by James, Ella
I’m in the rear—it’s only fair, since I fucked up this gig—so when one fucker rises from the dead to spray the field with bullets, my brother Operators have already made it to the bird.
I hit the ground, waiting for Breck, who’s on a drop rope, to cover me. That’s how I get hit in the back. The bullet gets me in the liver.
I’m stabilized at base and flown to Landstuhl Hospital in Germany.
I don’t remember much, but according to Breck later, I ask about my brothers every time my eyes are open.
In the Landstuhl ICU twelve hours later, I wake for the first time after surgery.
“My brother. Which one?”
Breck’s eyes go red and wet, and through the veil of sedatives, I feel something sharp.
He tells me Lyon died the eighteenth. Unexpected. All the chemo they gave him fucked his heart up.
Breck lifts my IV-laden arm and wraps his hand around it. He leans down and puts his forehead on the mattress, still holding my arm.
Lying there in Landstuhl, watching my best friend’s bowed head with blurry eyes, I remember why I failed to get to Breck before he left to give the okay to Bluebell.
I was thinking of my brothers.
The mission went wrong because the call that came summoning us back to base—triggered by the call that informed the base my brother died—got me distracted, worrying about my brother. Worrying about my brother got me shot.
Breck tells me the funeral is the twenty-first. Being shot keeps me from getting there in time.
I try to wrap my head around the fucked up circularity of fate.
I tell no one—certainly not Breck, who brings me fast food and spends hours laughing his ass off as I play Assassins’ Creed doped up on opiates—but for the first time in my life, I use pain like a salve.
Action and consequence. Isn’t that life?
I should have fought harder to get back stateside. I should have seen Ly. I should be there now with Kelly.
I embrace the gunshot as my punishment.
When, a week later, I’m discharged back to Afghanistan because our guys are getting their asses handed to them by the angry Taliban, I fight like I never have before. For Lyon. For me.
Blood drips down the backdrop of my dreams.
Chapter Five
Barrett
November 5, 2015
It’s not hard to tell myself this is the best thing for her.
I’m still waiting on the house to close. Mallorie the realtor says she thinks it’ll be next week. Next week, I’ll be glad I did the right thing. Actually, I’ll probably still feel guilty. But at least I won’t have fucked things up worse than I did already.
Gwenna last touched me on Monday.
Tuesday, I call in a favor and have Bluebell’s phone tracked to a little highway in bumfuck Illinois. I get a chuckle when, that night, he spends three hours in a country music bar, then drives his luxury rental car to a nearby roach motel, where he stays for four hours before driving to the next Hampton Inn: the only place stateside where fucking Blue will lay his carefully gelled head.
I wonder when he’ll be off leave. I could find out if I answered Dove’s calls—but I don’t.
Dove and his fucking writer wife.
I spend Wednesday burning all the Polaroids I have of Gwenna in the bedroom fireplace. I keep one in which she’s sparring on the foothill behind her house. Most of the days I’ve been here, that’s the way I spent my time: watching her practice her Taekwondo.
She looks pissed off in the shot. She’s got her arms out and her hands balled into fists. Her hair is swept up in a ponytail, but much of it has come loose and hangs in her face. In the image, her left ankle looks uncomfortable and stiff. I remember in the moment after I took the picture, she said “shit-fuck” a bunch of times and kicked a stump.
I watch the other pictures burn, and tell myself she won’t always have so many shit-fuck moments. I have plans to ease her pain.
In the light of morning—I still watch her lights come on: the bedroom first, study, then den—I can sometimes tell myself I didn’t really hurt her. I don’t even know her. Or maybe I do know her, but it never was reciprocal. So how much could it really hurt—our two trysts that one night?
I focus on the fact that she felt comfortable with me. Didn’t she say that? I was her first since what happened. First to what, a small voice mocks. I look down and find myself hard. Always hard now. Never satisfied.
