by Lizzy Ford
“He loved the forest.”
“Yeah, I know.”
We sit in silence.
“Petr and the boys will miss you, if you do not come down.”
“I don’t want to see anyone.” Especially not Captain Mathis. I want to erase him from my life and curl up in his arms simultaneously. I can’t really handle those emotions. I’ve been in deep thought for days and my head remains a disaster area.
“What is this?” Baba leans down to the coffee table to grab a jewelry box I forgot about.
“Nothing.” I reach for it.
“We love secrets.” He chuckles and plays keep away, finally flicking it open with his thumb. “I have not seen one of these in a very long time.”
My face is hot. I take the box and close it.
“Ruptured Duck,” he continues. “Mint condition. You looked hard for it?”
“No. Just … whatever.”
“Who is it for?”
“No one, Baba.”
I bought it the day after I came back with express shipping, wanting to give it to Captain Mathis, so he’d have his lucky charm when he returns to Iraq. I then decided it wasn’t a good idea. He’s not the kind of man I need in my life, and I don’t want him thinking there’s something between us, when there can’t be.
He’s a career military man. I’m a trust fund baby who can’t figure out what to do with her life, but I’m pretty sure it’s not wait around for a deployed boyfriend to come back from Iraq. I will never stop opposing the war and violence, and he will never stop being involved in them.
Even if the war is fought by good men like him and my brothers.
I’ve never been so conflicted in my life.
Fingering the box, I open it and stare at the little gold lapel pin I spent hours hunting down. I still wonder where he got his, since he’s an orphan. Was his charm the last piece of family history he had? He said it mattered to him and had for ten years.
If so, and I give him another one …
It’s way, way too complicated and intimate a gesture for someone I need to forget. I’ve given myself a headache debating what to do about the stupid duck pin.
“Baba, I think I need to go into counseling again,” I murmur, closing the gift that will never leave my room. “This week really … really brought a few things to light.” My voice is trembling.
“I think, this is good.”
My father has a talent for dramatic understatement. The words sound simple, but it’s his way of saying it’s a damn good idea.
“Katya moya has not been happy since she was nine. Always trying to protect her father and brothers to make sure she doesn’t lose them,” he says. “You need to be Kitty-Khav and let go of us all. I promise. We can land on our feet like my kitten can.”
I rest my head on his shoulder, listening to his gruff, soft voice. “I feel so lost without him, Baba,” I whisper.
“We all do, devoshka moya.”
“I don’t know what there is outside of you guys. I’ve never really been interested in what I took in school.”
“You are interested in the camp?”
“Yeah, that was cool.”
“I had thought to create a new charity to help military families and put the camp under it. It will need someone to help manage it. You have always wanted to help people.”
I run my thumb over the seam in the box. It doesn’t slip past me that I can help people like the kids I met this week and Captain Mathis, who was also an orphan. I can help others like me, too, who are hurting from losing a family member. The camp was an incredible idea, and I imagine there are other positive ways to help others that also ease my pain.
“I might like that,” I murmur.
“Petr will help you.”
“I thought he wanted to go back to the military.” I lift my head.
“We talked about it. We think you need us now, devoshka moya. You have taken care of us long enough. Now it is our turn.” My father gazes at me tenderly.
Tears spill down my face. I’m too touched to speak. I know they love me. I’ve never felt broken before, never really thought I needed them as much as they do me. Dealing with Captain Mathis made me confront the reality that I’m not ready to let go of Mikael or accept his death.
“So he will stay for a while, until you are ready to send him back.”
I give a startled laugh that quickly turns into sobs. Baba wraps his arms around me and holds me. I cry into his expensive sweater, and he murmurs to me in Russian.
The time I spent with Sawyer was frustrating, infuriating, crippling. He managed to pry me out of my shell and hold a mirror in front of me, so I could see how damaged I am. Like him, I’m broken by Mikael’s death.
Am I fixable? Is he? Why do I hope we both are and that one day, we can sit down for coffee and have a normal conversation?
I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.
The idea crushes me. I’m too upset to know why exactly.
Chapter Seventeen: Sawyer
AUGUST
IRAQ
She didn’t even say goodbye. The last thing I need to be thinking about in a war zone is Katya Khavalov. Maybe it’s the abrupt manner of her ditching camp or the fact she didn’t come down to see us that Saturday, but I can’t get her out of my mind.
Thinking about her stirs my blood like a triple espresso, even when I’ve spent the past forty-eight hours awake on mission. I don’t know if it’s desire or anger. She has that affect on me and leaves me wired when I need sleep. A month after camp ended, and every conversation we ever had continues to haunt me.
Sweating and tired, I’m the last of the team to enter the isolated, abandoned house we’ve been using as a base of operations in the Iraqi desert for the past two weeks. No one was hurt and we found our target. It was a successful day.
Lowering my ruck to the ground, I glance over at the skinny Ranger who’s in charge of our communications.
“We up?” I ask.
“For an hour.”
“I gotta get my report in.” I crouch at the station where the single laptop connected to the outside world that we always take on a mission is hooked up. Internet is hit or miss. We rely on satellite connections rather than ground lines, and most days, they’re shoddy at best.
