Chapter 8
Deacon
Hangover or not, I had a date with the gym.
Medical discharge be damned, I was determined to reenlist. It was where I belonged and what I was meant to do.
After two years of follow-up scans, the growth on my spine that had caused the partial paralysis hadn’t returned, and it was unlikely it would.
I’d have to show I was medically and physically prepared to get back to the PJs, and for that, the minimum physical requirements wouldn’t cut it.
I scanned the notes I’d made on my training goals.
For the test, I’d have to do a twenty-five-meter underwater swim, a five-hundred-meter swim in nine minutes, a mile-and-a-half run in nine and a half minutes, twenty pull-ups, then eighty sit-ups and push-ups, both in two minutes. I was close.
I pulled my phone from my shorts.
Cruz: Thanks for taking her to the wedding.
Deacon: Happy to. I like her.
Deacon: Not like that. You warned me.
It had been an unexpectedly enjoyable night.
From Willow in that knockout dress to drinking wine with her in Cruz’s living room to waking up early this morning next to her wrapped in a blanket and snoring on the other end of the couch, I liked her company.
She’d been cute curled up in the pink fuzzy blanket covered in butterflies that she must have brought with her, or I had a lot of shit to give Cruz about his decorating choices.
I’d put the glasses in the sink, not wanting to wake her, and snuck out the back, giving Gus a scratch behind the ears.
She didn’t need to wake up next to me. I liked Willow.
She was cool. Really cool, actually. But no need to make things confusing for her.
Cruz: I trust you.
I strolled through the parking lot, admiring the intricate artwork sketched in the dirt on the back of the semi in front of me.
It was a solid depiction of a penis holding an American flag, and I gave silent props to the artist as I flashed my student ID at the desk worker and headed toward the pool.
Fitting, since it was in the water where my friendship with Cruz really started.
Deacon: What’s your best time for the 500M recently?
Cruz: 9:45. Why?
I snapped a photo of the pool and peeled my shirt off, reminded of how Willow had done some maneuver the night before to take off her bra.
I’d looked away but there’d been glimpses as she shifted around.
She’d done it basically without lifting her T-shirt at all. Not that I’d tell my buddy about that.
Deacon: About to crush your time.
Cruz: Doesn’t count if the lifeguard is towing you in, dick.
I chuckled and set my phone aside.
We’d been in training for five weeks. Five weeks of pushing my body and mind further than I thought possible with hours on hours of calisthenics, deep dive exercises, weight training, and running.
So much running. I’d fallen into my bunk one night after a day that included underwater knot tying with my fingers sore and only enough energy left to stare at the ceiling.
“Hey, Rakes,” Simms began. “Two guys are walking down the street and come upon a dog licking his balls.”
“Simms, your jokes suck,” another guy yelled from across the room.
We’d started doing this thing during the second week—telling dirty jokes during downtime.
Most of us, anyway. We spent all day together, pushing ourselves to the edge and beyond.
This was like giving each other a place to land.
A few guys like Cruz Lewis never joined in.
Simms ignored the jibe and the boos of our fellow trainees and kept going. “So, they see the dog licking his balls and the one guy says to the other, ‘I wish I could do that.’ And his friend looks between him and the dog, then replies, ‘Maybe try to pet him first.’ ”
“Horrible,” I said, rubbing my shoulder. “You should be ashamed.”
“I’ve got one,” Barkley said to the right of my bunk.
“What’s the difference between a chickpea and a lentil?
” Barkley was from Texas, and his heavy Southern drawl always made the jokes sound just a little worse, which was saying something given the terrible jokes.
He only paused for a second to finish. “I wouldn’t pay fifty dollars to have a lentil on my face! ”
“Fucking hell, Bark,” I said, laughing along with the guys groaning and booing. “You’re on probation.”
“Like you could do better,” he said, tossing his pillow at my head.
I noticed as I looked around that Cruz was the only one not joining in tonight.
He sat with his back to us across the room—I wanted to bring him into the group.
I’d spent most of my life on the outside of social groups as the new kid at school every time we moved to a new place and it sucked.