In the wee hours, I’m honest about Gwenna to the point of pain. I know that she will hate me. In that first moment, especially, she’ll feel betrayed and maybe even used. She’ll never understand. Of course not. I will always be the end of all things good. The grim reaper. I will always be a thief, and she my victim.
I put a coaster over the photo I saved. Looking at it makes me feel like sucking on the barrel of my .38.
Thursday sometime after midnight, I slip into sleep and wake up screaming with an aching boner. My battered mind is full of Gwen and Breck and diapered children bleeding on the dry Iraqi dirt, their mothers wailing as our convoy rolls by. When I wipe my eyes and look outside from where I’m sitting in the armchair, I find it’s snowing.
Snow here is a rarity. I can’t help but see it as a sign.
Gwenna’s bedroom light comes on at 4 a.m. I watch her windows through my scope, unmoving until 6, when she lights up her study, then the den.
I take a shower. As I trim my beard, my mind drifts off the road and tumbles down to what will happen after. After. After.
Dove calls a short time later. He, too, wants to know.
With a towel tucked around my waist, I check my phone and find Blue cutting down toward Kentucky. So he’s coming my way. Why would I think any different? Dove told him what was up and Blue will spend his leave time checking up on me, going back to wherever the fuck they are now—North Korea?—with his pretty reassurances. With the illusion of control.
I tell myself there’s nothing to do for now besides watch Gwen. When, at lunch time, I give in and jack off to the memory of her hands, I feel almost ill after.
When, in the late afternoon, she treks up the sleet-wet foothill toward the clearing, I feel stricken. The past two nights, she sparred beside her porch a little before 6—waiting for me.
I take my Polaroid and my scope and hurry after her. I tell myself I need to see her face clearly. That’s all. I find my old spot on the high ground easily. It’s even easier to see her than it was when I arrived in Tennessee; many of the trees are bare now.
I think she looks okay at first. Her forms are strong and forceful, and her face is clenched and angry.
Good.
I can breathe while I watch her. I can almost smell her. Then she folds her body from a kick into a crouch. She brings her hands up to her face and sits down on the slushy ground. She holds her head and sobs.
I watch the whole time.
* * *
Gwenna
Thursday night, I go to dinner with Jamie and Niccolo, who’s flown to Knoxville for two days to meet with a new movie financier.
Jamie doesn’t know what happened between Barrett and I, but she knows something did, because I’ve been in hiding. The thing about being in hiding is, when she asks what’s up, I always tell her nothing.
I’m not sure what she expects from dinner, but as we both listen to Niccolo talk about the movie’s budget and I pick at my crab bisque, I get the sense that she’s annoyed.
As we drive from the restaurant, in downtown Gatlinburg, and toward my land, I feel guilty. They drove here to take me out to dinner, and I was lousy company.
Near the road to my house, Niccolo gets out to pump some gas and Jamie turns around in the driver’s seat.
“You better tell me what happened with Barrett.”
My eyes widen; dammit! I un-widen them, but it’s too late. It was too late before she even mentioned Barrett. Jamie always knows.
I look down at my boots. “Nothing.”
She laughs. �
��I think you like these theatrics.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, duh.” I give her my old sad-mysterious look from my modeling days and remain mum, then as Niccolo opens his door, I say, “We messed around. He didn’t like it.”
Jamie’s eyes bug out. “You better call me,” she mouths as Niccolo buckles.
When they drop me at my house, I invite them in for wine or absinthe, but they decline, in almost perfect unison. It seems as if they planned it, and although I know they didn’t, I go inside feeling rejected.
I’ve tried so hard to keep my head above water since that night. So hard. And I’ve…well, I wouldn’t say succeeded exactly. But I haven’t called any of my people crying. Day-to-day life has proceeded mostly as usual, with the exception of the sob-fest I had the night he left and another meltdown while I was practicing my Taekwondo and HTH alone up in the clearing.
I set my purse down on the couch and drift into my bedroom. I kick my boots off and walk into the bathroom, where I turn on the light and stand there staring at myself.
