The Ex

by Margaret Ferguson

Chapter 6

  Packing my belongings for the last time at the base had been a little surreal. For the past thirteen years, I had gone wherever the Army told me to go and did whatever they told me to do. So, now, I was feeling a little more lost than excited, knowing that I was starting over. I had a job, albeit short term, since I had already promised Tomás that I would help him with one of our chain of restaurants in Texas and Louisiana. The business had grown considerably since opening, and he couldn’t seem to keep up.

  I have a good-sized portfolio built up thanks to my investment broker, so I don’t have to make any permanent decisions anytime soon. Well, at least not for another month or two. Mikey, an old army buddy of mine, keeps bugging me to re-up for another four years. Emily, who’d rather I didn’t, was content with me signing on with the Guard Special Forces unit out of Mabry. It was a win-win. I just needed seven more years to get my pension. And, I think Emily hoped that would sate my need to play soldier, without actually re-upping. I guess the Army isn’t something I can just walk away from entirely. Some people, maybe, but not me.

  A lot depends on Emily. On Emily and me. It’s still hard to believe that after all these years, all the hurt and heartache, we found our way back to one another. That we could be so good together. We talk all the time now. All the time. And if we’re not talking, we’re texting. It’s a good thing we didn’t have all these sophisticated electronic devices when we were younger, or we’d have failed every course in school. We’re older and don’t feel the need to play childish games anymore, so we speak our minds. The first I love you came within twenty-four hours and has been repeated a hundred times since. A month ago, I never imagined, nor cared, if I’d ever see her again. Now, for the second time in my life, I can’t imagine living without her.

  Emily’s a professional photographer with dreams of being a photojournalist. I pulled up her website on the internet. Pretty impressive. She got her first camera at her tenth birthday party. I know that because I was there. I remember how excited I was when she handed me the invitation. I had been in love with her since third grade; however, back then, we barely spoke. At her party, I was nervous and as awkward as a ten-year-old boy can be. But when we were paired up for the three-legged race and then the ice cream eating contest, that was it. I was smitten and knew right then that we would be together forever.

  Emily carried her camera everywhere—school, the park, church. When she joined the yearbook staff as a photographer in junior high, she was hooked. Since then, she’d won numerous awards bringing her local attention, which definitely helped when she started her photography business. According to Emily, husband number one, Larry the Loser, didn’t support her or encourage her. She said he was controlling and would berate her. In all the years I knew him, I never saw that side of him. However, I also hadn’t expected him to sleep with my fiancé, either.

  We talked about everything. Marriage. Kids. Growing old together. Many of the things we’d dreamed about when we were younger, we were now ready to experience. We merely picked up where we left off and began again. I told her I wanted to someday return to the Chickasaw Nation in Oklahoma and raise our family there. She pouted, wanting to stay in Texas. We agreed to compromise. Actually, we discussed deciding over naked arm wrestling. I’m pretty sure I can take her.

  When I finally told my mom that I was seeing Emily again, she cried. Not exactly the reaction I had hoped for. I told her that Emily had changed; we both had. Between the sobs, I assured her that I knew what I was doing. Though I don’t know how much of it she actually heard, she got the gist of it. My life. My choice. Mama, above everyone else, believed in God’s timing. I asked her to be happy for me. Of course, she had to think about that one for a few seconds before answering. However, in the end, I didn’t need her permission to live my life. Her approval would have been nice, but it wasn’t going to change anything. I still planned on proposing to Emily. Soon.

  If there’s one thing I remember, it’s Emily’s taste in jewelry. Her mantra—bigger is better. I’d already picked out the ring, having carried it with me since I bought it, four weeks to the day after the reunion. I’ve been waiting for the right time to ask her. I’m pretty sure Emily knows I’m planning to propose. Actually, since she calls me her hopeless romantic, I know she’s expecting me to. So, the challenge for me is to do so when she’s least expecting it. That will take some planning. And because of how well my family accepted the news about Emily and me, I don’t think I’ll be enlisting their assistance.

