by Lexi Scott
“You okay, kid?” Rocko’s voice is low and worried, but it’s like barbs pressing against my already aching skull. Like he didn’t know what this was going to do to me. Like this wasn’t part of a plan. I don’t even have the strength to glare or scowl, because I’m worn the hell out.
“Yeah. Just…” But I’m not okay. I grip the seat of the chair until my fingernails bear into the cloth and my knuckles turn white and I lock my feet back around the base to keep from tilting off the seat. Because even though my chair is completely still, the room is spinning.
The world is spinning.
And it has been since the day Wakefield died.
Because of me.
And just when I thought things were slowing down, that I wasn’t so miserably dizzy and could maybe stand on my own and start picking up the pieces, Deo buys an incredibly perfect, stupid, screw-up-my-world-completely ring.
“My brother was in the service,” I blurt out. My words hang harsh and blunt in the air for a few breaths.
“That’s what I heard.” Eric doesn’t sound impressed or unimpressed, reverent or flippant, excited or bored. He sounds like he just heard a fact that he understands. I manage to lift my pounding head and make eye contact with him, locking on those clear green eyes that have lost the crinkle from his smile, because his mouth is fixed in a straight, tight line. I expect him to look away, but he doesn’t.
He stares right into me. I want to break his stare and shoot daggers at Rocko with my eyes, but I can’t. Because there’s something in Eric’s eyes that tells me he knows heartache and loss. Maybe even more than I do. And, as painful as it is to see that, I can’t look away. Because for the first time in months, I feel like someone gets it.
“He didn’t make it,” I finally say. The relief that unfurls in me at being able to say those words without having to deal with someone’s misguided pity or discomfort is so freeing, I feel the iron clamps of my migraine loosening. I lose my death-grip on the chair and drop my feet back to the floor, taking slow, deep breaths, then I say the words I still can’t quite believe are true, forever now. “He never came home.”
Rocko stands up and pretends to be busy across the shop. This was a setup. But the fire of my rage has long since died out. I focus on Eric, calmed by his even, quiet presence.
My fingers hover over the still-raw design on his arm, and I swallow hard before I make myself ask, so I can know the truth. So I can stop ignoring any grief other than my own. “So what’s the tattoo mean?”
“It sort of has a double meaning. The first is that, in the military, we do a lot of things that civilians may think are impossible. And we just say, ‘send me.’ Because that’s the job.” Eric’s shrug is an unconcerned tip of his shoulders, a modest, honest statement about what he and people like him do, like it’s nothing particularly heinous or horrifying or amazing.
I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around “the job,” as Eric describes the terrifying, life-on-the-line thing he does as his day-to-day. How can one word describe what he does overseas, in the line of fire, but also describe what I do when I’m here, organizing Rocko’s portfolios or paying his vendors? It shouldn’t be called the same. There should be a different word that separates the two worlds.
But I want to know more. I want him to tell me, because Wakefield can’t, and I need someone to explain it to me from the inside. “And what’s the second?”
He inhales sharply, and his hands fist for a few beats. “I’ve lost brothers, too. Not biological ones, like you, but brothers still. There isn’t a single guy in my squad who wouldn’t lay down his life for one of the others. We’d all say, ‘send me,’ if we had the choice. I’d sink for anyone of those guys.” The clear green of his eyes is sharp and fierce with his determined words. He means every single thing he says, and his conviction shakes me to my core.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
Eric is the kind of man you would wish you had by your side in a war. Eric is the guy who survives, the guy who gets it all on a level some people will never comprehend. I wish he’d been in Wakefield’s unit, because maybe he could have protected my brother or taught him. There was never a guy less cut out for service than my little brother. I try to explain the truth about him that crashes through me, weighted with stinging regret.
“Wakefield, my brother, he wasn’t like that. Around me, because he was comfortable, he was so funny. I’m talking hilarious. But if he didn’t know you? People were always shocked when he finally loosened up. Because until he trusted you, he was so quiet. Shy. He didn’t like to take risks. My brother always made all these graphs and lists before he decided to do anything, ever. And he didn’t even want to be there.”
