Before I Fall

by Jessica Scott

  "Like I'll be listening to the radio and a song will come on from one of my deployments and I just...I go back." He grins. "There was this one time we were out in sector and my buddy Cricket was taking a piss. He looks down and he's all ‘oh fuck guys’. He was standing on an IED."

  "Get the fuck out."

  Josh starts laughing at the memory. "No shit. He's standing there with his dick out and we’re all laughing and scared shitless he's all 'you guys, this isn't funny. What the fuck do I do? I don't want to die with my dick out. Not like this anyway'."

  I'm laughing because it's exactly the kind of shit that happens downrange. "Holy hell." I wipe the tears from my cheeks. I tell myself it's from laughing too hard. "So what happened?"

  "We took pictures while the EOD team got him out of there."

  "Oh my God, that's fucking wrong."

  Josh shrugs and refills our glasses. It's going to be a rough fucking night.

  "How do you turn the shit off? When you start thinking about it?"

  Josh taps his fingers on the glass. He's silent for a long moment. I'm not sure exactly how long because time is kind of fuzzy at this point. Everything is numb except the hurt in my chest.

  "I don't. Sometimes, I can distract myself by going for a run or something. Other times, not so much. That's when Uncle Jack comes into play."

  My hands are tight on the glass. "I can't fucking be in a place like this without freaking the fuck out."

  Josh pins me with a knowing look. "We've all got our demons, brother."

  "Mine are winning." I roll my t-shirt up, revealing the torn remnants of my tattoo and the scars that trace over my shoulders. "I have a hell of a time sleeping without meds."

  "You should talk to the doc."

  "I did. They gave me more meds." I toss back my drink. "I went in asking for help getting off the shit and they gave me more shit."

  Josh pours another glass. Clearly my confession of being a goddamned pill junkie isn't groundbreaking news. "Sounds about right."

  "I can't function without the shit."

  "So what's the problem? You're going to one of the top schools in the country and you're doing fine. I fail to see the problem here." He pours another shot.

  At this rate, I'm going to be under the table in about fifteen minutes.

  I stare into the golden whiskey, his question banging around my head like a kettle drum. What is the problem? I'm fucking fine. I mean, I'm mostly okay.

  I can't feel the glass in my hands. I can see my fingers rubbing the cool glass but I can't actually feel the sensation. My brain isn't registering it.

  Everything is a little slow. A little fuzzy.

  "I guess it's not okay if I have to spend the rest of my life doped up just to go to work every day." There's another reason. A more important one. It crashes into me, reminding me of the only good thing I have in my life.

  "Holy fuck. Beth."

  Josh looks at me. "The tutor?"

  I drop my head onto the table, resting it on my forearms. "Fuck me."

  "Dude, what happened?"

  "Beth. She's been taking care of her old man since she was a kid. He's got a small problem with pills."

  "Bigger or smaller than yours?"

  I look up at him. He's a little out of focus. "I don't think it matters, does it? When she figures out I'm a goddamned junkie, she's going to split."

  Josh shakes his head. "One, you're only a junkie if you're blowing dudes for Oxy behind a dumpster."

  I laugh because that's seriously fucking wrong. "Is that the clinical definition?"

  "Last I checked, yes." He pours another glass. "Look, man, sometimes the shit gets to me. I drink if I can't cope. Does that make me an alcoholic?"

  "Technically, yes."

  "Well, fuck 'technically.' I'm the one who needs to get my head around everything that happened downrange. I'm the one who's got to figure out how to get up every day rather than eat a fucking bullet. So fuck 'technically.' Whatever it takes to get through this shit, man. Whatever it takes. If a pill keeps you from sitting in your goddamned bedroom rocking on the floor, then so be it. And fuck these fucking fuckers for judging you for that. They haven't done what we've done. They haven't done a goddamned thing but sit in their safe little ivory towers and watch the goddamned war on fucking TV."

