My Starry Valentine

Chapter 1

Chapter One

LEDGER

M y Jeep dashboard flashes eight in the morning and a blustery twenty-three degrees. I take another swig of coffee with cream, staring up at the towering white frozen waterfalls of the Ouray Ice Park and the familiar green “Climber Only Area” and white and red “Crampons and a Helmet Required Beyond This Point” signs. Savoring the heat blasting from my vehicle’s air vents, I only remove the key from the ignition when Chuck pulls up next to me in his red Toyota 4Runner.

The tall, lanky, gray-haired local nods as he glances through the passenger window of his car. His stoic face betrays no hint of disgust as he takes in my scarred left side, oblivious to what most people either can’t take their eyes off or avert them from.

Sometimes, being around him, I almost forget about what happened. Chuck has ice-climbed this park since it opened in the nineties, and over the past three years since my relocation, he’s taught me everything I know about the sport. Without his friendship and kindness, I wouldn’t be alive. A former Navy hospital corpsman, he understands my military past, injuries, and current situation better than anyone.

Nodding at him through the driver’s side window, I put my coffee thermos back in the cupholder, stepping out into the frigid air. I exhale sharply as the chill slams into me despite wearing a toasty base and mid-layer. The icy wind slices into my face and neck, a wolf’s bare teeth biting into my scarred, sensitive flesh. Opening the trunk of my Jeep, I hustle into my alpine jacket, beanie, and an extra layer of pants before losing any more heat from my core.

I bluster in his direction, “Move to Colorado for its sky-kissing elevations and pristine star viewing, they said… I dunno. La Jolla sounds mighty welcoming right about now.”

“Good old San Diego!” he exclaims, rounding the back of his vehicle to wrap me in a bear hug. “All beachy and inviting until you set foot in the freezing Pacific!”

“There’s a reason they train the Seals at Coronado.” I laugh, patting his back heartily.

“Brings back memories of the Silver Strand. Did you ever run that race?”

I nod, feeling the pull from the tight, puckered skin on the left side of my body. “More times than I can count.”

“You gonna do anything about those dreads, dude?” Chuck asks, pointing at my overgrown hair. “You’ve got to be the scruffiest Marine in Colorado.”

I shrug, frowning. My hair may be shoulder-length and unkempt, but it’s not dreadlocked. Tangled is a distinct possibility, though. I bite my tongue instead of mentioning the last hairdresser I went to. The poor woman nearly had a heart attack at the sight of my face. Chuck’s already heard the story… And dwelling on the same thing makes me sound pathetic. The only one who hates pathetic more than Chuck is me.

“The weather forecast looks great for today. The temperature should rise in the early afternoon enough to soften up the ice. I figure the climbing conditions will be perfect. It’s a good thing you’re wearing hard-shell pants because it’s going to get wet and drippy later.”

“I figured.”

“Glad we could fit this in today. It’s all downhill after this afternoon, with an aggressive storm front predicted to blow in overnight. Just in time to ruin locals’ weekend plans.”

“Yep, I had to get this in even though?—”

“Let me guess. You pulled another all-nighter?”

I frown. “Nah, I went to bed around three, three-thirty. So, I should be in fair form.”

He laughs, moving to the back of the 4Runner to finish gearing up and grab his pack. I follow suit. “Enjoy those short sleeps while you can. Once you hit your sixties, you won’t be able to breathe without a full six hours of shut-eye.”

“I haven’t slept that much since before the Marines.”

His face tightens with concern, and a prick of guilt stings me, followed by anger. Can’t a guy joke around here? The answer comes swiftly. After what you’ve put Chuck through? No.

My friend asks, “You having trouble with sleep again?”

I can’t lie to the man, even though I know it would go a long way toward assuaging his worry. “PTSD’s been kicking in again. Some pretty rough dreams about…you know…the accident and after…”

“You been keeping up with therapy and meds?”

“Kind of.”

Chuck shakes his head disapprovingly.

“I hate how fuzzy they make me feel. Besides, this here’s the best therapy.”

“Agreed,” he says with a half-hearted smile. “But promise you’ll get back with your therapist. You don’t want things to go south again…”

I nod, feeling like a wimp. By south , he means a couple of low points I’ve had over the years. Times when I questioned everything too much…even the utility of my existence.

“I know you think I’m silly, but I find that prayer goes a long way, too.” He gives me a knowing nod.

I bite my tongue because I’m here for fun and camaraderie. But my soul screams. If prayer works so well, how the heck did I end up like this? Why did my comrades die? Lord knows my sweet, long-suffering mama raised enough prayers on my behalf. But it’s a moot point with Chuck, so I let it go.

Slipping on my helmet and crampons, I grab my backpack filled with extra clothing, rope, a first-aid kit, food, and water. Attachment points lining the outside of the backpack house my ice axes, harness gear loops, extra crampons, and everything else I need should things get gnarly. Ice screws and draws, belays and carabiners, anchor material, and my bail kit round out the necessities.

