Chapter 1 The Job #11
Tessa thinks about it, eyeing the space on the couch where her body would fit perfectly next to mine. I give her sad-puppy eyes to force the issue. Finally, she relents.
“Okay, but just for a few minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And no dirty jokes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And no—”
“Oh, just shut up and let me cuddle you.”
She rolls her eyes, snuggling close to spoon with me. She rests her cheek on my bicep, and I sling one arm around her waist. Within seconds, I’m asleep.
I spend all of Saturday with Tessa, doing absolutely nothing.
We watch movies and eat food that’s no good for us and occasionally get distracted kissing on the couch.
Tessa keeps telling me I need to rest and let myself recover, and I guess she’s right.
I’m sore as hell—even more than last night—and my blisters need time to heal, which means spending as much time as possible with my prosthetic legs off.
Tessa usually has her days calendar-blocked from dawn to dusk with work (yes, even weekends) but she clears her schedule for me.
She bakes chocolate chip cookies and insists we watch The Princess Bride, and she commentates it for me, like I did with The Sound of Music back when she was blind.
In the late afternoon, she takes me outside to the hammock in her backyard, and we cuddle together under the swaying sunlit trees, listening to the birds.
Tessa falls asleep like that, her head on my chest and her leg draped over my waist. This is what life should be, I think.
Lazing around, having fun with my girlfriend, doing nothing.
Who wants to spend their free time training their ass off at a boxing gym, pounding heavy bags and sweating bullets?
I do.
Despite how many times I try to convince myself I don’t care about the job, I don’t care what Bruiser thinks, I’m better off never speaking to him again…
I’m not buying it. Deep down, I know what Tessa said last night was true. I need to straighten things out between me and my ex-almost-boss. If I don’t at least try to straighten things out, it will always bother me.
On Sunday morning, my opportunity arrives.
Tessa is at church with her family, which always leaves me feeling lonely for at least three hours per week.
A good thing if you want to eliminate distractions and get shit done.
Also a good thing if you’re my mother, who has a running list of “chores for boys who have nothing to do.” That’s one thing about my mom: if you tell her you’re bored, she’ll make sure you’re not bored for long.
On the top of her list today is dropping off a donation box at Goodwill—something Dad keeps forgetting because it’s in the opposite direction of the Chronicle, and that’s pretty much the only place he drives every day.
Mom knows how hard I’ve been working all week, and she can see how much I’m feeling it today, but she doesn’t let me use that as an excuse to lie around feeling sorry for myself. So I toss the box into the backseat of her car and drive down to Goodwill to drop it off.
I drive by Bruiser’s on the way, but the windows are dark, and I don’t see his truck parked outside.
The gym is closed for the weekend. Which would be the perfect excuse to avoid Bruiser altogether and put off this imaginary, uncomfortable conversation that’s been stewing in the back of my mind for the past twenty-four hours.
He’s not there. I can’t talk to him. I don’t even have his phone number. I don’t even know where he lives.
Just when I think I’ll be able to postpone the Talk for another day, I drive by the diner on Main Street and see a lifted Chevy pickup with US Marine stickers all over the back window. I know Bruiser must be inside.
And I know if I keep driving, I’ll feel like a pansy-ass for the rest of my life.
So I swing the car into a space across the street and park.
It’s now or never.
The door chime rings as I step into the diner and glance around. I spot him right away, drinking coffee alone at a booth, the back of his buzzed head looking less intimidating outside of the boxing gym. He doesn’t see me until I drop into the booth seat across from him.
Our eyes lock, but the look on his face is not at all surprised.
Has he been expecting me to hunt him down?
Did he know this conversation was bound to happen sooner or later?
He nods once in acknowledgment of my presence, but says nothing.
And somehow, the silence isn’t awkward or tense.
It’s weirdly, unexpectedly… comfortable.
Bruiser sips his coffee and waits for me to break the ice.
There are two little empty shots of cream sitting on the table.
I never would have guessed a guy like Bruiser would take cream in his coffee.
He seems more like the type who would chew the actual coffee grounds because you can’t let good caffeine go to waste.
That’s when it suddenly occurs to me that I don’t really know anything about this guy. Whether he’s married or has kids or has a dog. Over the past week, I’ve only gotten to know Bruiser, the owner of the boxing gym. Bruiser the beast.