  He ends with a shout. Several rather irritated hipsters look at us, shake their heads, and go back to their drinks.

  "See?” Josh is getting wound up now. “These fucking cowards sit here and drink their fucking drinks. If we were at Bragg, we'd be fucking brawling right now. But oh no. Not these fucking pussies."

  A strong hand claps me on my shoulder. "And I think that's about it, gents. Time to head out."

  The bartender is one of said irritated hipsters, except that he is Josh's size with full-sleeve tattoos on both arms. "Fuck you, man," Josh says.

  "No, fuck you. I paid my dues in Najaf and Sadr City. So this fucking pussy says get the fuck out of my bar."

  Josh's face lights up. "No shit? What unit?"

  And just like that, our night gets extended.

  And all I can think about is how Beth is everything right in my world. But she's a small point of light in the darkness of the war that overshadows everything I do.

  I can't forget the war. I want to. Holy fuck, I want to.

  But I can't.

  And I don't know how to fix what it’s done to me.

  Chapter 29

  Beth

  "Want to get some pancakes?" Abby asks as we pull away from Noah's.

  "It's almost four in the morning."

  "Which means it's the perfect time for pancakes. Especially ones with lots of whipped cream and fruit. I know a great place."

  I sink down into the passenger's seat. I'm drained. Empty. I've tried to come up with a million and one excuses as to why he's got all those pills in the kitchen. But I keep circling back to the one ugly truth I can come up with.

  God, it hurts to even think it.

  "So what happened?" There is sympathy in Abby's voice. Not pity. I know the difference and Abby has never pitied me.

  "Apparently Noah has some issues from the war."

  "What kind of issues?"

  I look over at her. "When did you get glasses?"

  "I need them for long distances. I only wear them in class and driving. Don't change the subject."

  "They're cute."

  "Again with the subject," she says dryly.

  "The kind of issues that need a shitload of pain pills to deal with. Among other things."

  "What did you find a crack pipe or something?"

  I make a sound that's mildly horrified. "No. He's just got a lot of medication."

  "And?"

  "And my dad is strung out on that shit. When he can't get his medication, I buy him alcohol to keep the pain at bay. He's in the hospital right now because they think he had a seizure from it. And I'm supposed to just shrug off the cabinet full of drugs Noah has?"

  Abby shakes her head. "I didn't say any of that." A long silence stretches between us.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper, leaning my head on her shoulder. "It's been a hell of a week."

  "I know. It's okay." She turns into town. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. For all of it. I really hoped Noah would be the real deal."

  I curl my arms around my middle and slouch back into my seat. "Thanks."

  "How's your dad?"

  "They're doing a bunch of tests on him tonight. Admitting him. He tried to leave without being seen." My throat closes off again. "Holy hell, can this day just end?"

  "Why did he want to leave without being seen?"

  "Because he didn't want to pay the bills."

  "Damn."

  "Yeah." I glance over at her. "I think pancakes sound fantastic. Do they come with alcohol?"

  "As a matter of fact, they do. Believe it or not, there's a diner that serves alcohol and amazing pancakes." She smiles. "I didn't think you were much of a drinker."

  "
I'm not, but you know, everyone else around me seems to be getting shitfaced on a regular basis. I'm thinking I should try it."

  "It's fun on the upswing, but damn sure sucks on the downslide. Hangovers are hell on the skin."

  I grin. "I'm sure you've got a cure for them."

  "But of course."

  She pulls up to the diner. It's in the old tobacco district. The high-end restaurants and loft apartments in the old industrial part of town.

  "Who on earth comes up with the idea of pancakes and booze?" I ask as we walk up the sidewalk.

  "Someone who has clearly been in an IHOP at four a.m., but doesn't want the party to end."

  There's a kitsch neon sign in the window. "Aren't there laws about when the alcohol has to stop being served?"

  "Probably."

  "Is this place legal?"

