Damnit.
Ten years, and I still feel the exact same way.
I don’t understand how it’s possible.
I don’t know this version of Melody, and she doesn’t know the man I’ve become.
“What do you need?” she asks, annoyance filling her voice.
What do I need … other than to tell her about the key mix-up she’s about to figure out? Her jaw clenches, and her eyes drift toward the star-lit sky. “You’re not okay.”
Melody swallows what seems to be a lump in her throat, then allows her gaze to fall back to mine. “No sh—obviously, I’m not okay. My dad is dying up in that hospital room.”
I’m in over my head. I’ve never been good at supporting someone else's emotions. I understand the pain, but I don’t know how to give comfort. “I know,” I reply. “I know we haven’t talked or seen each other in years, but I want to help. My dad is distraught too; he’s been a mess since he found out. I know he’s planning to visit him tomorrow.” A bunch of gibberish spills from my mouth rather than anything sensical but the more I try to talk, the more I realize we have little to talk about.
“My dad will enjoy his company, I’m sure.”
Civilians don’t know how to accept bad news. We aren’t wired that way. Instead, emotions appear in the form of tears, few words, and sometimes nervous laughter when our minds are confused. I was trained to stare beyond pain and shut it down. I’m supposed to tell myself things don’t matter, and they don’t affect me, but when she stares at me, waiting for a human reaction—like a civilian and not like a trained machine, I feel helpless. “It’s hard for me to watch people suffering. If I’m not trying to help, it eats me up. I’m not the kind of person who can sit around when I know there’s something I can do, even if it’s just bringing food.” I’m supposed to protect and catch the falling, take bullets for those more important than myself, and shield the truth. If someone is still suffering then I haven’t done my job.
“You were a soldier, weren’t you?” My inhuman way of staring into nothing while holding my head up squaring my shoulders into a straight line speaks words of I am.
“Marine, yes. Was. I’ve been out for a couple years now. It was too hard with Parker.”
“What about Parker’s mom?” I wasn’t expecting this conversation to resurface now of all times, not with how distraught she seems. The story isn’t a good one and I wouldn’t feel right delving into the past when she’s in a fragile state.
“I’d rather not talk about her if you don’t mind.” I’m sure she is assuming a million different scenarios by my lack of a response, but it’s not the time.
“Bad divorce?” She might disagree with the timing, though. Maybe she’s seeking a distraction.
“Never married,” I reply. “Anyway, I want you to know I’m here and I want to help you and your family. Honestly.”
Melody slips her hands into her pockets and twists around to step into the parking lot. “Thank you,” she offers.
I don’t want her to know that I saw what Journey did with the keys, so I need to play this out. “Let me walk you to your car. The parking lot is not lit too well at night.”
Melody spins around, holding her hand up. “I’ll be okay.”
“I insist,” I continue, trying to keep the distance she’s asking for.
Giving up the battle for a moment, Melody turns toward the row of cars, searching from one side to the other. “Oh, crap. The car is back there,” she says. “God, I’m not thinking straight.”
Melody walks past me, and into the direction where Journey’s car must be. “It happens when there’s too much to think about.” I sound like an infomercial following her. I should stop talking and wait for her to realize she has the wrong keys to Journey’s car.
I watch and wait, like a creep in a dark parking lot. She fumbles through the keys for a minute before muttering to herself, “She didn’t give me the car key.”
“Let me take you home, and I’ll bring you right back. My truck is right there,” I say. Maybe I spoke up too fast. She might realize I knew Journey was messing with her.
Melody stares at the keys in her hand, either wondering if she missed the key, if she should take me up on my offer, or go back upstairs to retrieve the correct key from her sister. “Fine.” I’m shocked beyond belief to hear an agreement form from her lips.
“My truck is just—” I point down the row and head toward it, assuming she’ll follow.