He isn’t wrong. I am still pretty. From the right side. If I’m not smiling. Maybe pretty isn’t even right. I’m very striking. It’s impossible not to know this when you’ve made a living—even briefly—off your face. My hair is coppery, a little darker than your average red. It’s fine but heavy, with a wave that can be straightened or gelled into looking curly. Like Barrett, I think with an ache, I have nice, high cheekbones; striking eyes—amber-brown, with brown brows rather than the pale ones some redheads have; a nondescript nose; smooth skin; and fuller-than-average lips.
I smile and watch the pleasant face in front of me twist garishly. Snarile: it’s snarl and smile. Because when I smile and the left side of my mouth hangs down while the right side curves, it looks like a snarl. It looks gross and garish. Beauty lies in a certain type of symmetry. I of all people would know.
I shut my eyes and rub my temples, feeling like a freak. “Why do you even do this?” I hiss into the silence of the small room. “Who even cares about your stupid face?”
But maybe Barrett cares. Maybe that’s the problem. He said he didn’t mind my mouth, and I concede, as I stare into my own sad eyes, that maybe he doesn’t—care about my mouth. But right before he left, wasn’t I telling him how long it’s been for me?
Maybe he didn’t want the responsibility.
Maybe when I jacked him off, he realized it didn’t feel right. Maybe he’d been lonely and started lusting after me and the second he indulged, the attraction went kaput.
I sigh and drag my sad self to the kitchen, where I drink a third of a bottle of Pinot Grigio alone at my table and remember: his jacket is in the dryer. I’m usually not an emotional drinker, but holding the jacket in my arms makes me feel even sadder than before. I spread the jacket over my legs and pour myself another big glass. I just want to drink until I’m sleepy. Then I’ll go crawl into bed. Maybe I won’t have dreams tonight.
I’ve always been a sucker for a really bad idea, so after a few more swigs straight from the bottle, I know what I’m going to do.
I get another bottle from the pantry—this one Pinot Noir—and don his jacket—why not?—then slip into my dark brown Uggs and start off through the woods.
It’s cold as hell, which makes my head feel slightly cloudy. I trip on a stump and snag his jacket on a limb.
“Shit!”
But I don’t see a tear.
As I drift through the trees, my heavy feet feeling detached from the part of me that’s floating, I note how big his jacket is on me and feel the ghost of snow falling around me.
“Oh my God, you’re Jessica from End of Day!” I nod and set my items on the Breckenridge General Store’s counter. The cashier, a young girl, turns around, cupping her mouth before she bellows, “Come here, Silas! Jessica from End of Day is here, and she’s buying one of your dad’s gardenias!”
A high school guy plods up. He’s tall, with white-blond Justin Bieber hair. He sticks his thin hands in his pockets, cool and poker-faced, while the short blonde cuts her eyes at him. When he doesn’t fall down at my feet, she widens her eyes at him. “Can you believe it?”
Never meeting my eyes, he gives her a sideways smile and murmurs, “No.”
It doesn’t take an idiot to see this boy has my Abercrombie pool party stuff, or my Burberry nothing-under-the-jacket campaign bookmarked in his spank bank. Which means it’s time to change the subject before we all end up embarrassed.
“Your dad grows the gardenias you guys sell?” I ask him, hoping to put everyone at ease, as well as steer the subject away from the movie. I’m a singer, not an actress—although I am proud of the movie.
The guy nods and finally, he looks into my eyes.
“It’s a kind of insanity,” he says, revealing a retainer than makes his voice sound—well, like he’s got something in his mouth. “They won’t survive for long in someone’s yard. So they’re just house plants.”
I hover a fingertip over one of the satiny white leaves, mostly so I can break the stare he’s now aiming at me. “It’s probably insanity to buy one when it’s snowing this hard. I’m not even staying at my own house.” I smile at them before I realize my publicist would smack my mouth for giving details.