The honest words slice like razors out of my mouth. They shake and whisper, because I’m too ashamed to give them any more volume.
“He only enlisted because he wanted the cash for school. Because he wanted me to not have to worry and be able to use our parents’ savings. He was really nervous to go at all.”
Eric puts one big tanned hand over mine and pats my hand slowly. He tries to smile, but stops when I give him a look that lets him know he doesn’t have to go easy on me or sugarcoat a single damn thing.
“Maybe. Maybe it started that way. But I promise you, by the time he finished basic and was shipped overseas, he wasn’t the same kid brother you knew. He’d changed, even if you never got to see that side of him. Lots of people are quiet going in. That doesn’t mean they aren’t brave. There’s a saying that ‘courage doesn’t always roar.’ He was there, doing a job for a bigger cause. And I bet when he went down, he was doing something he was proud of. Something that meant something.”
His eyes are locked on mine, and I know he believes what he’s saying with his whole being. I just don’t know if I believe what he’s saying.
“Something worth dying for?” It’s blunt, and awful, but I can’t help it. I need to know. The truth. All of it.
His laugh is short and resigned. He’s not laughing at me, and he’s not laughing because he thinks any of this is funny. I think he’s laughing because I’m asking questions that don’t really have the kind of mystery-solving answers I’m looking for.
The answer to the question I asked is something I’ve always known, because I was lucky enough to know every beautiful, strong, courageous part of my brother. Even the parts that were just waiting to be tapped into. Just waiting for an opportunity to go from potential to absolute.
Eric’s words confirm what my heart and brain realize all at once, and, deep down, have always known.
“We all die, sweetheart. You’ve just got to live your life with enough meaning while you’re still here to make it all worthwhile. I bet your brother knew that, even if he wasn’t ready to go.”
Rocko comes back over, slathers Eric’s arm in the new organic tattoo butter Marigold has concocted and insists we use in the shop now, and winks at me. I breathe in the tangy, almost-minty smell of the balm that will heal those brave words on this smart-as-hell man’s arm, and feel a deep sense of something strange.
Something I last felt with Wakefield, just before he left. We were lying in the backyard, catching fireflies on our fingers.
“Remember doing this as kids? At Nana’s?” he asked, smiling at me through the overlong blades of summer grass growing high and fast behind our house.
“Yep.” I watched as the little bug roamed up and down my finger, tickling my skin with its legs, its bright back flashing with a pure gold light. “I used to wish we could keep them forever. You remember?”
“I remember jars of dead fireflies, if that’s what you’re asking.” His brown eyes, the same shape and color as mine, focused on the bug on my finger. “You’re shit at letting go, you know that?”
I gave his hand a quick squeeze with my free hand. “I’m getting better.” I flicked my fingers, and we watched the bug blink away. “See. I let go.”
“Yeah. But you didn’t want to. You didn’t let it go freely. In your evil he
art, you wanted that lightning bug’s soul.” His grin was goofy. Brotherly. Annoying. Something I didn’t realize I’d never see again after that night.
“But I did let it go,” I argued, pinching his shoulder. “You act like I’m some demented queen stealing the forest creatures’ essence to use in some demented potion.”
“I don’t think you’re truly happy for that little guy. You gotta try to be, though. Try to be happy it gets to be free. Free to live its life. Free to have wild sex with other lightning bugs. Maybe it will be in a lightning bug orgy. Or maybe it will get smashed in someone’s screen door. But that’s life, you know? You gotta let it live, Whit, whatever hand it’s dealt.” The goofy smile faded, and I watched it disappear. But I didn’t savor it the way I should have. I didn’t know.
That night, I’d been thinking he was talking about himself. About the fun he’d never have if he got killed. It chilled me right to my marrow, and I just didn’t let myself think about it. But now, today, after talking to Eric, I think Wake was talking about me. About how I wanted things to go according to some stupid plan. Always. The reason he was going overseas was because I had a plan in my head I just couldn’t deviate from. And I thought I was leaving that plan by coming here when Wakefield died, but I was only adopting a new plan. Just as rigid. Just as self-centered.