Not Bruiser, the man.
Now seems like a good time to start.
“Guess you’re not much of a churchgoer, huh?” That’s the first thing that comes out of my mouth.
Bruiser grunts into his mug. “Look who’s talking.”
I manage a half-grin. “My girlfriend is trying to convert me.”
He sits back, studying me for a second, an unreadable look in his eyes. Maybe he’s just now realizing that he doesn’t know much about me, either. He’s never asked me about my personal life—what I do besides boxing, if I have plans for my future, if I have siblings or a girlfriend or a dog.
Strangest of all, he’s never asked me the question everyone asks: how I lost my legs.
I stare out between the slats in the window blinds, trying to figure out what to say next. Nothing seems right. A waitress saves me just in time, swooping over to ask if she can get me a coffee.
“That would be great, thank you.”
She hurries off to the counter and returns a moment later with a mug of steaming dark roast. When she walks away, Bruiser finally speaks, his gaze fixed on the street outside, his voice low and defenseless.
“That picture you were asking me about… the one in my office. The one I told you was taken in Iraq?”
“Uh, yeah. The one of you with the rock-on guy?”
“His name was Rafe,” Bruiser says, the look in his eyes miles away.
Maybe countries away. “He was one of the best men I’ve ever had the privilege to work beside—to fight beside.
Rafe was the kinda guy who would give you the shirt off his back.
The kinda guy who wouldn’t let you down.
You needed help any time of day or night, he was there for you.
We trained together way back, then wound up in the same platoon over there.
” Bruiser pauses, like there’s a hell of a lot more to the story, but he either doesn’t want to relive it or doesn’t want to bore me with the details.
“You got a best friend, Weston? Someone you know has your back come hell or high water?”
I think of Rudy. I think of Tessa, too.
“Yeah,” I say.
Bruiser nods slowly, something in his eyes a thousand years old. “Well, I hope you’ll never find out what it feels like to lose them.”
My voice comes out hesitant. “Was your buddy Rafe… killed in combat?”
Bruiser shakes his head. “Not technically combat. We were on patrol. He stepped on an IED. It didn’t kill him right away, but…” Bruiser looks down at his hands clasped on the table. Knuckles white. “He got his legs blown off.”
That’s when it clicks.
The way Bruiser dropped his coffee cup on the floor when he saw me that first morning.
The way he looked at me like he’d seen a ghost.
He had.
There’s more to it than you think, kid.
And there I was, assuming my disability could be the only reason for his reaction.
“The other night, you told me to enlighten you,” Bruiser continues, his voice low and grave, his eyes fixed on something out the window.
“And I should have. But it’s not easy to talk about it, kid.
And it doesn’t get any easier with time.
I don’t care how many years pass, how many therapy sessions the VA tries to put you through, how much medication they give you to help you sleep at night and not see that shit in your dreams…
It never gets easy to talk about watching your best friend bleed to death in front of you and knowing it was your fault. ”
I shake my head, reeling inside. “Wait, how was it your fault?”
Bruiser doesn’t answer right away. He stares into his half-empty coffee mug, letting a silence pass before speaking again.
“Rafe was a couple of years younger than me. I was kinda like the big brother he never had. And like a little brother, he was always trying to impress me. Always going out of his way to be the toughest, baddest guy in the room. That wasn’t really who he was, you know?
It was just who he wanted to be. How he wanted the other guys to see him. ”
I’m not sure why I feel attacked as Bruiser says all this. Maybe because I know he’s not just talking about his buddy Rafe.
“No moment of glory is worth risking your life for. Remember that, kid. It’s a lesson some people learn too late.
” Bruiser sighs, shaking his head. “So many things went wrong that day. We were at odds over some stupid shit, and Rafe thought I was underestimating him—undermining his authority. When we were out on patrol that day, he fought to swap places with me and take up the lead. He needed to feel like he was the top dog, you know? He needed to boost his ego. And then the world exploded.” Bruiser’s voice fades to a rough whisper.
“We tried to rush him to the medics, but… it was too late.”
I sink back in the booth seat, imagining what a hellish experience that must have been. Not just to live through, but to live with. I can tell by the gutted look in his eyes how much it haunts him.