“So, Lewis goes to the doctor with a lettuce leaf sticking out of his ass. The doctor says, ‘Oh, that’s strange.’ ”
Cruz’s posture changed—he heard us but kept ignoring us, and a few of the guys looked over their shoulders at him and rolled their eyes.
“So, Lewis says, ‘And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.’ ” The room erupted in laughter. This training was hell, but I loved these guys and the sense of belonging the military had offered me. I’d never been part of a group like this before, and it bugged me seeing someone like him left out.
“Lewis,” I said as he stalked past toward the showers. “It was a joke. C’mon. You have one? Impress us!”
“Fuck off,” he said. “Wish you morons would shut the fuck up.”
“Caesar salad, don’t be like that!” Simms called after him, and Barkley acted like he was chasing after him, arms outstretched and calling out, “Cobb, don’t go!”
I laughed with everyone else but had a twinge of guilt after lights-out.
The nicknames lasted into the night, and he looked at me like I was the instigator of everything.
He’d never make it if he couldn’t be a team player, though, and I decided it wasn’t my job to help him make friends.
I had to stay focused on keeping myself going.
And then we got to extended training day, but it was better known as hell night.
Twenty hours straight of intense testing.
We’d been in and out of the water for hours, exercise after exercise in the dark pool, push-ups, treading water, a reaction drill where they threw every problem they could for us to solve.
By the time we trekked toward the reservoir and they ordered us to drop wet suits in the cold water, the finish point seemed so far away I couldn’t imagine it.
My body revolted, which I would usually ignore, but the lack of sleep and the long day made it harder.
“No arms,” the instructors called after we donned scuba fins. There were 1,750 meters to go in frigid water. There was no sign of the jokes—everyone had been pushed well past their limits and there was one singular goal: finish.
Halfway in, my legs and ankles burned, but I willed myself forward.
Cruz and I were neck and neck toward the front of the group.
It wasn’t a race, but no one wanted to be last. I kicked harder, pulling away from Cruz to get closer to the other guys, but a charley horse seized my leg and I gritted my teeth as I slowed, to basically a standstill, and Cruz blew past me as I attempted to stretch the leg, my body sinking down in the cold water. No. No. Shit. No.
I stretched but the muscle wouldn’t relax and I pressed a hand to my thigh.
I was dead last now, and I looked over my shoulder toward the other side, where the guys were beginning to make it to the far edge of the reservoir.
My hands shook under the water—I needed to get back to the group.
I willed my leg to relax. When it didn’t, I tried kicking again anyway, and let out an exasperated growl at the pain.
“Stop it.” The voice cut over the water as Cruz neared me. He’d circled back. “Stop or it won’t stop cramping.”
I stared in disbelief that he’d come back to help me.
“Lean on me for a second,” he said, maneuvering so his back was to mine. “Breathe. I know it’s hard for you to stop talking for longer than five seconds, but shut the fuck up, breathe, and stretch.”
I did what he said, my ankles protesting as I bent my ankle and the cramp finally receded. “I’m good,” I said, finally sliding away from him.
The guys yelled for us from the other side, and Cruz gave a tight nod. We both started for the edge of the reservoir, and I called out, “Thanks,” but he didn’t respond.
A few people entered the pool area behind me.
I’d had a class with one of the women, and I was pretty sure she’d said she’d been Navy.
Kelly maybe or Kylie. She had a half sleeve of tattoos up her left arm, and she nodded in my direction—she’d mentioned a couple times about joining the veterans group on campus, but I didn’t see the point.
I still had the chance to go back. No need to join something new where I’d be reminded the military was in my past.
I slipped into the pool and began a warm-up lap, the mild headache receding as I moved through the water.
Goal was 9:35 and I turned when I reached the other side and did a lazy freestyle on my way back across.
I liked goals and benchmarks to give order to my days.
Then my mind wandered to Willow’s frantic, drunken list the night before.
It had seemed nonsensical as she was creating the list, but maybe she was onto something.
If there was something I understood, it was reaching goals that seemed impossible. A list of re-dos couldn’t be that far-fetched.