Chapter 4 #2
Hatch leans down, planting his hands on the table. His biceps flex, thick as cables. "You're a restorer, aren't you? That’s your whole identity. You take broken, rotted, useless things and you make them whole again. You sand down the rough edges. You reinforce the structure."
"Some things are too damaged to save," I say. "Some things you have to condemn."
"Is that for you to decide?" Hatch challenges. "Did you ask Reid if he wanted to condemn the friendship? Or did you just decide for him because you were too scared to do the hard work?"
I don't have an answer. He's got me trapped. I've spent my whole life saving stuff that other people tossed out. But when it came to the most important thing in my life, I didn't even try to fix it. I just took a sledgehammer to it.
"You deserve a life, Blake," Hatch says, straightening up. "And you don't earn forgiveness by bleeding out in a ditch in Kandahar. You earn it by showing up. By doing the work."
I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. Because deep down, I know he's right about the bleeding out part. I've been hoping for it. Clean exit. No mess left behind.
"You think you don't deserve a future," Hatch continues, crossing his arms. "I've watched you do this dance for years, Moore. You disappear into being the protector. Someone needs saving, and boom—there goes Blake. Like you don't exist except to fix everyone else's problems."
"That's what I'm good at."
"Says who?" His voice cuts through my bullshit. "Who decided you were born to be everyone's shield? When did you start thinking you had to sacrifice yourself for everyone else?"
The question hits something deep. A fault line I've spent decades trying to plaster over.
"My mom needed me." The words come out rough, dragged from somewhere I don't visit.
"Dad left when I was six. She worked doubles at the diner, came home smelling like grease and exhaustion.
Someone had to make sure the bills got paid, the fridge wasn't empty, that she actually ate something before she passed out. "
I can still see her, slumped at the kitchen table at midnight, too tired to make it to her bedroom. I'd drape a blanket over her shoulders. Make sure the doors were locked. Set her alarm so she wouldn't be late for the morning shift.
"Then Gramps." My throat tightens. "When Mom got sick and passed and I ended up in Oregon, he was already frail.
Hands shaking so bad he could barely hold a chisel anymore.
But he taught me everything." I look down at my own hands, calloused and scarred.
"How to read the grain. How to feel when the wood wanted to bend versus break.
How to bring something back from the dead. "
Gramps would be furious right now. He'd look at this mess I've made—Reid alone, Laine hurt, me hiding in a war zone—and he'd shake his head with that disappointed silence that cut deeper than any shouting.
You don't destroy what you love, boy. You tend it.
"He'd be ashamed of me," I say quietly. "All that time teaching me to restore things, and I just... demolished everything that mattered."
Hatch doesn't let the silence sit. "So you took care of your mom. Took care of your grandfather. Took care of Reid after Jared died. When's the last time someone took care of you?"
"That's not—"
"Answer the question."
I can't.
"Why is Reid's happiness more important than yours?" Hatch presses.
"Because he's good." The answer comes fast, automatic. "He's the one who should have a life. A family. He deserves—"
"And you don't?"
"I don't know how to do that." My voice cracks again. "I don't know how to just... be happy. I know how to fix things. I know how to protect people. But when I try to have something for myself, I destroy it."
Hatch watches me, eyes narrowing. "You ever think maybe you keep people at arm's length because you're terrified they'll leave anyway? So you make yourself indispensable instead. Can't abandon the guy holding everything together, right?"
The words land like a blade between my ribs.
"If I was just..." I stop. Start again. "If I could just be enough—"
"Then they wouldn't leave," Hatch finishes. "That's what you believe, isn't it? That if you're useful enough, essential enough, people have to stay."
I don't answer. Can't answer.
"But that's not love, Blake. That's a fucking transaction, and it's fucking exhausting." He taps the cigarette pack once more. "You're so busy being necessary that you never let anyone actually know you. And then you wonder why you feel alone."
I want to argue. Want to tell him he's wrong. But the silence stretches, and I've got nothing.
"Check in," Hatch says finally. "Turn on your phone. See if your grand plan is actually working. See if Reid's thriving without you like you convinced yourself he would."
"And if he's not?"
"Then maybe you consider your instincts about what everyone needs are dead fucking wrong."
He turns to leave.
"Hatch," I call out.
He stops, hand on the doorframe.
"Where'd you get your fucking psychology degree?"
