by Mila Ferrera
“No, you missed the eruption because you had to take me to the bathroom,” I remind him. And even as a five-year-old, I could tell he was disappointed. I had started to cry, and he scooped me into his arms and swung me around, and then we pretended like we were geysers the rest of the day, filling our mouths with water and spitting them at the campfire and at trees. Mom thought it was gross, especially when I had a little too much fun spewing water on the tent, but Dad and I couldn’t stop laughing. “I told you I wanted to be a geyser when I grew up.”
He laughs. “Best little girl in the world.”
“Only because I had the best dad,” I murmur.
At ten, I help him take his meds, brush his teeth, and get his pajamas on. He doesn’t seem to mind that his grown daughter is helping him pull up his pants, and at least tonight, he knows it’s me. It always feels like a needle in my heart when he calls me by my mom’s name—it jabs at an already tender spot.
She lives in Kalamazoo now. It’s not that far away. But I haven’t seen her since Christmas. She left a voicemail last week, but I haven’t called her back.
As I tuck Dad into his bed, he says, “I have to … set my alarm. I should go in early tomorrow.”
“I’ve already done it for you.”
He looks up at me. His eyes are red-rimmed, but the blue-green of his irises is still bright as always. Then he grabs for my hand. “Check the windows.”
A little part of me shrivels. “I definitely will.”
“He might come in the back.”
“I’ll make sure it’s locked.”
“You know where the gun is?”
Yep. I sold it four years ago because hell no, we were not going to keep his gun in the house, locked up or not. His memory for the past—including for things like the combination to the gun safe—can be eerily accurate. “It’s in a secure place, and I know how to get it if we need it.”
This seems to relax him a little, and he’s willing to let me turn out the light. I head back to the living room, unsettled. The paranoia has been more recent, too, and I plan to talk to his doctor about it at the next big appointment, which is at the end of October. He has a GP here in town, but once quarterly, we drive all the way out to the Alzheimer’s research center in Ann Arbor. It’s an exhausting day for more reasons than one, and I dread it.
And now I’m thinking about the reason for that dread, pacing, rubbing my arms, and knowing I’m not going to get to sleep until I find a way to dispel it. I fetch my sketchbook and doodle a few ideas for my next series of projects, thinking of fall colors and irregular, knotty designs. I review my notes on various runny glaze recipes and mixtures, then plan my time for the rest of the week. I’ve got pieces at every stage: stuff I need to throw, leather hard pieces that need to be stamped and etched, bone dry greenware ready to be fired to bisqueware, and bisqueware ready to be waxed and dipped. To get all my orders done along with the collections Yelena wants, I have to keep myself on task, so I block out my schedule while I wait to hear the snores that tell me that Dad’s down for the night. His insomnia was rough, but at the last appointment, his doctor prescribed something that’s helped him sleep through the night again, and it’s made my life so much easier.
I creep upstairs and change into my running gear. I know it might seem crazy for a lone woman to go out jogging after eleven, but the roads are near-empty this time of night, and the lakeshore is so close. It’s calling my name. I can’t be gone long, but thirty minutes of hard exercise should be enough to settle me down.
After locking the door behind me, I set out, running up the street until I reach the road that winds along the shore. I don’t have my earbuds in tonight because the sound of the waves is exactly what I need. I pass some of the big lakeside mansions owned by people who I hope frequent Yelena’s boutique, and then I reach the state park, where big dunes block my view of the water. This late, I usually don’t see a soul; the park closes at ten, I think, and that’s another advantage to running at this time of night.
As I jog next to the parking lot of the last beach on the road, though, I see that one car is parked there, a silver sedan. Normally that would make me run faster, but something is off. The car isn’t running and the headlights are dark, but the interior lights are on, and there’s a guy in there behind the wheel. I can see his silhouette as I draw within a hundred yards, and his form takes shape with every stride.
His head is back against the headrest, and he’s not moving. Is he sleeping? Getting a blowjob? I squint in the darkness and slow my steps. He’s blond. Young. Looks unconscious. And—
“Oh my God,” I whisper as I head straight for the car.