  "I assume so," she says. "Quit worrying, will you? Let's get some breakfast. I should warn you though, that I am now obligated to hate Noah for the rest of your life because all I'm going to hear are the bad parts."

  But I've stopped hearing her.

  Because Noah is sitting at the bar with one of the guys from the Baywater. The bartender is leaning on the bar. Noah isn't really sitting. It's more like he's listing to one side, his head cradled in one hand.

  "You've got to be kidding me," Abby says, looking between me and the men at the bar.

  "What are the odds that we're going to end up in the exact spot that I don't need to be in?"

  Sound fades. He’s the only thing I can see. It hurts my heart just looking at him

  He hasn't seen us. We can leave before there's a fight. We can turn around, and I can go home and start the long, painful process of getting over him.

  I should let him explain. I should give him that chance, right? I mean that's what a better person would do. But I’m not feeling brave or good or strong at the moment. Everything inside me is breaking into a thousand pieces all over again.

  It hurts so much to think about it. I can't do this again. Caring for my dad, loving him, takes everything I've got. I've been killing myself to take care of him. I don't have any room in my heart for another lost puppy.

  "We should go." Abby sounds far away. Like her voice is at the other end of a long tunnel.

  Noah stands up. Sways a little on his feet. Of course he does. His words are heavy and thick, jumbled together. "I'm going to hit the..."

  He sees me. A thousand emotions flash across his face.

  And in that instant, he knows that I know. I see the recognition, the fear.

  The regret that follows quickly, draining the color from his face.

  And I'm such a fucking loser that my first instinct is to go to him. Because he's been there for me this week. I wasn't alone. For once I wasn’t alone and now I am again and part of me hates him for doing this to me.

  But I can't do this. I can't come home and find Noah face down on the floor. I can't manage his medication to make sure he doesn't take too much.

  I can't do it.

  I love him. But I can't.

  Noah

  It's been hours since my last shot. Josh and Eli the bartender have been swapping war stories while I've been chugging down water. I've been ready to go for hours, but I'm not going to leave Josh at the bar even if it is with his new BFF Eli the bartender who was at Najaf.

  I didn't expect to see Beth at the bar. In some part of my brain that’s not completely fucked up, I realize what her being here means. It means she opened the cabinet by the fridge. It means she knows.

  I don't know what to say. I stand there dumb and mute, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I try to speak but nothing comes out.

  Her friend is looking at me like I'm the antichrist. Maybe I am.

  "Is that her?" This from Eli the bartender.

  "Yeah."

  "She looks pissed."

  "Thank you, Captain Obvious. That helps clarify the situation tremendously." Apparently I can talk now, so that's a plus.

  I wonder if I'll be able to unfuck this before she decks me. Because realistically, I deserve it.

  She has every right to be pissed.

  Doesn't she? Fuck, I'm upside down over this girl.

  She turns to follow her friend out of the diner.

  "Beth, wait."

  How original. Jesus, my inner monologue needs cue cards.

  She stops. Holy shit, she actually stops. "I can’t do this with you," she says, quietly. She won't look at me, won't meet my eyes.

  "I've been trying to come up with a good explanation," I say. It sounds lame even to my ears.

  "A good explanation for what, Noah?"

  My mouth moves, but the sound is stuck again, locked in the back of my throat.

  "You can't even say it." She presses her lips together into a flat line and her eyes fill once more. She looks ragged and raw from crying. "I fell for you. I fell hard. And before I fell, I thought, this is too good to be true. Turns out I was right. It is."

  "It's not like that. It doesn't have to be." More hapless pathetic words have never been spoken. I’ll beg if I have to. I have to explain this. I have to fix it. Everything that is right and good in my world is slipping through my fingers, leaving me alone and empty. Just like before.

  "Like what, Noah? Are you going to tell me that you've got everything under control? That you don't ever take too much or run out too soon?"

  Shame burns over my skin. "No. I wasn't going to tell you any of that," I whisper. "I was going to tell you I'm sorry."

