by Finn, Emilia
It’s habit, I think. Because he’s as much a soldier as I am.
I’ve found my match in height, weight, skill, humor, hunger. And the irony is, we’ve served together before. It was so long ago, I hadn’t given him any more thought. It was another time for me, another world. We served, he saved my life, and I saved his. He stopped a bullet from sliding through my back, and I stopped a knife coming for his throat. We don’t feel indebted to each other, but we feel a kinship that I never expected.
“Having a nap?”
I chuckle and look up into the blue sky. “Nah, talking to my girl.” I haven’t told him who my girl is. Because I don’t feel like he needs to know. Not yet, anyway. “She wanted to hang out for a minute, and since you yahoos are only fucking around…”
“How serious are you about this girl? Because two months is a long time, and I know chicks that could help you take the edge off.”
“No thanks. I’m stuck, so keep your floozies to yourself. I’m going home to mine soon, then you guys can listen to me fuck two months out of my system.” I turn when he lowers to the ground and lays back to study the sky. “I’ll call out your name when I come.”
He barks out a laugh and slams a fist into my chest. “Don’t do that, man. Don’t ruin a perfectly good friendship because you’re a freak.”
“I miss her.” And there I go, being weird anyway. “I miss her so much I can hardly breathe. I think that means something.”
He gives a thoughtful nod and crosses his ankles. “I think if you can feel it in your gut, legitimately feel like something is missing when you’re away, then you’re probably right. She’s important, so no floozies for you.”
Chuckling, I rest my hands on my stomach and ignore Jay’s loud gunshots. “She’s definitely important. She called me just now, she’s with her friend.” I turn to him. “She’s so fuckin’ sick.”
His dark eyes snap to mine. “Your girl is sick?”
“No. Her friend. She’s really fuckin’ sick, and it scares me, because my girl cares so deeply. I’ve seen this show before, I’ve seen what that sickness does to a person, and I’m scared for my girl when–” I pause, “Well, if reality smacks them in the face. I don’t want the friend to hurt, and I don’t want my girl to hurt.”
“What kinda sickness?”
The word hurts as it moves off my tongue, but in my peripherals, blue wings flutter between us for just a moment. A beautiful butterfly draws my attention and helps me say the one word that has the power to bring me to my knees.
“Cancer.”
Predictably, his lips firm. His eyes harden. “People survive cancer every single day, Serrano. It’s a savage disease and tears a body apart, but it’s not guaranteed death. The friend is strong enough. She can beat it.”
I nod and turn back to study the sky. “She’s young. My girl showed me a picture of her friend from before she was sick. She was healthy and vibrant, athletic and smiley.”
“She’ll make it.” His tone implies he’s done discussing this.
And I can’t even get mad. I don’t wanna discuss it either.
“What’s your girl’s name?”
“Nunya.”
He turns to me with a heavy frown. “What? That’s a weird name.”
“Nah, nunya, as in, none of ya fuckin’ business.”
He barks out a laugh and turns back to study the sky.
Jay’s shots continue, and Soph works with him to program the new tech. But their noise, despite being loud, is just background nothingness. We’re completely accustomed to having them around.
“Not sharing.” He nods. “Fair call. What’s she look like? Big tits and fuckable ass? You seem like the type.”
I scoff. “I dare you to say that again, motherfucker. I dare you to ask about her body twice.”
“Nope.” He rolls up to a crouch, then jumps to his feet and walks away. “Nunya. I get it.”
I smile. “Good. Stay the fuck away from that topic, or you’ll regret it.”
* * *
Sophia puts out an alert in whatever way she does. She does something with her computer, something that lets our guy know we’re close and willing to talk.
None of us want to be on the road in a fruitless chase around and around. Whoever our enemy is knows we’re looking. And we know where he is each time he switches on his internet. Every time we move, he moves. Every time he moves, we move. Both parties to this war spin our wheels, we fill a new seat, around and around we go so that two months of my life passes me by, and Abigail’s calls come fewer and farther between.