It’s Nate.
Confusion whirling in my brain, I make it to the passenger side and peer into the car. What I see inside freaks me out even more.
There’s a handgun on the passenger seat.
I race around to the driver’s side with my heart in my throat, tears burning in my eyes. I can’t believe this. I can’t do this. It’s too much. It’s too close. If he’s dead, I’m going to kill him.
I grab the handle and pull, and thank God, it’s unlocked. And as I lean in, he moans, and his eyelids flutter. I take his face in my hands, tilting it left and right, looking for a bullet wound. Nothing. Then he lets out a breath that’s at least a hundred proof.
“You idiot,” I mutter as I reach between his legs and retrieve a bottle of cheap bourbon, half empty.
“Sorry,” he sighs. “I had to. Sorry.”
“Yeah, you should be,” I mutter, even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know I’m here; he’s so out of it. Something I’m going to take full advantage of. I reach over and grab the handgun—it’s a SIG, and it looks a lot like the one the U.S. Army issues as a sidearm. I roll my eyes as I lay my finger along the barrel and take a good look at the weapon.
I’m not at all fond of guns, but I’ve been handling them since I was a teenager, first with my dad and then with Ryan a few times. I carefully heft the thing in my right hand and thumb the release, catching the magazine in my left. I shove that part into my waistband before returning my attention to the weapon. I pull the slide all the way back to release the chambered bullet. It pops out and twirls to the asphalt, pinging away beneath the car.
After inspecting the chamber to make sure the damn thing is empty, I pop the trunk and set the gun inside. It’s only after I close the trunk that I start to shake. I brace myself with my palms on the cool metal and stare through the rear windshield at Nate’s shoulders rising slightly with each breath he takes. A mixture of frustration, worry, and intense relief saturates my thoughts.
I can’t leave him here. He could either wake up before he’s sober and drive away to wrap his car around a tree or run over an innocent jogger like me, or he could find another way to off himself like he’s so obviously considering—like drowning himself in the lake, which is only steps away.
I could call the police, but that’s only going to lead to trouble for him. At best, a night in the drunk tank; at worst, charges for public drunkenness and improper handling of a firearm.
Or I could call Daniel—I might have his number in my phone—but the way Nate looked at him yesterday as Daniel teased him about civilian life … Somehow I think Nate might need a little space from that. Daniel seems like a good guy, but I don’t know him well enough to predict how he’d handle this.
I approach the driver’s side again and lightly smack Nate’s cheek, my fingers scratching against a few days’ worth of gold-blond stubble. “Hey. Hey. Nate. Wake up.”
His eyelids flutter again. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles. “Right away, sir.”
I almost laugh, even though this situation is so unfunny that I should be crying. “Nate. It’s Sasha.”
“Sasha.” My name is a sad, ethanol-laced sigh on his lips.
“I need you to get out of the car. Can you do that?” I grab his hand and give his arm a tug.
“I forgot it. In the mess hall …” He slumps aga
inst me as I pull his legs and turn his body so his feet are on the ground. He’s lean but heavy, his corded muscles gone loose with alcohol.
“Come on, baby, I need your help,” I say. “Stand up with me.”
His eyes open, and he blinks in obvious confusion. His body goes tense as I try to get him to stand up. For a moment, his blue eyes focus on me. “But you said no.”
Oh, jeez. “Nate, stand up.”
“I did PT already today,” he says, slurring the words.
“Just do what I say, okay? Aren’t you good at following orders?”
He’s looking around now, like he’s trying to get his bearings. Then, like he’s been hit with a bolt of awareness, he twists around and looks at the passenger side, his hand flopping over to slide against the seat.
“I took it,” I say calmly. “Now either climb into that seat yourself or help me get you there.”