“Jessica,” the girl squeals, jumping up and down.
I tug Mr. Madison’s big black jacket down around my ankles before reaching in his huge pocket to grab my wallet out.
I stumble back a little, my gaze catching on Barrett’s porch light. Whoa…I don’t remember climbing up the stairs. I rub my forehead.
“Stupid Gwenna. No drinking with a TBI, you dumbass,” I murmur.
People who’ve had a brain injury are encouraged not to drink, but I’ve never really heeded those warnings, probably because I don’t usually get drunk. I look down at the wine bottle in my right hand.
I should leave.
I blink a few times at the door, and then, as if by my command, it opens.
Chapter Six
Gwenna
My heart drops straight down to my feet and out my boot soles, and I wobble back a little.
Barrett stands there shirtless in the doorway, looking dazed in rumpled gray sweatpants, like he just rolled out of bed. My eyes wander down his legs before I jerk my gaze up to his face. I blink a few times, just to keep it there.
He blinks back, then frowns, his thick brows pinching. “Gwenna.” He sounds slightly hoarse; perhaps surprised.
I swallow. “Hi.” I laugh—this awful, awkward sound that’s not a laugh at all. I raise my hand but can’t manage to follow-through with an actual wave. I just stick it up like I’m taking an oath. I laugh again, a more authentic laugh that’s laced with panic and self-loathing. “Hey.”
My face is so hot now, I expect to catch on fire at any moment.
Barrett’s brows scrunch further as he peers down at me. “Are you okay, Gwenna?”
I nod, although it makes him tilt a little, back and forth, like the needle of a compass.
“I brought wine,” I whisper, “but…I think I’m going to go.”
The door opens a little more and Barrett steps onto the porch. I feel a dizzying sense of déjà vu. Or maybe I’m just dizzy.
“Why?” He brings a hand up to his eyes, as if the moonlight is too bright.
I cradle the wine closer and frown up at him. Does he think I’m crazy, showing up here unannounced? I blink a few times and notice he looks…weird. Kind of washed out. His cheekbones seem too stark. His dark scruff looks more beardy than normal, and his eyes are wreathed by dark circles.
Worry makes my stomach fizzy. I frown up at him. “Are you sick?”
Instead of answering, he reaches for the wine bottle, and in my buzzed state, I don’t notice that I let him have it until he’s reading the label.
I stuff my hands in my pockets—his jacket pockets—which reminds me why I came here.
“I came to give your jacket back.”
I close my eyes—because really, wh
at the hell was I thinking, coming over here like this?
When I open them, I find him looking at me with his head tilted slightly to one side, his striking features schooled into a kind and understanding look. The one that says whatever’s going on with me, he wants to know about it.
“Why don’t you come in?” he asks after a moment.
He beckons me toward the door, then steps into the house. For a moment, I debate following, but of course I have no choice. I feel like I can’t breathe, but damned if I don’t follow him right in. I step over to the island at the center of the kitchen, where he’s set my wine bottle, and I look from it to his face.
“You should have some.”
“Would you like that?” His eyes cling to mine—so intense I feel almost hypnotized.
I nod, still holding his gaze. I have this distant urge to say more, but my brain and my mouth can’t seem to sync up.
Barrett arches his brows in answer, then turns to get two wine glasses out of a cabinet. He sets them by the wine bottle, then turns his back to me again.
I’m aware, as I watch the gorgeous ripple of his back and shoulder muscles, that even though I can’t seem to resist his presence, I can still have options. I was once an actress, after all. So I can play this straight, and act the way I feel, and let him see me—the real me, with all my soft spots. Or I can build a wall and let him see me climb behind it—an option I realize isn’t good because it would show how much I care.
And I do care, I realize as he walks around the island, opening and closing various drawers. Being in his presence means looking to him, and then away, and back to him, and then away again; every time my eyes land on him anew, my poor heart bursts like a Roman Candle. The feeling is intense. Proprietary. And so, so, so misplaced.