Duty always comes first when the mission is over. Reporting to my commander, taking accountability of the team’s health and mental awareness, assessing the condition of our equipment, setting up the duty roster for the night, cleaning my own gear, food and then, if there’s time, sleep. Thank god I type fast, or I’d never have time to sleep.
Hunkering over the laptop, I have the report done and out before the connection goes down. I check on the guys and equipment then take care of my gear. The two-room house has an antiquated bathroom and a main room that serves as our living and sleeping quarters. The guys are cleaning their weapons by lantern light, and I join them, claiming my spot between Riley and Carson.
Taking apart my weapon is second nature. I go through the motions without registering them. The token Air Force spec-ops guy, Ian, is racked out already while the others are either eating MREs or cleaning weapons and gear.
“You’ve been quiet,” Riley says, glancing at me.
“Not him. Everyone,” Carson replies. “The Khavs always had the stories.”
“Yeah, they did.”
It’s odd that five months later, we still can’t go a day without mentioning Mikael.
“You hear from Petr, sir?” Carson asks me.
“Not since we’ve been out here,” I reply.
“Katya?” Riley questions with a small smile.
“No,” I respond emphatically. “Pretty sure I won’t.”
“I kinda liked her,” Carson says. “She made life … interesting.”
I smile, and Riley laughs. He’s too polite to say what Riley or I might: that she was the frustrating combination of an ambush and a puppy rolled into one.
“Will be good to be back tomorrow for
a few days,” Riley says. “I need some real fucking food.”
I agree silently. I finish up, eat what I’m willing to, and lie down to stare at the ceiling. There’s a good chance I won’t sleep more than an hour, and if I do, I’ll dream about the night I woke up with night terrors and Katya was there.
It’s been three weeks, and I can’t stop thinking about her. I’d like to say my thoughts are positive, but a lot of them really aren’t. I swing between thinking she really was a superficial bitch and knowing that I had just begun to scratch the surface of something incredible.
Not that it matters. With Petr out of the picture, the chances of us meeting up again are completely gone. I don’t even have her email address and am pretty sure she’d delete anything I sent her, even if I did.
Why the hell does that make me want to email her even more?
“Sir, you going to Petr’s Christmas party?” Carson asks me.
Then there’s that. The holidays are four months away. Petr already invited us back to Massachusetts. I guess his family gives some sort of insane party over the holidays. Riley even found it on gossip websites as being an exclusive event apparently everyone in New England tries to get an invite to. Celebrities, supermodels, socialites and other people of that caliber attend the three-day event.
I can’t understand that kind of wealth, and I’m not at all impressed by people who are famous for being rich or on TV. It’s one more reason to keep my distance from Katya, a reminder we’re nothing alike. I grew up on the streets of Chicago before joining the Corps. I’m good with my money, more so because I don’t spend shit when I’m deployed. I paid for what little I own, mainly my truck, in cash.
But I’ll never be anything close to what the Khavalov’s are in terms of money, and it’s not like I have family Stateside I visit on leave. Going all the way home for a party seems stupid.
Unless I’d see Katya.
All the more reason to avoid it.
“Probably not,” I reply. “I usually stay behind so you guys can take a break.”
“You going, Riley?” Carson asks.
“Fuck yeah. Supermodels? Petr promised to hook me up with anyone I want.”
“I want to go, too,” Carson says. “Mainly so I can send pics of me with celebrities home to my mom.”
“How’s she doing?” I ask. Carson’s mom has been in the hospital for a year with stage four cancer.
“Still won’t die,” he jokes. He smiles, affection crossing his face. “Too stubborn.”
I return my gaze to the ceiling. The guys are quiet for a few minutes before Riley speaks again.
“I found something the other day when we went back to the village where the Khavs got hurt. Some shitbag in the bazaar was trying to sell it.”
My good humor flees. For all of two seconds, I was able to think of something other than that night. I hear him dig around his ruck.
Sitting up, I wait to see what it is.
He tugs free a set of dog tags, each of which has black rubber around its edges to keep them from jingling.
“Mikael’s,” he supplies and hands them over.
Surprised, I take them. “How the fuck did these make it?” I read the name to confirm. They’re dirty, and the rust color indicates dried blood is what clogs a few imprinted letters.
“I thought you might want them.”
“We should send them to Petr,” I reply, studying the tags.
“Or take them back at Christmas,” Carson adds. “Might be a nice gesture.”
How would Katya react to having them back? I’m not sure at all. Would it infuriate her or would she appreciate it?
I read Mikael’s name over and over on the tags, touched more deeply than I should be by holding them. That something so small can mean so much …
“Great work, Riley,” I say.
He nods, smiling. “Mikael’s still with us.”
“Hey, sir,” the Ranger calls from his corner, where he’s messing with the comms equipment. “Captain Jacobson says we need to move. Someone picked up on our position. She’s saying to head back along our planned route, and she’ll send someone to pick us up.”