Looking totally disoriented, he lets me pull him up and leans on me as I lead him around the car. He staggers as I open the door and half-falls into the seat. I buckle him in before returning to the driver’s seat. I set the bourbon on the asphalt and close the car door. The keys are in the ignition, and I twist them to start the car. I scoot the seat up and adjust the mirrors, and we’re off.
Nate is quiet during the short drive back to my house. When I pull into the drive, I say, “We’re going inside now. I need you to be quiet. Can you do that?”
“Yup.” He pokes at his forehead and frowns. “Shit. Lost my night vision goggles.”
“These aren’t night ops, honey. We’re just going inside.”
“Where are we?”
“My house.”
His angular face is a mask of bafflement. “You live in Elkhart?”
I groan and get out, then head around and open his door. He blinks up at me.
“Just get out of the car, okay?”
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” he says. “This is—” He shakes his head. “I’m late. They all hate me now.” A hard shiver runs through his body. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
I want to slap him. I want to scream at him. I can’t go through this again, I almost shout.
But then I remind myself that this situation is different. Nate is practically a stranger. I don’t care about him. But as I put my arm around his waist and lead him up the walk, I feel an unwelcome, unbidden protectiveness. I remember the sweet smile on his face when we talked outside the co-op, and his solemn look as he promised to keep what happened between us to himself. The pang of hurt he couldn’t hide when I shut him down, and the stab of regret and longing I felt as I did it.
Whatever he’s going through now, I feel a weird desire to help him get through it.
When we reach the front door, I give him a stern look. “Quiet, okay?”
He nods, and I unlock the door and swing it open before leading him in. I wish I could just put him on the couch, but it wouldn’t be good if Dad got up in the night and found him here. It could scare Dad half to death—he’d probably think Nate was a burglar, here to steal his remote. So I carefully help Nate up the stairs to my own room. He doesn’t say a word; he seems to be concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Once we make it, I dump him onto my bed and head back down to lock the door and turn off the porch light.
By the time I reach his side again, he’s fast asleep, his lanky form sprawled over my comforter. I slip off his shoes. Then I sit on the bed and allow myself to really look at him.
He’s beautiful, this troubled, messed-up boy. Before I can stop myself, I lay my hand on his warm cheek. He lets out a soft sigh. “Why?” I whisper. “Why would you do this?”
He doesn’t answer, of course. I doubt he’d tell me even if he were awake. I wonder if his family knows how much he’s struggling now that he’s back. I wonder if they have any idea how close they came to losing him tonight. I catch sight of the tattoo on his inner forearm and turn it to look.
SLP. Never forget. I stroke my fingers over the letters. He’s lost someone. The ink is recent, too. His skin hasn’t fully healed, and I remember the bandage over this spot the night we met. This could be a family member or a girlfriend, but if I had to wager, I’d bet SLP was a friend. Maybe another soldier.
Like so many, Nate came home with a few wounds that no one else can see.
“You can’t leave, Nate,” I tell him, my voice hushed. “Not yet.”
His chest rises as he breathes. His pulse kicks in the hollow of his throat. I lean down and kiss his forehead. I can’t help it. And I don’t understand it. But something in him is pulling at something in me, and right now I’m too tired to fight it. Tomorrow I’ll deal with the fallout. But in this moment, I’m going to let myself have this, without questioning or worries or rules. Just this: my hand on Nate’s cheek, and the sight of him, safe and breathing. Alive.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nate
I lurch awake to the sound of gunfire, bolting upright and wincing at the awful pain in my head. I look around. I’m in my clothes, but my shoes are gone.
I have no fucking idea where I am.
Light streams through the windows. I’m in a room with a closed door. I’m on a bed, on top of the covers, in a bedroom that offers me few clues. A few books stacked on the bedside table, more lined up on the floor beneath the windowsill. A desk, upon which sits a closed laptop.
How the hell did I get here? I close my eyes and sort through the swamp of my thoughts. I was supposed to drive down to Elkhart yesterday, but I only made it as far as the firearms dealer in Stevensville.
That’s where I bought the SIG P320, so familiar in my grip. I glance around me. I pat my pockets, as if I wouldn’t feel it there automatically.