She’s not purposely getting quieter. She’s busy with work, with her family, with her friend Marcie. And I’m busy with this bullshit, awake all damn night while Abigail sleeps, and sleeping during the hours that normal human beings would make a phone call.
One missed call turns to two, two turns to three, and then we’re caught in a phone tag loop not a lot different to the game we’re playing with our target. Now Abigail and I are relegated to a text relationship, where hours pass between replies, and the oxygen in my lungs never feels like enough.
I walk into Soph and Jay’s room nine weeks after we left home, and snap her laptop closed. It’s the only way a man can get any attention around here. “I’m going home. This wasn’t supposed to go on so long. Now you’re wasting my time, so I’m out.”
Soph’s perfectly sculpted brow lifts with attitude. She cracks her laptop open again and shakes her head. “We’re almost done.”
“You said that last week, ballerina! And the week before. And the week before that! I have never dropped out of an assignment before, but at some point, you might have to admit you’re not the smartest person in the room. The dude has you hosed, and you’re too stubborn to pull back and admit it. I refuse to stay here any longer if all we’re doing is watching a dot on a computer.”
“We’re waiting on his move,” she reasons. “This whole thing is like a game of chess, he makes his move, we make ours.”
“That’s just a really fancy way of saying nobody is making progress, and everybody is wasting their time!”
“That’s not true,” she counters oh-so-fucking-calmly.
Jay moves around his room as though me going toe to toe with his girlfriend doesn’t bother him, but I know he’s watching. And brotherhood or not, I know he’s ready to take me out if I go too far.
“Every time we move, we get a step closer. Every time he moves, he shows himself a little more. I don’t know who he is, Spencer. I don’t know his people. But I know he’s awfully interested in the Bishop brothers. Interested enough to slip up and give us a name.” Her face transforms into a megawatt smile when her laptop dings. “Fuck me. He’s interested enough to reply to my email too.” She turns her laptop and shows an email with a timestamp of just now. “He doesn’t want a war. He wants to talk.”
“It’s a trap.” Jay drops the stack of towels he was moving and storms across the room to read the email himself.
--------------------------------
To: AcesAndEights
From: Checkmate
Aces,
I’m willing to talk if you’re willing to be honest.
It never had to be this way. If only the Bishops knew how to tell the truth, none of us would be here today.
I’m interested in the Bishop fortune. I’m interested in how you earn your means.
Being the blood of a fallen king doesn’t qualify you for immunity, so truth and honor is all you have left.
I was forced into this war more than two decades ago. An innocent, thrust into battle with nothing to his name but his hands and wits.
But that’s not fair, is it?
I’ve never hurt yours, but yours have hurt mine.
Someone must speak, they must explain, or they must pay.
--------------------------------
My phone vibrates in my pocket, drawing my attention away from Jay’s hurrying hands as he types and Soph edits his shit. Abigail’s name fla
shes on the screen, and though now is a really bad time for me to take a personal call, I’m reminded of why I came in here in the first place.
I want to go home.
I take my phone in my left hand, and point at the fighting couple with my right. “I want to go home. You can deal with your penpal, but I’m out.”
I walk out of the room and pass a quietly watchful Romeo as I go. Sliding my thumb over the screen, I allow my brain to switch gears, and my anger to make way for a smile. “Hey, Priss. You have no clue how glad I am to hear your voice right now.”
“Spencer!” Her cry is a scream. Her sobs, knives to my heart. “Oh my god, Spencer.”
I dash into my room and slam the door. “Abigail? Baby, what’s wrong?”
25
Abigail
Hot tears slide over my cheeks, but I make no sound as I watch on in horrified fascination.
My entire body quakes with fearful shakes, but I stay out of the way while they work.
Work.
Work and compress.
Breathe and inject.
