, and I’ll never take it for granted.

  Parking at the edge of the field, I scan the lot and see Gavin’s truck a few rows over. Exhaling a deep breath, I smile back at Noah, who’s already unfastening his belt. “Dad’s here!”

  Dad and Mom. My heart tugs at the fact he no longer calls me Mommy. Somehow in the past week or so we’ve been converted. I assume it’s learned behavior. Kids pick up on everything, and that realization makes me even more anxious about pushing myself today. The last thing I want is to humiliate my child.

  We make our way toward field number four, where his team waits. As we get a little closer, Noah gives me a quick goodbye with a wave over his shoulder.

  “Good luck, baby!” I call after him as he runs toward his teammates with his glove in hand. Loneliness threatens as I move toward the bleachers.

  “Katy?” Gavin’s bewildered voice sounds from behind me.

  Squinting against the sun, I look up to see him sitting at the top of the stands.

  “H—hey, Gavin.”

  He’s lost the jacket, but he’s still wearing his signature brown undershirt and camo pants. My heart does a flip at the sight of them. Hesitantly I approach as I pass the other parents lining the stands, busy with their boasting and chitchat. Stepping up to where he sits, I hesitate, and his reaction is instant, sliding over so I can take the vacant seat next to him.

  “Sorry, I didn’t change.” He looks down at his outfit, untucking his shirt from his pants. “I came straight from work, but if I’d known you were gonna be here—”

  “It’s fine.” And it is.

  “You look good,” he offers, emotion clogging his throat. “I like your hair like that.”

  On instinct, my hand runs through my curls, and my cheeks flame. “What? You mean brushed?” I joke.

  “Is that all you did different?” My husband worries his lower lip, hiding a smirk. “Well, you should keep brushing it then,” he says with an exaggerated wink. “Seriously though, I’m glad you’re here. I know Noah must be ecstatic.”

  My eyes drift from the top of his newly trimmed blond hair down his broad frame and summer-kissed skin. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Captain.”

  “Working on it,” he says softly.

  In seconds I’m blanketed in a familiar feeling that I’ll never be able to ignore.

  Just then, Noah spots his father and me from the outfield and sneaks in a wave while the pitcher situates himself on the mound. My heart swells to bursting at the exuberant smile on his little face. Whatever discomfort I feel from being here is worth it ten times over to know I’ve made him so happy.

  “He’s getting pretty good,” Gavin says as I try my best to stop fidgeting.

  “I just wish I could have been here to see it.”

  “You are here,” he assures me.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I whisper, “but thank you.”

  A thick, overbearing silence lingers between us as we try to keep our eyes locked on the game. We’re both rattling with uncertainty, and it’s physically painful.

  “This is fucking awful,” I whisper with a shaky voice.

  “Agreed,” he replies, his voice just as strained.

  “I hate this. I know I did this.”

  His silence pierces me deep as the kid at bat swings and misses.

  “Gavin, I know this isn’t the place, but I’m afraid if I don’t say it, you’ll never let me—”

  “Katy—”

  “Hurting you the way I did is the biggest regret of my life. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  At first, I’m not sure he hears me, because his eyes never stray from the field.

  Then he nods slowly, his Adam’s apple dropping with a hard swallow. “I know.”

  “That’s all I promise,” I say as I bat a tear away. It’s then that I notice the gold band on his left hand. He hasn’t taken it off since the day I placed it on his finger.

  Gavin follows my line of sight and realization strikes as I move to stand, on the brink. “I just need a second.”

  He clasps his hand with mine and pulls me to sit next to him. Once seated, he doesn’t let go as the tears fall, and I furiously bat them away. The crowd yells their support as one of our players steps up to the plate.

  “Don’t miss this, Katy. He’s up next.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying to get myself together.

  It’s only after a few seconds that I feel his eyes on me. I squeeze his hand before turning to him with tear-stained cheeks.

  “I don’t deserve it.”

  “You aren’t the only one who broke promises,” he says, returning the pressure of my hand. “Stay.”

  “Okay,” I say, staring up at the cloudless sky with a sigh as I gather myself together. By the time Noah walks up to the plate, I’m feeling a slight sort of relief.

  I don’t know much about baseball. Noah started playing while I was away in Iraq, and I never watched as a kid, but even I know he’s done something great when he steps up to bat and hits it way out into left field. Outfielders scramble to get to the ball as, one by one, the little boys stomp over home plate.

  “Home run!” I yell, jumping up and down and damn near tripping down the bleachers. “Way to go, baby!”

  I feel a tu
g at the bottom of my shirt, pulling me back. “That wasn’t a home run.” Gavin cracks up laughing, and it stirs something deep inside my chest. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed the sound of his laughter—or how long it’s been since I’ve heard it.

  He shakes his head at me as if I’m the village idiot, but I’ll play idiot to keep that smile of his there. “I mean, it was awesome, but it’s only a home run if he makes it home. He’s on third.”

  “He brought in two runners!” I protest.

  Gavin shakes his head, still grinning ear to ear. “So, he helped score two runs.”

  “Whatever, give me a mom pass. At least I know football.” I roll my eyes dramatically, shoving his shoulder for making fun of me. And for the briefest of moments, it feels like the old us. “Call it whatever you want, but our baby kicks ass at baseball.”

  After the game, Noah comes bounding toward us with a beaming smile, and I already know what he’s going to say.

  “Did you see?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m so proud of you, Noah. You played amazing out there.”

  Sweat trickles from his hairline, down his forehead and cheeks. “Thanks, Mom.” Mom. I’ll get over it eventually.

  “Great game, bud,” Gavin says, scruffing up the mop of blond curls atop his head when he removes his ball cap.

  Noah beams. “So, we’re going to Lily’s Pizza, right, Dad?”

  The look on Gavin’s face lets me know he’s not used to the new shortage of letters when he’s being addressed, either.

  “Yeah,” Gavin replies before looking at me apologetically. “I promised because I didn’t—”

  “It’s fine,” I say with the wave of my hand. “I’ve got yard work waiting and—”

  “How’s the job going?” Gavin interrupts as if he’s been dying to ask the question.

  “Pretty good. I mean it’s boring as hell, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Gavin nods, his eyes covering me in a long sweep. “Good, that’s good.”

  “Yeah,” I say with a shrug, “well, it beats the former routine, right?”