The footsteps behind me confirm she hasn’t changed her mind, so I stop at the passenger side and open the door.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft and meek. I close the door once she’s seated and walk around the front to slide into the driver’s seat. I turn on the ignition and hit the buttons for the seat warmers.
How is it I’ve known the Quinn family my entire life and I have no clue how to get to her house? I’ve been there, but not since I was a kid and I was probably busy playing with my Gameboy in the backseat. “Where is your house?”
“Do you know where Parka Street is?” I guess she doesn’t seem surprised that I don’t know which direction to head in.
“The GPS will,” I say with a chuckle, wishing I knew my way around this town a little better. It borders my town, so I should be more familiar with the ins and outs, but I was only a licensed driver for a year before I left for the Marines. Other than working and toting Parker around, I haven’t ventured off too far since I’ve been back home these last two years.
“House number twenty-four,” she adds.
Twenty-four. D.O.A. eighteen-hundred-hours and twenty-four minutes, just twenty four years old on October 24th. Sometimes, numbers intrigue me, other times, they keep me awake at night, wondering if there’s a deeper meaning I should understand. The silence must be bothering Melody as she clears her throat. “I find it odd we were on the same flight the other day. Why were you in South Carolina?”
Odd, yes, coincidental, not so much. “I was at an exhibition for my dad’s business, but he called and told me I needed to leave a day early and get on a flight the next morning to head back because your dad needed help in the shop. That’s when I found out what was going on.”
“Oh,” she says as if she’s fitting pieces together that didn’t quite match up a few minutes ago. “There was only one flight going out of Charleston to Burlington that day.”
We still ended up sitting beside each other, which seems like more than a coincidence on a large plane with only two empty seats on the whole carrier. Odds are a couple flying together had to cancel their tickets, leaving the two seats open for last-minute passengers.
I pull into Melody’s driveway, lined with hedged bushes and small lights buried in mulch. The house looks well maintained with a sense of warmth from the glow of lights. “What kind of dog do you have?”
“A wild killer beast. He attacks people he doesn’t like.” In other words, she’d prefer it if I stayed in the truck and waited for her, but what’s the use in that. She’s exhausted. I can help with the dog. Mrs. Quinn was clearly okay with the idea.
“Wild killer beasts are my favorite,” I reply, hopping out of the truck the same time she does, following closely behind her as she makes her way up the front steps.
There’s a familiarity about her house. I remember bits and pieces from the times I was here, and it looks very much the same; the foyer walls covered with family portraits and decorative furniture perfectly placed.
Benji, I hear her call out. He must be a husky; he looks just like Brody’s old dog. She’s getting hooked up on the leash, wrestling with him to calm down from the excitement of seeing people for the first time in hours. He looks like a big goof. Once Melody has the leash secured, I take it from her hand. “Take a breather.”
Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue and allows me to take Benji outside. I wonder if she knew he would take me for a ride down the street. He’s got to be at least seventy pounds and I’m almost positive he must have incredible night vision for small animals.
There isn’t a doubt in my mind he’s chasing something as he drags me along. Thankfully, we’re just outside the woods and after the creature he was watching disappeared beyond the line of trees, he remembers his purpose for being outside.
He’s quick to do his business and head back to the house, leading the way up the stairs and in through the front door. “He’s such a good boy,” I call out, assuming Melody is in the kitchen or adjacent family room. “Where do you keep the treats?”
Melody peeks around the corner and whispers, “One sec.” She’s holding her hand against her phone, blocking out the sound to whoever is on the other line.
“Oh, sorry. I’ll look in the kitchen,” I whisper.
I hear the soft mutters from the other side of the wall where Melody is conversing, but I can’t make out anything she’s saying, nor should I since it’s none of my business. She seems a bit frazzled again, though. Although this seems to be a common trait of hers.
My name is mentioned. I hear it clearly, making me wonder who she’s talking to. It could be Mrs. Quinn or Journey, I suppose, but I don’t think Melody would take the phone into another room if it was either of them.