He was right. I was always letting go in the shallowest way possible.
All this time I was driving fast and determined to a goal I never had any intention of sinking into. I was racing like a fiend from one thing to the next, skimming over all my feelings because I was too afraid to sink in and commit to anything. Isn’t that exactly what Eric said he’d do for his guys? He said he’d “sink” for any one of them.
Not race. Not swim. Not float.
Sink.
The scariest thing.
To stay in one place. To throw all your weight at something and let go.
I’ve never been good at it. Sinking. Even the word terrifies me.
And, I realize, sinking is the only thing that can possibly free me from my endless attempt to tread water.
“Sonofabitch,” I say, as soon as Eric has hugged us both good-bye and left the shop.
“What?” Rocko doesn’t even bother to pretend to look guilty. “I just thought you might be able to use some perspective.”
“That was a setup,” I accuse, but my words don’t have any malice. I’m just stating the facts.
Rocko’s gaze is soft, hopeful, exhausted. He’s worn out with worry. Over me. I was too busy fighting every single person who attempted to help me to even realize just how much I was wearing out the people I love the most. “No, it really wasn’t. Eric is an old friend. Used to live next door to me until he got shipped off. He’s back in town and wanted to get some ink before he went back to base in some god-awful Southern state. He told me the story behind the tat, and, well, I just thought it might help…”
And it did.
Me spending my life miserable, torturing myself with the guilt that is eating me alive, isn’t going to bring Wake back. No matter what I do, nothing will.
I’m holding on to something, even though I keep telling myself I let it go the day they buried my brother’s empty coffin.
But what I’m doing is selfish. It’s a waste of my life, and it’s a waste of my memories of Wake and the courageous way he lived right up to the part where he didn’t live anymore. I refuse to tread in the shallows of my own grief and guilt. It’s made me so exhausted, I can hardly think straight. It’s time to take a deep breath and sink into the love and goodness that scares the ever-living hell out of me. I have to make my life count for something, or I’ll be treading through this pain like a coward until I drop.
“Rocko, you don’t have another client until noon. You have time for one more?” I know exactly what I want.
Rocko raises his eyebrows, and I plop into his chair.
Chapter Twenty-Two
DEO
“So go find her.” Cohen brings out the Everclear, and he clips two shot glasses on the custom coffee table that used to be some kind of architect’s file cabinet. Whit would love it. I got it for a decent price because I agreed to let the guy who designed it decorate and do a shoot at my place. He took most of the crap back with him, but he let me buy the table for cost, plus he painted the entire interior. Which is cool, though I never really thought I’d be into a fire-engine red living room.
It’s growing on me. Along with home ownership. And business ownership. I’m a fully-minted adult.
Who’s about to throw back a shot from a glass that reads: “Mean People Suck; Nice People Swallow.”
Still, it doesn’t feel like home. Not the right kind of home. The kind where Whit is by my side, coming home to me, in my bed.
Cohen raises one eyebrow at me like he doubts my adulthood, but he offers me a salute with his glass.
“A toast?” He prompts me to lift my glass. “To you, man. For making the most incredible fucking changes to your entire life, but somehow managing to stay the same immature douchebag best friend I’ve known since pre-school. Seriously, I’m proud of everything you’ve done, man.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you. You may be my lamer, less handsome, stupider side-kick, but you’re the wind beneath my damn wings.” We clink glasses and let the fierce liquid burn a straight path from our tracheae to our intestines. “One more, brother.”
I convince him that a trilogy of shots is the only way to seal our good luck fate, so three it is, and then he’s collapsed on my microsuede couch that Teddi, my designer, called “cowardly middle-class blah,” but Mrs. Rodriguez called “easy as hell to clean.” Plus that, Teddi wanted me to think about a couch that had no arms and was a blue so painful to look at, neon wasn’t a bright enough word to describe it. Cohen is snuggling my microsuede armrest and drooling, which is all good, ’cause I got Scotchgard protection, like the responsible adult I now am.