Compared to my one hundred-pound combat rucksack in the Corps, the climbing pack weighs roughly twenty pounds less, a pleasant relief. Although I’ve stayed in shape over the years, I’m no twenty-one-year-old.

In the distance, the squeal of small children makes me grateful I already have my helmet on. Still, I keep my head angled so the kids won’t get a visual of the bad side.

Chuck notices, drawing his lips into a thin line. “You know, they’ll have to learn sooner or later that life’s not all bubblegum and cotton candy. And real heroes don’t always look like Superman.”

“Maybe,” I grumble. “But I get tired of being everybody’s learning moment, day in and day out.”

He nods grimly.

Even though I fight it, a memory sears my mind from four years ago on my way home to my mother’s house in SoCal. I remember with perfect clarity the toe-headed girl in the Houston airport. She couldn’t have been more than five or six. But her large baby blues flashed panic at the sight of me. With a shaking finger, she pointed, asking loudly, “Mommy, who’s that monster?”

Perhaps even worse than the girl’s reaction proved her mother’s response. Without explanation, she frantically scolded the kid, more conscious of me in earshot than helping her daughter process the gruesome visual. I don’t blame her. In the same situation, who knows what I might have done before …

But her immoderate response inadvertently confirmed the child’s worst fears. That I’m a monster so terrifying I shouldn’t be discussed or acknowledged. Most people take a similar tack. After all, it’s the polite thing to do—looking through me or past me, ignoring me, and making me feel non-existent.

“You given any thought to the route we’re taking today?”

His question isn’t an easy one. The ice park has something like two hundred different ice climbs and mixed-use trails. We’ve ticked them off one by one, ramping up the difficulty with each visit. “I say Tiddlywinks or Prof. Chaos. Thoughts?”

“You’re looking for steep today, huh?”

“I’m up for it if you’re up for it. Besides, I’d like to spend the afternoon doing something physical and mindless.”

Chuck warns, “Those steep bits won’t let you check out.”

“Yep, all good. By mindless, I don’t mean check out. In fact, checking out is exactly what I don’t want to do right now.”

He looks confused but doesn’t ask. “Well, you’re the one running on a few hours of sleep, so it’s your choice.”

We continue grunting and talking as we make our way to the massive frozen white falls, what locals refer to fondly as the “Mecca of Ice.” The largest ice park in the world, it has a primordial, frozen-in-time quality to it. Something about it comforts me, reminds me that no matter what, nature’s ultimately in control, and all of us pea-brained pipsqueaks are merely along for the ride…and to learn something, I guess? I haven’t figured that part out yet.

A group of climbers already dangle halfway up Tiddlywinks, so Chuck nods towards Prof. Chaos. “You had any luck in the female department lately?” The gray-haired climber always asks me this, despite my answer having remained the same since meeting him.

“I know you’re a perpetual romantic, Chuck. But some of us have to be realists here. As much as I’d like some human companionship, I gave up that notion the first time I did a VA mirror test. Seriously, who’d settle for an ugly mug like this?”

Chuck’s face remains deadpan. “God makes somebody for everyone.”

The hardest part of hanging out with my good friend is always hearing about God. Again, if some bearded dad in the sky cared so much about me and my future, why’d he scramble my face into unlovable chaos? Even the most understanding woman has her limits. Heck, I wouldn’t hang out with myself if I could escape the reflection in the mirror.

Even worse, the bend of Chuck’s head tells me it’s time to pray. I begrudgingly echo his pose as he says, “Heavenly Father, protect us on our climb today, and keep all the stupid tourists in mind who will likely be caught off guard by the impending storm. Oh, and maybe consider sending a helpmate for my pain-in-the-butt climbing buddy here. Amen.”

I shake my head, frowning. “Thanks for the prayer, I guess. But there’ll be no romance for me. I’m happy with my single, no-holds-barred life.” My words couldn’t be further from the truth. Fortunately, my friend ignores them.

I add, “Besides, all I ever do is hang out at the ice park or my cabin watching the stars. He’d have to drop her out of the sky for me to meet someone new.” The last statement’s slightly exaggerated as I get groceries and supplies in town and am friendly with the more understanding locals. But in a city of just over nine hundred people, romantic options are non-existent, especially for gals who like a freak show.

Standing at the bottom of the massive curling formation of icicles, Chuck and I crane our necks as we plan our best route up. He whistles long and low, shaking his head. “Don’t let that smooth spot up top fool you. It’s slippery as they come. You’re going to level up technique on this one today.”

“Having second thoughts, Squid? It’s okay if you want to sit this one out,” I tease.

“Heck, no, Devil Dog,” he grumbles, patting me hard on the back. “You ready?”

“Let’s do this,” I reply, taking a deep breath and tamping down the knot rising in my stomach. Fear and foreboding are good signs. They’ll keep my adrenaline high and my brain and muscles working fast and well. And when I glance back over the edge at the finish, reveling at the progress I’ve made as an ice climber, the tendrils of anxiety twisting and turning inside will transform into hot, searing waves of exhilaration.

I’ll give God one thing… He knew what He was doing when he invented Colorado mountain highs.