“Roger.” I rise instantly. The guys don’t need to be told it’s time to move – quickly. I pull on Mikael’s dog tags and tuck them with mine beneath my shirt.
We pack up and are leaving the covert base within ten minutes, headed stealthily along the route of egress we planned. Alert and wary, we walk the five clicks towards the rendezvous point, where the security detachment she sent is waiting as promised.
An hour later, we’re back at the FOB. It’s a small compound in the middle of nowhere, heavily fortified, but it’s got real beds and decent food.
I’m not surprised to see Harper in the command center when I arrive. I nod as I walk by then go to the barracks area my team usually occupies when we’re in from a mission. After depositing my gear, I return to the center to check in and let my commander know we’re back.
“Good mission?” Harper asks from her spot in front of a computer.
“Always.”
“Your guys all right?”
“Yep.”
I slide into the seat beside her, ignoring the looks of the night shift in the center. I look and smell like I’ve been in the field for two weeks. Harper is used to dealing with us, even if the others manning the intelligence and operations forward operating base tend to regard the secretive spec-ops guys like mythical animals.
“How long you in for this time?” she asks.
“Four days.”
“Any plans while you’re here?”
“None.”
“Your team need anything?”
“Nope.”
“Riley’s right. You’re different, Sawyer. Are you okay?”
I pause, realizing I’ve been responding on autopilot. I get in mission mode sometimes, too focused to pay attention to much else around me. Lately, I’ve felt stuck there, and Petr’s words about me distancing myself too much from others returns to me. If Riley noticed and said something to Harper, it’s got to be obvious to everyone.
Sitting back in the chair, I meet her brown gaze. Captain Jacobson is a gorgeous woman, strong, disciplined and smart.
“Been a long few months,” I reply and draw a deep breath. “Thanks for the tip. I appreciate you watching our backs.”
“It’s my job,” she says with a smile. “You’re welcome.”
I study her. I’m beat and have no clue what else I should be saying to prevent people from assuming something’s wrong.
“If you ever need to talk, let me know.”
Talk? What the fuck … Do they think I’m that bad?
“Yeah, thanks,” I force myself to say.
“If you ever need anything else, let me know that, too. Sometimes it helps.” She smiles. “Not looking for a relationship, just … you know. Stress relief.”
I’m pretty sure she’s not joking. Sex is officially forbidden in the war zone, though it doesn’t stop a lot of people. I understand what she’s saying. I’ve had a few situational flings with women like me who needed the release or companionship after so long away from home.
“Thanks,” I reply. “You all must think I’m pretty bad off.”
“We notice. But it’s not just you. I lost one of the new kids yesterday. Nineteen, walked over an IED dropping off supplies. Spent the day picking up his pieces.” Her gaze grows haunted, and her smile fades. “Makes you realize how quickly everything can end or change or whatever.”
I feel her pain and know there’s nothing I can say to soothe the guilt and fear that comes with seeing someone die before your eyes. I squeeze her hand instead, understanding better where she’s coming from. Sex, or maybe intimacy, has a way of grounding me, reminding me that I’m human when the world feels like it’s about to end. It’s no surprise that it does the same with others.
There would be no complicated emotions with Harper like there would’ve been with Katya, had I slept with her. This
would be physical, purely stress relief and companionship.
“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind,” I respond and face the computer once more.
“Get some rest,” Harper says and stands.
I nod and check my email, ready to shoot off a note to my commander, who is stationed around Baghdad.
There’s an email from Katya in my inbox. I blink and hit refresh. I’ve been tired enough to hallucinate before.
It’s really there.
Leaning forward, my exhaustion slides away, replaced by intense curiosity about hearing from her when I never expected to again. I don’t know why I hesitate to open it, but I do.
Finally clicking, I see her note is short and there’s an attachment.
Hey—
Assignment I did in counseling. Probably not supposed to send it. Figured I had nothing to lose.
KK
I’m not getting a warm fuzzies about this. My gaze lingers on the first sentence. I’m guessing Petr and their father convinced her to go into counseling, and I’m impressed she did it.
My stomach churns when I open her attachment.
To the man who let my brother die.
I find myself pushing away physically from the computer, as if it will put distance between the issue and me. Realizing how ridiculous that is, I force myself to read.
The letter is pure Katya, filled with emotion, passion, honesty and directness. If I thought she was candid at camp, this letter takes it to a whole new level. Anguish, rage, sorrow … all are expressed clearly in such a raw manner that I struggle to close the door on my own reeling feelings. The sense of being stripped to the soul and twisted inside out, the same I experienced standing at Mikael’s funeral, return. It’s stronger this time, crippling, because the emotions aren’t mine alone. They’re hers, too. I don’t want to … I can’t see the depth of the pain I’ve inadvertently caused others. I can’t live with myself if I do, can’t function as a leader the way I need to. The hour or two to sleep I get a night will turn into minutes if I let myself dwell on how much I hurt for others.
I finish the first page before I close the document, blinded by both fury and pain. I’ve written letters like this in counseling, letters that are never meant to be sent but are used as an exercise to express the emotions of the person writing them.