Cohen burps and groans. “Because without you, I’m too boring.”
“Dude, Kensley is going to murder you when she finds out you’re here.” I can’t stand the girl, but I don’t want to get my best bud in trouble.
“Issokay,” he slurs. “She says I need to be…more spontaneous. Same thing you say.”
I hate being compared to his evil girlfriend, so I take this chance to apologize for being a jerk to him.
“Is this because I made fun of you for working in the furniture store. Because that was shitty of me, man. I was living with my grandpa like a slob. I had no idea how the hustle worked, okay? So forget all that crap. I bow down before your years of hard labor.” I rock back and forth in my chair and wish I had some pistachios.
Cohen rolls onto his back and puts one foot on the floor. I’m sorry because I know for a fact his entire world is spinning, and it’s my fault for encouraging him to press his luck with that third shot. His voice is slightly slurred already. “No. No. I’m glad you work now. I am. But you’re still you, and what you do is make life livable. You make life real.”
“Life’s real without my bullshit,” I object, wondering if getting up to make a pot of coffee is jumping the gun. I do take a second to be impressed as hell with myself for having a coffee pot. This is all kinds of responsible of me. On the one hand. On the other, I’m getting stumbling drunk on a random Tuesday night. “Whit knows that. Which is why she ran off. I’m fuck-buddy material as far as she’s concerned.”
Cohen’s moan is long and nauseous-sounding. “Call her.”
I shake my head. “No way. You know the sayings, man. If you love her, let her go. Can’t keep a wild thing in a cage. Freedom is as freedom does.”
“You talk out of your ass so much, I don’t know how you can stand yourself. Quit. Being. A. Pussy. Call her.” Cohen clutches his stomach.
I take the large decorative bowl off the fancy coffee table, spill the wax pears out of it, and hold it out to him. “Puke, man.”
“Can’t make it to the bathroom,” he mutt
ers, eyes closed tight.
“I owe you this. Puke right here.” I hold the bamboo bowl next to him and look the other way.
He takes it in his hands and sits up with a grimace. “You’re my best friend. And I love you. Excuse me while I go to your bathroom and attempt not to puke on those weird hairy rugs you have in there. While I’m gone, call that girl. Call her. You’re in love with her, asshole. Call her.”
Cohen tries to put the bowl back on the table, but misses by a few inches, and it drops to the floor with a loud thwack that leaves a huge crack down the center. He totters down the hall, knocks a black-and-white print of some random door with graffiti on it off the wall and staggers into the bathroom. I’m not adult enough to resist feeling a burst of evil glee when I imagine Teddi’s fury at all his decorations getting broken by a pair of immature punks.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and flip to the last picture I took of Whit, smiling sleepily at me, her head cushioned on her pillow, her dark eyes heavy-lidded and so sexy, it tugs low in my gut.
I’m kind of bummed, because, if it was all going to end with Whit, I wish I’d at least been able to make my case for why she should give me a real chance. I planned to show her all the cool shit I’d done with my life, all the slow, torturous changes I’d made while kicking and screaming like a stubborn little shit-headed toddler.
I expect the liquor to make me crash for the night. But I feel like I only sleep for a few fitful hours. When my eyes crack open, the palest, coolest gray color is just cracking on the horizon. It’s still more night than day, but I’m wide awake. And there’s a message on my phone from Whit.
“Deo. Call me. Now.”
My hand crushes around my phone. She sent the message almost five hours ago. I’m out of bed and into my shorts in a few quick seconds. I grab my hoodie, yank it over my head, and rush to the front door barefoot, only turning around to make sure Cohen is all right. His snores give me the go-ahead to race to my Jeep, and I’m pulling out when she picks up the phone. “Where are you?” I demand before she can say a word. I’m at the end of my road, not sure which way to turn, so freaked out I almost feel pissed off.