  The first time I proposed to her was at the roller-skating rink, where we used to go as kids. It’s where I first kissed her. Emily thought it was sweet and romantic. And cheesy. I remember how nervous I had been. It took months to save for the ring I picked out. I even paid the DJ ten bucks to play “I Swear” by John Michael Montgomery. It was our song.

  Our song.

  Crap! Did that mean we needed a new one? We were starting over, after all. Planning our lives together. New hopes. New dreams. We weren’t kids anymore. We had changed. So, our goals had changed. Dramatically. Only now, I wanted my goals to be hers, and well… You know.

  I looked into the future and knew that nothing could possibly go wrong. Well, actually, there was one thing. Tomás had called to ask when I was coming back to Austin to begin work. We discussed how that would look, and then he hemmed and hawed until he got around to what I’m guessing was the main reason for his call. They—as in him, and my mother, and probably the rest of my family—felt that I should have Emily sign a prenup, since I was one of the partners, on paper, for the restaurants. Their concern? If we split up, Emily could end up with a share of the family business.

  I had the utmost respect for Tomás and my mother, and though I didn’t share their concern, I understood the reasoning behind it. I assured them that Emily loved me and wouldn’t have any problem signing such a document. He told me our attorney would draw it up; he told me it would be a standard agreement. And then he told me to expect it by FedEx the following day.

  Great!

  The Writing on the Wall

  Chapter 7

  When I stepped onto Camp Mabry, the third oldest Army installation in Texas, retired jets and cannons greeted me; proudly displayed on its lawn. Somehow, it felt like I’d never left. Reporting for my first training exercise since leaving the Army was exciting. Exhilarating. I joined Charlie Company, 5th Battalion 19th Special Forces Group, out of Mabry the week we moved back. I say we since Emily moved in with me when I relocated back to Texas. That was a few short weeks ago.

  When you’re in the National Guard, you drill one weekend a month and two weeks during the summer every year. Drilling keeps us in shape and keeps us prepared for whenever we’re called upon, especially for those of us too lazy to stay fit on our own. Whether deployed for natural disasters, civil issues, or military action, the Guard’s job is to make sure we are ready, using the latest gear and techniques to get the job done.

  It was time for our first drill. We were headed to Fort Hood, the largest military base in the world. Initially used to test and train destroyer tanks in World War II, it now housed forty-five thousand soldiers plus almost nine thousand civilian workers, and today an additional two thousand or so of us playing Weekend Warrior. We’ll run and shoot and sleep in tents and eat our field rations or MREs—short for meals ready to eat.

  MREs. Good old Army cuisine, scientifically created to last three years, withstand parachute drops from twelve-hundred-fifty feet, and temperatures from negative sixty to a hundred and twenty degrees. Not exactly my idea of real food, but it’s sustenance. Its only real benefit, as far as the Army’s concerned, is that it’s packed full of calories to get us through our drills in the field and in combat. When you’re stuck in a bunker with eight sweaty guys, or on some mountaintop in Afghanistan, a jillion-miles from the base, it’s a gourmet meal.

  The battalion commander isn’t anything like Kevan, my ex-CO. Kevan is gruff and tough, and the biggest badass you could meet. Wel
l, he is actually only five-six but can intimidate as though he were my size. This guy is six foot nothing, red-headed, maybe a few years older than I am, and doesn’t look like he’s seen a day of action, much less a day in the sun. If we get deployed to Afghanistan, he’d better take SPF-1000, or he’s toast.

  Our first weekend drill consisted of physical fitness routines, readiness training, preventive vehicle maintenance, and meetings. Lots and lots of meetings. Currently, we are the only Special Forces Guard unit in the Lone Star State. Most of the company has been together for a couple of years, old soldiers from all over Central Texas. They seemed like a great group of guys. Most of them, like me, did tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Some of them had even served in other countries like Serbia and Kuwait and Albania, to name a few.