They work the oxygen machine and turn it all the way up. They count their pumps, and shout about cardiac arrest. They move her fragile body like she’s nothing more than a rag doll, while Marcie’s pale body rejects her latest bout of sickness and decides she’s done.
I stand all alone at the door while a dozen doctors and nurses rush around her room.
We were watching a movie only an hour ago. My appetite has waned lately, and it’s not like I have the luxury of losing a few pounds, so I bought us both fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits to dip in gravy. I thought a movie and pig out day was in order for us both, since Marcie’s chemo has been kicking her butt, and my loneliness has been kicking mine.
Can missing your love genuinely make your heart ache? I think it can. It feels like Spencer took a part of me with him, and the longer he’s gone, the more my body shuts down.
Marcie and I aren’t all that different, really; different kinds of torture, different kinds of poison, but the results are the same.
Well, almost.
I brought jumbo sodas for us to sip on, because I knew her mouth hurt, and having something icy cold would help, but now the foam cups lay crushed on the floor beneath medical feet, the spilled liquid creating sticky slurps as medical personnel rush around.
My brain screams that this can’t be real. That it’s all a bad dream, just like the million others I’ve had in the last two months.
Spencer used to be the reason for my pleasant dreams, he used to make me smile when I laid down, and smile again when I woke up. But now we hardly talk, so my old nightmares have regained strength, and to make up for the time he drowned them out, they’ve come with double the potency, double the ache.
Doctor Rhett’s rainbow tie with cute white kittens made me smile when I walked in this morning, but now it does nothing but flash amongst the sea of blue scrubs and white coats.
Marcie’s parents are at work today, her brother at school. Time must go on, and bills have to be paid, so while she stays here and does her best to survive the unsurvivable, they have to keep their chins up and trudge forward, their monotony broken only by evening visits with their little girl, and after that, their visits to the hospital chapel to pray for her health.
I know this life of loneliness, so I’ve been visiting five days a week lately, instead of three. I visit for three hours instead of two. I neglect some of my other sick friends in favor of sitting with Marcie for that little bit longer, while she speaks of my brother and my boyfriend, while she teasingly plans her weddings to them, and calls herself a proud whore for wanting them both at the same time.
She’s seventeen years old. She’s not a whore or anything else she likes to joke about.
She’s my best friend, and right now, her body seizes on the bed we both lay on just minutes ago. Blood drips from the tips of her fingers, not because she’s been cut, but because her IV line has been accidentally ripped out.
The noise that surrounds me is deafening, but silent. Roaring, but muted. Things drop to the floor, a silver pan, a plastic jug, her brand new phone – a gift from her mom – as Doctor Rhett shouts his instructions.
My ears ache while I clutch my own phone as though it’s the only thing keeping me up. I used to hate my phone and wish for a life free of technology, but now it’s my lifeline. It’s how I speak to Spencer. It’s my connection to my mom, Mitchell, Nix, Beckett, and the others.
If I just make the call, I could speak to any one of them. If they knew what was happening in this room, they could fix it.
I’m certain they could.
My head and heart refuse to accept what’s happening right in front of me as Marcie’s body stills, and her hand dangles over the side of her bed.
I’ve had this sickness. I’ve been in that bed, so I know today is just a bad day, but tomorrow will be just a little bit easier.
I shakily swipe the flooding tears from my cheeks so I can see better, but I make no noise, I refuse to steal the attention she so desperately needs. Dots float in my vision, blinding me, and the shouts in my ears turn to waves. I take a step back, then another, then one more until my hip slams against the wall, and the stark pain helps me refocus. I lean against the wall and breathe to the same rhythm that they count for Marcie.
One breath. Then two.
I feel for my heart and make sure it continues to beat.
One breath. Then another.
I press my hand to my chest and quietly scream when Marcie refuses to wake up.
One breath. Then two.
I slide along the wall until my butt touches the floor and my knees bend. My hand remains on my chest, my phone in my hand. In my brain, I scream and scream and scream until my voice is hoarse, then I scream a lot more, until I want to vomit.