Melody seems to have ended her call as I hear footsteps walking around the corner toward where I’m standing. “Is everything okay?” It’s still none of my business, but I can’t help wondering.
Melody leans forward to give Benji a scratch between the ears, smiling at him as if he’s all she needs right now. “My ex is in denial,” she says.
The guy in her pictures on Facebook. I guess he is her ex as her profile stated she was single, but I wonder how long he’s been an ex. “Your ex?” There was a time I thought she had gotten married, but I must have misunderstood whatever story I was overhearing. I only knew she was living in South Carolina and assume it was with a man from the story I conjured up in my mind.
“Yeah, it’s a long story. To sum it up: he’d rather not commit but would love to have a wife around to do her wifely duties.”
Jesus. What kind of asspot is this guy? How does someone so timid and sweet find a man like that?
“I’ve seen the type. Good for you, doing what will make you happy. It’s not always an easy decision to make.” I’ve seen the type but usually on the opposite side. Women love military men and everything that comes along with them, but the second they leave for a deployment, it’s party time.
“I take it you know from experience?” Melody asks, her eyebrow perched with curiosity
Unfortunately, I found Parker’s biological father and came to understand that there are a special species of shitheads who roam this earth.
11
Five Years Ago
Each morning is the same in our apartment, if it can be referred to as morning. It feels more like the middle of the night, which doesn’t do wonders for a three-year-old trying to develop a healthy sleep pattern. Abby doesn’t ask for help with Parker, but I do everything I can to assist without stepping on her toes. There were nights early on when Abby was so exhausted, she didn’t hear Parker wake up in the middle of the night. I changed those diapers and fed her bottles to get her back to sleep for the few hours more we had before PT (physical training). We’re away from the midnight bottle feedings now, but there are still times when she wakes up in the middle of the night screaming.
Most families in the military have one parent enlisted and the other is a civilian, making childcare more manageable. I know there are some co-parents who are both enlisted but from what I’ve seen, most of them have consistent childcare help from family members.
It’s just the two of us here, and I’m not even Parker’s parent. I can’t imagine Abby doing this all on her own. It would be impossible. Not only is the schedule tough, but her finances have taken a massive hit. She doesn’t have any means of incoming child support and she refuses to let me help in that way. She’s mentioned finding the biological father, hoping to get some assistance, but I was sure those thoughts were out of desperation, until she just confessed about finding the mystery man.
I wasn’t expecting this conversation, her tears, and disappointment. I’m still not sure how she found out who the guy was after not having a clue this whole time, but Abby can find just about anything when she puts her mind to it. We’ve determined she could have an amazing career in forensics once she’s out of the Marines.
“Anyway,” she says, falling back into the cushion of our couch. “He’s a jerk. He told me it was my fault for not finding him sooner, and he would have been against keeping her at all.”
A pit grows in my stomach, knowing another person could speak those words out loud. “I don’t know much about any of this, but I don’t think a one-night-stand-man could deny child support by saying he would have chosen to end the pregnancy or give the child away. You can take him to court, Abbs. Get a DNA test and start there.”
“He refused a DNA test. He said it was his right to say no. It’s not worth the fight. I’ll figure things out,” she says. Her words don’t match the look in her eyes. “The ironic part of all this is that he lives on base.”
“Here?” I ask. Jesus. I didn’t think he was a Marine, probably walking by us on a daily basis.
Abby shrugs and pulls an afghan around her shoulders. “You know, I was sitting here yesterday, thinking I’m going to have to delist in a couple of years because I can’t give Parker a sustainable life like this, but then I heard some talk today about a couple of upcoming deployments.” Abby had plans to retire from the Marines, but I understand why she’s thinking of alternatives now. Her eight years will be up two years before mine, which means she’ll need to make her decision within the next year. She’ll take Parker away and it will be like I never existed in either of their lives. I feel like we’re a family, minus the husband and wife part, and I continue falling deeper and deeper into this life, knowing there probably won’t be a good ending.