  One of my tent-mates, Bob, is a preacher. Never thought I’d meet a gun-wielding, Beret-trained, man of the cloth. Feels like there’s gotta be some internal conflict going on there. Not to mention, I heard he’s a zombie enthusiast. One day I’ll have to ask him about that one. He’s a nice enough guy, though, and smart, too. His brother, Gary, is a maître d at Jeffrey’s, one of the finest restaurants in Austin. When I confessed my plans to propose, he gave me Gary’s number, making me promise to call, assuring me that his brother would take good care of me.

  When I hesitated a bit too long before taking the business card, Bob seemed to sense my nervousness. I explained that we’d been engaged once before and the circumstances under which it was canceled. And that my family now wanted her to sign a prenup.

  “You’ve got to be friggin’ kidding me!” he exclaimed.

  I narrowed my eyes. “You sure you’re a real preacher?”

  “Non-denominational, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Not sure,” I chuckled.

  “So, I guess you forgave her,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I did.” Then I told him the tale of getting stranded on a mountain top in Afghanistan and how a raven-haired American nurse, who was also a missionary, saved my life and taught me about forgiveness. When I finished with my tale, the whole sordid tale, he merely stared at me, stupefied. As though I were making it up. “Really,” I assured him.

  “Holy cow,” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “That’s a helluva story. What an amazing witness—serving the Lord in the remotest corners of the world. I’ll have to write that into one of my sermons.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. Knowing her story could encourage others, I added, “Mary Beth would like that.”

  “So, do you have a picture?”

  I reached into my rucksack, pulled out my wallet, slid the photo from one of the compartments, and handed it to him.

  “I thought you said she had dark hair.”

  “This is Emily.”

  “Now, which one is Emily? I’m confused.”

  “My girlfriend.”

  “That many women in my life, I’d be confused, too.”

  I scowled at him playfully.

  He glanced at the photo again. “Nice,” he winked.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re a preacher?”

  “Yes, sir. Ordained and everything,” he smiled. “But I’m also a man, and I can appreciate beauty when I see it.” He handed me back my picture. “So, whatever happened to the missionary?”

  I stared at the wall of our drab tent. “She stayed there, I guess. She and her husband.”

  “Hmm,” he hummed.

  When I looked up at him, he tilted his head.

  “She stayed there, and you got the old girlfriend.”

  Feeling a little uncomfortable, I stood and slid the worn picture back into my wallet. “That’s the way it worked out.”

  “Mm-hmm,” he murmured. “Do you love her?”

  I hesitated. “Yeah.” I sighed. “I mean, I did. I asked her to marry me.”

  “I meant—”

  “That was before we knew her husband was still alive,” I added.

  “I can see how that would complicate things.”

  “Tell me about it,” I scoffed, then stood upright. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like it sounded. Of course, I would have rescued him. It was the right thing to do and—”

  “Eddie!” he interjected.

  I realized I’d been rambling.

  “I was talking about Emily. Do you love her?”

  I stopped, suddenly embarrassed. I didn’t know quite what to say at that point, so I didn’t say anything. An uncomfortable moment passed as I sat across from the preacher. “Of course, I love Emily,” I said, almost in defense. “I’ve always loved Emily. Finding each other again was… was meant to be.”

  “You don’t have to sell me on the idea,” Bob insisted, as he lay back onto his bunk. “I don’t believe you would marry her if you didn’t love her. You don’t seem like that kind of guy.” He sighed. “Because marrying someone for the wrong reason almost always ends badly. And I know you would never want that. For you, nor for Emily.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I know, when the time is right, you’ll ask the woman you love to spend the rest of her life with you.”

  I stared at the green tent wall again.

  “Right,” I sighed. Absolutely right.

  Chapter 8

  Leo wiped down his counter, and then as if on cue, a familiar voice spoke.

  “Whiskey.” Arnold slapped a twenty on the bar.

  Leo looked up suddenly. Sensing the bartender’s hesitation, Arnold lifted his shirt and turned full circle.

  Satisfied that Arnold wasn’t armed, Leo exhaled as he reached for a shot glass. “That’s not usually your poison.”