"From the university of 'don't have my head up my ass'." He turns back to look at me, face grave. "Don't make me come back here to recover your body. Please. I can't do that again. I don't want to lose you to the shit going on in your head."
Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
I sit in the silence. I never really let myself think about after. I always just imagined not being here anymore. And in my imagination, everybody else just went on with their life.
How could I be so fucking delusional? I remember watching Jared's coffin come off that transport flight. I remember the pain, and the grief like it was yesterday.
I look down at the rifle on the table. Cold. Black. Dead.
I hate it. For the first time in three months, I look at the weapon and I hate it. I hate the simplicity of it. I hate that I tried to become it.
He’s sleeping in the bunk room. He’s alone.
The thought claws at my chest. Reid, the guy who drags everyone else into the light, sitting in the dark. Because of me. I didn't save him. I abandoned him.
I stand up, grabbing my gear. I walk back to the bunk, moving on autopilot. The corridor is empty. The air conditioning vents rattle.
I enter my room and sit on the edge of the mattress. It smells like dust.
My hand goes to the shelf. To the black brick.
I shouldn't. It’s a mistake. It opens the door. It lets the pain in.
But Hatch’s voice is in my head. You’re hiding.
I am. I’m hiding. And I’m done hiding.
I press the power button.
The screen flares to life, blindingly bright in the dark room. The logo flashes. Then the loading bar. My pulse is thumping in my ears, louder than the generators outside.
The screen unlocks. It vibrates. Once. Twice. A continuous buzz against my palm.
Notifications cascade down the screen. Dozens of them. A wall of green bubbles spanning weeks of panic.
Reid (2 months ago): Where are you?
Reid (2 months ago): Pick up the phone, Blake.
Reid (2 months ago): Don't do this.
I keep scrolling. The messages get more desperate as the weeks go on.
Reid (6 weeks ago): Just let me know you're alive. Please.
Then silence. A full month of dead silence. He finally gave up.
I stare at the screen, the air punching out of my lungs. I did this to him. I left him bleeding out, and then I ignored him while he begged for a tourniquet.
And then another message.
The name on the screen hits me harder than a piece of shrapnel.
Laine.
I stop breathing. My vision blurs. I stole her fucking number. I knew it wasn't mine to have, but I needed it. I wanted it. But I never used it.
I never expected her to message me. Not in a million fucking years.
I shouldn't read it. She hates me. She has every right to hate me. I was cruel to her. I terrified her. I wanted her to hate me so she would be safe from me. Can I take more of her hatred?
I should turn the phone off and throw it into the latrine. I should go back to being a rifle.
But I’m not a rifle. I’m the idiot who loves them both.
I open the message. It was sent two days ago.
Laine
Blake, it's Laine. Reid doesn't know I'm texting you.
I saw Reid today. He looks bad. Really bad. Tony says he's barely eating, working doubles just to avoid going home. He's not okay, Blake. He's falling apart and I don't know how to help him.
I know you're dealing with your own stuff. I know things ended badly between all of us. But he needs his brother. He needs to know you're okay. He needs SOMETHING.
You told me you stayed to hold him together. Well, you're gone, and he's in pieces. Come fix this.
Please.
This is all fucking wrong. I stare at the wall. The concrete feels like it's closing in. The air in the room is suddenly too thin to breathe. The safety of the war zone, the comfort of the orders, the numbness of the routine—it all shatters.
I’m not a weapon. I’m a man who left his brother bleeding.
And there is only one way to fix it. Not by dying here. But by going back there and facing the wreckage.
I stand up. I don't think. I don't plan. I just move.
I shove the phone into my pocket. I grab my duffel bag and throw the few things I own into it. The uniform. The boots. The picture of the three of us—Me, Reid, Jared—that I keep tucked in my Grandpa's Bible.
I walk out of the room, down the hall, boots slamming against the floor. I pound my fist on Hatch's door.
"Hatch!" I yell. "Wake up."
The door opens instantly. Hatch stands there fully dressed, looking like he expected me. Like he was waiting for the knock.
"I need a flight," I say. My voice is rough, scraping my throat. "Get me on the bird to Ramstein. Tonight. I don't care what it costs. I don't care if I have to sit in the cargo hold."
Hatch studies my face. He sees the frantic energy in my eyes. He sees the phone sticking out of my pocket. He doesn't smile, but his shoulders drop an inch.
He nods, once. A sharp, decisive movement.
"About fucking time, Moore," he says, stepping back to let me in. "You're going home."