My phone is gone, too—but that I remember. I threw it out the window somewhere on the road back to town. I didn’t think I’d be needing it anymore. But the phone won’t hurt the first random person who finds it. A loaded handgun, on the other hand …
Frustration seeps in beneath my confusion, along with absolute dread. Losing my sidearm? Not something I do, and I need to fucking unfuck myself before I inadvertently fuck someone else over. After my visit to the liquor store and my ride back to my favorite beach and my plan … Desperate, I reach for the bedside table and pull open the drawer, hoping I dropped the gun in there.
I tense when I look inside. Lavender lotion, lip balm, a few pens, a birthday card, and a framed five-by-seven of a guy in his ACU. I pick up the picture and look at it closely, squinting at his patches. Army SPC, just like I was. I put the picture back and pick up the birthday card. It’s a simple one, yellow with daisies entwined around the lettering. I open it, hoping it’ll give me a clue.
A check falls out. Inside the card, it only says, “Love, Mom.” I pick up the check and peer at it.
My stomach drops.
It’s dated March 2nd of this year. It’s for a hundred dollars.
And it’s made out to Sasha Miller.
“Shit,” I whisper. “What did I do?” I put the check back into the card and shove everything back into the drawer. A gun, a bottle of bourbon, and now I’m … am I in her house? Please, no.
I swing my feet to the floor, stepping on my shoes, which have been left there, neatly aligned next to the bed. I get them on my feet and head for the door, fumbling in my pocket for my car key. I don’t have that either. The door opens to a landing, and thank God, there’s a bathroom off to my left. I make use of it, and then slowly descend the stairs, as if I expect a militant to pop out and take a shot.
When I hit the ground floor, my worst fears are confirmed. It’s a cozy living room with a big old couch and a few chairs surrounding a television by the bay window, and Sasha’s on that couch, her black hair spread across an embroidered pillow, a knitted throw pulled over her body. She looks dead asleep. Shadows lie beneath her eyes. She’s so beautiful, but she looks tired. Fragile.
Did I—did we?—I look down at my fully clothed self, and her passed out on the couch. W
hatever happened, either it wasn’t physical or something went really wrong.
If I had my keys, I’d sneak out. I have the feeling I really fucked up this time.
I silently prowl the living room in search of the keys and take a left into what turns out to be the kitchen. And I freeze.
There’s an older man sitting at the table. He’s got a head of thick gray hair, sticking up on one side like he’s just rolled out of bed, and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt and striped pajama pants. He frowns when he sees me. “Are you the guy who stole my remote?”
“No, sir. I’m Nate,” I say, keeping my voice down. Approaching slowly, I offer my hand. “Nate Van Vliet. I’m … a friend of Sasha’s.” Although I’m pretty sure at this point that’s never going to be true. “Nice to meet you.”
“Tom Miller.” His hand tremors as he reaches up to shake mine.
“Are you Sasha’s dad?”
He smiles. “Oh, yes. She’s the best little girl in the world. Wants to be an artist when she grows up.”
Okay, something is very weird here. Tom doesn’t seem shocked that I’m in this house, even though he thought I might be a remote-thief. And he just called his adult daughter a little girl.
Then he says, “Hey. Frank. You serve cornflakes in this joint?”
“It’s Nate, sir.”
“Oh. Right. Frank’s … Frank’s not doing too good these days. Nice of you to help him out.”
I look around the kitchen. “You want some cornflakes?”
“With milk. And coffee, please.”
There’s a coffee pot in the corner, and either he’s already brewed and forgotten it or it was on a timer, because a little red light is on and the pot is full. I open and close a few cabinets and pull out a bowl and a coffee mug. Then I scrounge around until I find a box of cornflakes. There’s milk in the fridge. I open drawers until I find the cutlery and snag a spoon. I grab a paper towel from the roll and fold it into quarters, and then I present everything to Tom at the table. “Do you like milk in your coffee?” I ask him.