  “Needing something a little harder today.”

  Leo contemplated before pouring the drink. It had been weeks since the incident. “You know I should just make you leave,” he said more than a little miffed.

  Arnold sat on the barstool. “I know. I’m really sorry about that day,” he offered, seemingly sincere. “I feel awful about how I acted. I wasn’t myself.” Arnold reached behind his back, to which Leo immediately tensed. The man took his wallet from his pocket and held it up to show Leo it wasn’t dangerous. Then he removed ten one-hundred-dollar bills from it and placed them on the counter between him and the barkeep. “For the damages,” he offered. When Leo didn’t take it, he took out two more bills before sliding the cash closer to the bartender. “I really am sorry,” he insisted.

  Leo thought about it for a moment, then picked up a bottle and poured Arnold a shot of Texas Single Malt. Arnold held up the glass, tossed the amber beverage into his throat, gasped, and then set it on the bar and tapped. Leo poured another.

  Arnold raised his glass to his bartender as the man nervously wiped down the clean counter.

  “That’s good to hear, Arnie, because I’ll be honest with you, last time you were here, you scared the hell out of me. And everyone else in the place.”

  “Yeah,” he replied uncomfortably, then looked up at the flag, refolded and in a new shadow box. His smile faded as he turned back to Leo. “You know, if there was one thing I could take back,” he pointed at the flag with his glass in hand. “That’d be it.”

  Leo sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, well. It’s done.” He couldn’t believe he was giving this guy a pass, but when the old bartender looked into Arnold’s eyes, he still saw the pain and the hurt, hidden just behind the veil.

  “Do you have any regrets?” Arnold asked.

  Leo contemplated where this was leading. “A few. I guess. Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Yeah,” Arnold murmured, then looked off into the mirror behind his kindly bartender as though the conversation were over.

  Someone has to make them pay.

  Then just as suddenly, he looked back and continued. “I regret that I wasn’t a better husband. A better father.”

  Leo stopped wiping the counter and leaned on it. “Yeah,” he breathed out. “I guess that’s one we all feel.”

  “Well, you know what?” Arno
ld began. “From this moment on, I vow to not have any more regrets.”

  “That sounds like a good plan,” Leo agreed.

  “And I promise that I’ll make all things right.”

  Leo poured himself and Arnold another round and then tapped his glass to Arnold’s. “To making all things right.”

  Arnold pushed himself away from the bar and exhaled dramatically before offering his hand to the elderly bartender. Leo hesitated only briefly before grasping it and shaking it. “Well, Leo, I want to thank you for not throwing me out.”

  The two men chuckled, as Arnold held firm to Leo’s hand and his gaze. And though Leo wanted to believe that all was right with the soldier, his eyes told a different story. Finally, Arnold released the bartender’s hand.

  “Be seeing you around, I guess,” Leo offered.

  Arnold looked at the man oddly. Then with a tilt of his head and an indescribable grin, he replied, “You can count on it.”

  Chapter 9

  I’m a morning person, so Emily was still sound asleep when I rose at five, the day I was to head off to my third National Guard training weekend. I made a pot of strong coffee and set the timer for seven. Then I ran. I think better when I’m running—gives me time to work things out in my head. Yet, this morning, all I was thinking was, how do I tell Emily about the prenup. It had been on my mind since Tomás’ call a few weeks ago. However, I was planning on proposing. In a few days. There was no more putting off the inevitable. Only now, I was starting to get nervous and uncomfortable about the subject.

  When we were engaged sixteen years ago, the family only owned one restaurant, so it hadn’t been an issue. Who knew they would become a chain of nineteen in two states? Definitely not Tomás. When we had grown to three, a partnership was created to own the businesses collectively. We chose not to franchise them, keeping them in the family. Only that created problems when the number of restaurants grew to more than the number of kids that wanted to run them. That’s where I come in. Having worked in almost every role in the original restaurant until I joined the Army, I had the qualifications needed to run the newest one in Austin, until we had a qualified GM to take the reins, that is.