Chapter 37
Ford
The spray of the piss-poor water pressure glides over my skin in thick rivulets, making tracks in the dust littering parts of my skin that accumulated from the hole I dug. I stare down at my shaking hands, crusted with the dried blood of the boy I’d held in my arms as he died.
He couldn’t have been more than seven, clawing at my shirt as he gasped for breaths. The kid had barely begun to live, and instead of throwing a ball with him, I held him, comforting him while he died. It’s not fucking right.
There’s been too much of this shit lately. Ignoring the way I seem to tremble—with rage or sorrow, I don’t know, maybe both—I reach for the soap, scrubbing the blood from my body, watching as the water that pools around my ankles turns a watery scarlet shade.
It was supposed to be a routine patrol, which I’m beginning to believe is just a fucking farce. There’s no such thing as routine out here. Last week, we found a goddamn IED that took Suarez four fucking hours to disassemble. This week, kids are dying in my arms after they were left for dead.
Shit’s bad. I need to get out of here.
When I step back into the barracks, everyone is somber, like we’re all living beneath a heavy, dark gray cloud today.
Vesper’s on a video chat with his wife, and a pang of jealousy spears me in the chest. While his headphones block her voice from echoing through the space, the way her grainy face lights up as she talks to him wakes the green-eyed monster that shouldn’t live within me.
Running a hand over my face, I plop down on the edge of my cot. I want what he has.
“Want a cigarette, Crawford?” De Luca offers. I glance up to see him holding out a box of Camels that his fiancée mailed him.
I think about it for a second and shake my head, but only because I’d have to smoke it outside and it’s hot as fuck. I’d rather be in here with the big-ass fans blasting me.
“They’re under the mattress, if you change your mind,” he says before getting to his feet and taking a cigarette of his own outside.
The vacant computer next to Vesper calls to me, beckoning me to check for messages from @dc_d0ll, and I rub at the back of my neck as I attempt to fight the urge to rush over there. There are other guys here with wives and kids back home that they haven’t spoken to in ten days.
Settling back on my bed, I pull out the paperback my grandfather sent me in my last package. Taking out the bookmark, I open the yellowing pages.
As I read and reread the same paragraph, the blank computer speaks to me, calling to me like a lone, bright star on a clear night.
After reading that paragraph about a dozen times, absorbing nothing, I stuff the bookmark back into the novel and shut it.
Getting to my feet, I march over to the computer and sink down next to Vesper, who’s still engrossed in his conversation.
I log in and quickly navigate to my messages, where a red dot hovers over the envelope icon. Clicking on it, I hold my breath as it loads.
@dc_d0ll: Would it be crazy to start a new path together?
Is she finally suggesting we meet? In person?
My throat goes tight, my nerves sizzling like an electrical wire. Bringing my hands to the old keyboard, I type a reply.
@livingh3ll: Pretty forward of you, doll, to proposition marriage without having met in person. Maybe this is a sign that we should finally take this to the next level and talk on the phone?
I add a winking smiley face and hit send, staring at the blue light like something magical might erupt on the screen, but there’s nothing.
Was I too forward? Maybe. But I’m itching to hear her voice in more than just my dreams.
When I log off, I find Vesper’s eyes on me, his video chat ended. “Good for you, Crawford,” he remarks, the corner of his lips twitching. “Be sure to invite me to the wedding, yeah?”
Pushing the chair back, I roll my eyes, fighting a chuckle, even as my heart seems to slam against my ribcage with violent ferocity.
“Spot me, will you?” Drake calls from across the simple weight room, as I rack the barbell.
Three Days Grace’s “Animal I Have Become” blares through the gym’s shitty speakers that cut out periodically.
Dragging a towel over my face, I stalk toward my best friend, positioning myself over the back of the bench as he lifts the bar that I notice is pushing his limits.
He gets a struggled eight reps in before racking the bar.
With a huff, he sits up, and I ask, “Who are you trying to impress around here?”
“You, baby,” he teases, blowing kisses in my direction.
I laugh and roll my eyes. “Fuck off.” After a moment, I sober and ask, “Are you re-upping?”
The gym has mostly cleared out, though De Luca and Suarez still loiter around the treadmill. Drake sighs, scrubbing two hands over his face before shaking his head. “I don’t know, man. Are you?”
I shrug. “Not sure yet. We’ve got a couple of months to deicide.”
What I don’t tell him is that I think I’ve already decided that I’m not re-enlisting. Shit here is rough and the dead kids are only a part of that. I don’t know who I’ll be after four more years here.
There’s also @dc_d0ll, but I don’t dare tell him that either.
I’m fairly sure Drake will re-enlist, and I don’t want to sway that decision.
Drake hits the showers, but I stop at the computers and check my messages. I don’t want to admit that I’ve been dying to see if there’s a reply from the mystery woman.
Sure enough, there’s another red dot hovering over the envelope.
@dc_d0ll: Who said anything about marriage? I was thinking we could jump straight to the baby making. Wednesday?
Holy fucking shit, that’s two days from now.
Nerves bubble in my stomach, and I smile, a chuckle escaping me as I read her message.
I see how people could get scammed this way.
I can’t help but imagine fucking her amid a smattering of pillows and sheets, driving into her until my name becomes a prayer on her lips.
I like this girl. I really like this girl.