Chapter 7 #2
You look great! What do you mean too much makeup? It barely looks like you’re wearing anything. But in the best way. Where are you going? Because I know you’re not putting on makeup for your normal Friday night of dinner in front of the TV.
Smiling at the phone, I type a quick reply.
Not my normal Friday night. Ace is coming up for the weekend. He’s supposed to be here in a few hours. So I thought I’d get ready now and give myself a little time to clean up the place before he gets here.
She texts back right away.
Ace?? Just-friends Ace? He’s coming for the weekend? To stay with you? How am I only hearing about this now? What’s going on?
I run a brush through my hair before replying.
It’s new. And we’re not dating. He came up last weekend to check on me, since he was worried I might not be okay after that whole thing in Tacoma. I’m totally fine, so don’t worry. But he ended up staying through the weekend, and we kissed. Now we’re kind of “seeing where things go”.
Annaliese replies immediately.
Seeing where things go? What does that mean?
I head back into the bedroom while I type.
I’m not sure. He’s not looking for anything serious. And neither am I. But I like him. So… I don’t know. We’re going to spend more time together and see what happens.
The three dots blink on and off for a few seconds.
Guys say that all the time, Yara. About not wanting anything serious. But if he came last weekend because he was worried, and he’s coming this weekend, too… That sounds pretty serious to me.
A beat, and then another message.
What are you wearing? Please tell me it’s not those God-awful sweats.
Laughing, I snap a picture of my new outfit laid out on the bed.
My sweats aren’t that bad. But no, I thought I’d wear these. Too dressy?
Her response is immediate.
No! Don’t you dare chicken out. That color is gorgeous and are those designer jeans I see? I need a photo of you wearing them. And a photo of this Ace.
Setting the phone down, I quickly change into the new outfit, then snap a photo of myself in the closet mirror.
Okay. What do you think?
Her first response is just a string of heart-eyed emojis, followed by an actual message.
You look hot, Yara. Do not change before he gets there. I mean it.
Some of the anxiety I’ve been carrying about the night dissolves.
Annaliese dates a lot more often than I do—well, since I never date, that’s not a high bar to set, but she goes out on at least a few dates a month—and she’s always been the more fashionable one of us.
So if she thinks I look good, I’m going to take her word for it.
I’m halfway through typing my response when I get a notification that someone’s at my front door. Stupidly, my heart leaps, even though I know there’s no possible way Ace could be here already.
As I open the security app, I sort through the options of who it could reasonably be.
One of my neighbors, possibly, with some misdelivered mail or a request for donations for one of the many fundraisers that pop up this time of year.
It could be food delivery intended for the house next door, which seems to happen at least once a month or so.
But beyond that, I can’t imagine who would stop by for an unannounced visit.
Aside from Ace, that is. But none of my acquaintances from work would. We stick with coffee runs and the occasional lunch out, but that’s it. So who could it be?
Once the video loads, I’m still not sure of the answer.
The man appears to be in his mid-thirties, with a knit hat covering his hair and his winter coat pulled high around his neck.
His posture is straight, almost rigidly so, reminding me of many of the guys I know from the Army.
But this guy… his face looks oddly familiar, but I can’t seem to place it.
The warning Ace left me with last Sunday immediately comes to mind.
“I know you can take care of yourself,” he told me, “but be careful, okay? Winthrop might be on house arrest, but that’s not a guarantee.
And he has money, so he could pay someone to do his dirty work.
I’m not saying he will. But he might. And I don’t want anything to happen to you. ”
As much as I don’t want to think that Winthrop could send someone after me in an act of retribution, it would be stupid of me not to at least consider it. So I tap the microphone button in the app and say, “Hang on. I’ll be right there.”
Then I switch over to the facial recognition software I have linked to the doorbell in hopes of finding out my visitor’s identity. After all, it would be easy enough for the man to lie about his intentions, but if I know definitely who he is…
Less than thirty seconds later I have my answer.
Davis Kellogg.
Sergeant First Class Kellogg, formerly of the U.S. Army.
And now that I know his name, I remember exactly how I know him.
He doesn’t look quite the same as he did three years ago. His features are more gaunt, and he’s lost some weight. His beard is salt-and-pepper, rather than the dark brown it used to be. There are new lines around his eyes and across his forehead.