“Where did you hear about the deployments?”
“My Chief Warrant Officer. I’ll know more tomorrow. It’s not looking good, Brett. I haven’t gone anywhere since Parker was born. They aren’t going to skip over me forever.”
I can’t argue with the facts, and she won’t be able to argue with orders. Either of us or both of us could be called to go. Although, I just got back from a two-month stint eight months ago so I’m not sure where that puts me in line to be called.
We’ve discussed the possibility of deployments and what will happen with Parker, and Abby has a plan with her child-care provider to take Parker in full time, which means Carol, the caretaker, would more or less receive most of Abby’s deployment pay to care for Parker.
“I’m probably not going to be called. I haven’t heard anything,” I tell Abby. “If I don’t get called, Parker can stay with me if you have to go. I know we’ve talked about Carol and going that route, but I can find her if I end up having to deploy while you’re gone.”
“I’m not ready to leave Parker behind. The thought is killing me, Brett. If we both end up having to leave, it’ll be like she’s an orphan for God knows how long.”
“What’s the guy’s name, Abbs? Who is he … the biological—”
“Don’t call him anything,” she says, tightening the blanket around her shoulders as she rolls her head from side to side. “Dylan Stevens.”
“Okay,” I say, leaving it at that.
“Don’t go doing anything stupid, Brett.”
I hold my hands up in defense. “What could I do?” Other than choke him until he offers to assist in supporting Parker.
As if Parker heard me thinking of her name, a faint cry spills out of Abby’s bedroom where Parker sleeps. Abby closes her eyes for a moment, inhales sharply and pushes herself off the couch. “She’s got a cold. I saw it coming this morning.” Abby’s face is pale, her eyes have dark circles growing larger by the day and she has lost so much of her personality over the last few years. When I take note of how much her mental state has declined, guilt finds me, making me feel like I’
m never going to be enough to help her and Parker as much as they need.
Not even twenty-four hours have passed since Abby mentioned the name, Dylan Stevens, and I’ve already located him at the Slug Shack right down the street from the base. Abby isn’t the only one with detective skills. She might have better sleuthing capabilities than I do, but I know more people than she does, and everyone knows someone who knows the person of interest. It wasn’t hard to locate the shithead. I even have a photo to make spotting him easier, but locating him in a nearly empty bar at three in the afternoon isn’t as hard as one might think. There are only four other people here, and I’m one of them.
A drink is all I need to sit a few seats away and listen to Dylan Stevens try every pickup line in the book on the new bartender who’s only been working here two weeks. After his attempt to sweet talk the girl who is likely a decade younger than everyone in this bar, Dylan rambles on about a strip joint and the private VIP access he has. Evidently, the strip club is his hobby after work every day.
I try to envision myself buddying up to Dylan and convincing him to do the right thing for Abby and Parker, but after listening to the shit foaming from his mouth, there isn’t one part of me that could see this turning out well for anyone.
Abby was right to give up.
All I can do is offer to do more for her. I just don’t know what that is yet.
My phone buzzes on the bar-top, displaying Abby’s name. Guilt floods through me as I wonder if she somehow knows where I am, or what I’m doing, especially since she was against the idea of me hunting Dylan down. I fearfully check the text message, reading the two words I was dreading to see.
* * *
Abby: I’m up.
* * *
She’s being deployed.
I wasn’t expecting to accomplish anything last night other than helping Melody and Mrs. Quinn, but the few minutes Melody and I had alone felt like a time-out, a break in the storm. It was more than I was expecting and more than I should be experiencing. The feelings, the desire … all while knowing she’s going through hell. What I feel doesn’t matter, though, because I will not do a damn thing except help her or the family when needed. Plus, if there’s anything I’m a pro at, it’s putting my feelings aside, or shutting them off completely.
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 55