  That catches her off guard. She hesitates. Her mouth opens, then closes again. "Me too, Noah." She reaches up and cups my cheek in a gesture I have done a hundred times to her. Her hand is warm and soft. I want to capture her and hold her there. To beg her to let me explain. To tell her about the fire and the pain and the fucking memorial ceremonies that destroyed a part of my soul.

  Instead, she whispers, "Me too."

  And I have to let her go. Because I'm a lying selfish bastard, but even half-cocked I recognize the end when I see it.

  There's no getting her back from this. I've broken the fragile thing that had been growing between us. I did this because I didn't tell her about the fire or the nightmares or the fear of the dark places.

  I've lost her.

  I've lost everything.

  Again.

  Chapter 30

  Beth

  "Ms. Lamont, did you hear the question?"

  I look up at Professor Earl. "Sorry, could you repeat the question?"

  I am acutely aware of Noah's absence in the back of the class. I can feel the empty space where he used to sit like it’s a palpable thing, even with Josh still there. It's been a week, and I haven't seen him. He hasn't been in class. He hasn't set up any tutoring appointments. Not that I expected him to. I wanted to text him. To call. Just to make sure he’s okay. I want to ask Josh, but every time I even think about approaching him, I chicken out because he looks so angry. Josh is Noah's Abby, I think. And I am a coward because I can’t face his anger.

  It’s the absolute silence that worries me. And I hate myself for worrying but that’s what I do. I'm the damn fool for continually picking up strays in my life.

  "I asked what responsibility does the organization have to its employees? Does the business owner have an obligation beyond the exchange of a paycheck?"

  I look down at my notes. I've got nothing. The last hour of class is a blur. Hell, the last week is fuzzy. I'm grasping at thin air, trying to pull something out of my ass on the spot. I pick the closest thing I can. The thing that burns on a personal level of hell. "I think organizations do have an obligation. Consider the military. They send soldiers to war, right? And when they leave the service, if they're fine, they get nothing. But what if something develops later? What do soldiers get? And what if something happened while they were in?" What if they're burned in a fire when a building collapses on them? But I don't say that. "What obligation does the military have to provide access to medical care
if they've created problems that will require lifelong treatment?"

  Parker chimes in. She’s wedded to utilitarian ideals and has never considered that there is something more out there than numbers. I don't hate her most days. She's perky and blond and every jock’s wet dream. She's not a complete idiot, but she's definitely here looking for her MRS degree. Which is fine, I suppose if that's the life you're from. I don't have that luxury.

  "People in the military volunteered. No one held a gun to their heads and made them sign up. The military doesn't owe them a lifetime of treatment just because they may or may not have gotten hurt. How many bogus PTSD claims are out there right now? They cost the taxpayers billions because it's easy money."

  I'm usually pretty even-tempered. Even when someone says something that really gets under my skin, like Parker's comment just did.

  My voice is even. Barely. "They volunteer to serve so that people like you can go to college and live your life and not have to worry about things like the welfare of our country.” I can’t keep the emotion from bleeding into my words. “They don't volunteer to be broken for the rest of their lives because they can't get access to medical care for issues that the military caused."

  "Then maybe they should have gone to college instead of joining the army," Parker says mildly. There is a smug self-assurance on her pretty features that is a serrated blade on my last nerve.

  "You do realize that the military is more educated than most of the American public, right?" It's taking everything I've got to keep my temper under control. I can feel Josh watching me. I wonder why he hasn't chimed in yet. This is as much his fight as it is mine. Probably more so.

  "Sure. The bottom line is that these aren't America's best and brightest. We're talking about people who should have gone to college and didn't and now they want us to pick up the tab for the rest of their lives for their choices."

  It's amazing how blasé she sounds. Not bitter. Not spiteful. Just like she's stating a fact about the weather. I suppose it’s easy when it’s a numbers game, which it is to someone like Parker. It’s not so easy when it’s about someone you love.