But I remember him. Oh, do I remember him.
It was the first week after I’d been captured, and I watched from my holding cell as Davis was dragged in, beaten and bleeding. I’m not sure how he was captured, or where, but obviously his mission had failed just as badly as mine.
In the month he was there before being taken to another facility, we didn’t speak much. All we really exchanged were names and ranks. Malik had still been alive back then, so he and I were focused on keeping each other’s spirits up.
I never knew what happened to Davis after they took him away. And I’m not proud to admit it, but I tried not to think about it.
It wasn’t that I didn’t care. But all my efforts had to go into surviving. Into keeping the secrets I’d sworn my life to uphold. Into shoving down the gut-wrenching memories that could have easily driven me crazy.
In the three months I was held captive, I tried my best to remember all the reasons there were to hang on. Annaliese. Kai, Ford, and Saint. I spent hundreds of hours thinking about the prosthetics I’d make if I ever escaped, and the people I could help if I did.
But I couldn’t let myself think about the men who’d died.
I couldn’t let myself think about the terrible fate awaiting those who hadn’t.
The memories still revisit me in my nightmares, of course. The screaming. The sobs. The pleas from broken men, begging for their parents. The bloodstains on dirty floors and the cruel laughter from the captors who spilled it.
And the guilt. That most of all.
In the three years since, I’ve tried my best to move on. With the help of my counselor, my new and predictable job, and my projects, I’ve reached a sort of stability, if nothing else. But now my past is standing right on my doorstep, waiting for me.
I should be happy to find out Davis survived. I am. But that doesn’t mean I want to talk to him. Because I know he’s not here for a pleasant visit. He wants to talk about what happened in Iran. And selfishly, I don’t want to.
But I never used to be a coward, and I’m not going to be now. So I switch back over to the security app and tap the microphone button again, saying, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll be right there.”
On my way to the living room, my phone still clutched in my hand, I have a moment’s thought of texting Ace to let him know.
Not that he could do anything about it, but his reassurances would make me feel better.
They might even settle the flutters of nerves in my belly and loosen the bands of tension wrapped tight around my chest.
Right before I reach the front door, I decide against it. If I text Ace, he’ll end up worrying the entire way here. And anyway, it’ll be fine. I’ll talk to Davis, find out the reason he’s here, and do my very best to move past it by the time Ace arrives.
As I unlock the door, I run through a round of box breathing to calm myself down. Then I take a deep breath and let it out slowly before opening the door.
On the other side of it, Davis gives me a tight smile. “Sergeant Alves.” He lifts his chin. “I’m not sure if you remember me. Davis Kellogg. From… well. It’s good to see you.”
I force my lips to curve. “I remember. And it’s just Yara. It’s good to see you, too.”
He stares at me, an indecipherable expression in his eyes. “Sorry to stop by unannounced like this. But whenever I thought about calling… it didn’t feel right.”
“That’s okay.” Not really. Some warning would have been nice. But I don’t say that. Instead, I ask politely, “Would you like to come in?”
In the moment before he responds, I allow myself to hope he’ll decline. That he’ll say he just wanted to say hello, for closure or some such, and he’ll be on his way.
“Thanks,” Davis replies. “That would be nice.”
My stomach flips over. “Okay.” Stepping back from the door, I gesture for him to come inside. Angling my chin at the couch, I ask, “Would you like to sit?”
This isn’t me; this quiet, overly polite person. But seeing Davis, a part of my life I’d rather forget, makes me feel nauseous and prickly and anything but friendly.
Davis takes a seat at one end of the couch, sitting stiffly.
He doesn’t make a move to take off his coat, but he pulls off his hat and sets it on the coffee table.
“I’m sure I’m the last person you’re expecting to see,” he says.
“But I’ve been having a tough time since I got home.
And I guess… I just wanted to talk to someone who went through what I did. ”
My stomach lurches. This doesn’t sound like a quick conversation. Resigned, I take a seat at the opposite end of the couch. “How long have you been back?”
Davis grimaces. “About six months. Not nearly as long as you. It’s been what, three years now?”
“Yeah.” Clasping my hands together, I run my thumb across the scabbed-over cut on my palm. “Just about.”