Because Marcie is only seventeen, and she should be awake by now.
“She turns eighteen soon.” It’s a quiet murmur. Barely more than a whisper past moving lips. “She turns eighteen soon. She turns eighteen soon.” Salty tears dribble onto my lips, then onto my tongue. “It’s not time.”
My phone vibrates in my hand, but when I look and find Nix’s name, I push him away and shake my head.
“It’s not time. She’s only seventeen.”
I shouldn’t be in this room. I should not be watching this, and I especially should say something when blackness creeps along the outside of my vision. The waves in my ears grow louder, but nothing is as loud as when the screams in my head make everyone in the room turn.
Because the screams escape my chest when Doctor Rhett stops his compressions and shakes his head.
Because Marcie’s body stops moving completely, except for when her nurse, our favorite nurse, Gloria, buries her face against my friend’s chest and howls painful, wracking sobs.
“I’m so sorry!” she cries. “I’m so sorry, baby!”
Rhett backs away from her pain, from the dead girl in my old bed, in my old room, the dead girl who couldn’t survive the same sickness I had. He backs away from the one he lost, and almost trips when his shoe catches mine. What is only a bump for him, is an excruciating kick for me. I cry out, clutch at my face as I try to reel in the screams that won’t shut off, and clutch at my leg as shooting pain rockets through my shin and into my knee.
His job, the oath he swore, is to never cause harm, but he can’t stop to help me as he stumbles away. As he leaves the room and escapes the girl he couldn’t save, her pale, pasty skin barely discernible from the white sheets beneath her. Her bald head, void of the hair she so desperately wanted to regrow and show those stupid boys at school what they were missing out on.
“Oh god!” Stumbling, I climb to my feet and think of that stupid boy that dumped her because she wasn’t his definition of pretty anymore. What a coward! He was weak and stupid, and he hurt her when she didn’t need more hurt in her life.
I’m blinded by tears as I think of the date Spencer promised her. It was in jest,
all of us knew that, but now all I can think about is the fact she’ll never know that date. She’ll never meet the eighteen-year-old boy Spencer promised her. The man that would take care of her like a man should. She’ll never finish her fried chicken, or the biscuit that currently sits in the gravy container, soaking up the brown liquid. That refreshing sip of soda she took an hour ago will never be replicated, that weak smile she gave because the cold bubbles sliding along her abused throat felt so damn good, even while so truly sick…
Rhett stumbles through the door and leaves a room full of broken people, but I run second, because I can’t stand to see another drop of crimson blood drip to the speckled gray floor.
I clutch the stupid phone to my chest, and blindly run into the hall and past the stunned staff. A child just died, so there is no business as usual. The desk phones ring out for a minute, and the printers stop spitting out sheets of paper, as though in respect for the fallen.
Rhett moves to the left, perhaps to the bathroom to be sick like I want to be, but I move to the right and sprint toward the staircase. I should wait for the elevator, but I don’t want to wait for anything. I don’t want to stand alone while everyone watches on in shock, I don’t want to cry in front of a crowd.
I’d much rather do that in private.
I swing the emergency door open and stumble onto the first flight of stairs. My leg aches because of Rhett’s clumsiness, but I can’t let it slow me as I move. Concrete steps, concrete walls, freezing cold metal banisters, concrete everywhere I look.
My cries are sobs, my sobs are howls. My ankles twist as I run, and the phantom pain in my chest stings like tiny hornets that refuse to let me become complacent in my recovery.
My blood tests are scheduled for the day after tomorrow, because Marcie made me bring them forward. The day after tomorrow, I’ll make sure I live, because she insisted like she knew what tonight would bring.
My phone vibrates again and again, my brothers sensing my pain and demanding to know where I am, but I ignore their calls and slam the door open on the second floor. I dash into a hallway that is business as usual. Patients move about freely down here, in wheelchairs, on crutches, in gowns that expose more than the majority of us want to see in a cafeteria.
