“You were in Tripoli, too, right?” The question brought Sebastian back. Jesse stuck out his hand again. “I know it’s a stupid thing to say, but America Honors the Warfighter.”
“Oh.” Sebastian laughed. “Not a soldier.” He raised his now-empty glass to his lips to suck an ice cube. He hated nothing more than the conversation to come, and something hot burned in his chest. “I was the hostage they rescued.”
“That’s right.” Jesse’s voice turned flat. “I knew that.”
The questions came as they always did, in the same order. Yes, Sebastian had been the kid who went to war on winter break. A magazine intern looking for a story and his MIA cousin. Second cousin, really. No, he hadn’t embedded with an American unit. Because he’d fashioned himself rebellious back then, like a fool. No, they still hadn’t found his cousin’s remains and probably never would. How did he get there? By renting a car in Egypt and driving west. It’d been that easy.
Most people stopped asking questions then, either because of the subject matter or because of the strange pitch Sebastian put into his voice. Jesse pushed on, though, something that surprised Sebastian more than it bothered him. He found the memories of it all had become vague recently, like a fog he couldn’t grab, so he stuck to the facts. Who? The Promised Day, a pan-Arab insurgent group. Where? Different basements around Tripoli. How long? Twenty-six days. What’d he eat? Flatbread. Sometimes dates. How’d they treat him? Well, except for one short guy with a scar like an asterisk splayed across his neck. Why didn’t they kill him? Sebastian didn’t know, but his family going on television and saying they’d pay a ransom probably had something to do with it. Yes, that had upset the government. What did they talk about? Soccer, sometimes. Supermodels and actresses, other times.
“Then you got saved.”
Sebastian began chanting with supreme tedium. “Recognizing that I volunteered, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession. Never shall I fail my comrades.” He was trying to sound ironic but couldn’t quite pull it off. “Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the objective and complete the mission, though I be the lone survivor. Rangers. Rangers lead the way.”
“Well.” Jesse’s words were flat again. “And the helicopter pilots.”
“True. I owe a lot to Mia. And the others.” Sebastian took a breath and raised an eyebrow. The feeling in his chest had cooled. “That’s the short of it. Empire News did a piece about it last year. If you’d like the government-approved version.”
Jesse laughed again, less sincere this time. He asked if Sebastian still worked in media.
“Homeland Authority,” Sebastian said. “Became a PR flack.”
The two men parted ways with promises to hang out soon, the kind that only sound hollow afterward. Sebastian got another drink. He moved through the next hour in a trance, going from social circle to social circle with the stupid grin of a man overmatched. Sebastian knew little of Connecticut, and even less of Wall Street, but the Tucker family transcended even his ignorance. Mia’s great-great-grandfather had made a fortune in steel, later founding the nation’s seventh-largest investment bank. Though the company had long ago gone public, Mia’s father still served as its asset management CEO. Despite the crash of the global economy, life for the Tuckers hadn’t changed as far as Sebastian could tell. That bothered him when he bothered to think about it. He couldn’t help but think about it in the restaurant.
“Eight hundred thousand just doesn’t get what it used to,” someone said. “Don’t those people understand they’re voting against their self-interest?” another asked. “Who summers in the Antilles anymore?” still another said. Class resentment raged within Sebastian, but he kept it hidden and sheathed, remembering that such a weapon never struck clean. He nodded and smiled. He also ate a lot of bacon-wrapped dates.
While Sebastian listened in on an obligatory “Where were you during the Palm Sunday attacks?” conversation, Mia’s stepmom patted his arm. Sebastian had thought that Mrs. Tucker—who insisted he call her Linda—disliked him, but she pulled him away with friendliness in her grip.
“Hello, Mrs. Tucker,” Sebastian said.
“Take off those sunglasses,” Linda said. “You’re indoors.”
You know damn well why I wear these, Sebastian thought, though she probably didn’t. He kept them on.
“You’ve been requested,” Linda continued. “A new friend of Mia’s. Don’t…” Linda trailed off. “Just be normal.”
Before Sebastian could ask what that meant, Linda led him to a woman in a long green chemise leaning against the back wall. A tattoo sleeve of black-and-red flames breathed down her right shoulder to the elbow. She wore no jewelry except for a dull labret piercing above her chin and little makeup, and her arms were crossed. Sebastian thought she looked bored. She had curly brown hair and big, green eyes he labeled “sad,” then “defiant.” Sebastian grinned wide.
“Here he is,” Linda said. “Meet Britt, Sebastian. We were just talking about your, umm. Experiences.”
Sebastian’s grin slid away. Anything but that, he thought. Can we talk about anything else? He began chewing on his bottom lip. Linda said, “If you’ll excuse me,” and disappeared into the crowd. Sebastian whistled low to himself. He was about to lead with another “So” when she spoke.
“My brother,” Britt said. She uncrossed her arms, a faint omega symbol on the underside of a wrist turning out against the wall. “He was one of the guys who saved you.”
“Oh.” Sebastian had to jam some goodwill into his voice. He knew what his rescuers’ families held against him. “I’m. Well. So sorry for your loss. And grateful. Very, very grateful.” He was genuinely both of those things, and did his best to convey it in his words, all the while knowing she’d find the words empty and worn. They always did. “I’d love to hear about him. Whatever you’re willing to share.”
“He didn’t die.” Britt lifted an eyebrow in amusement as Sebastian raised his in surprise. Three Rangers of forty had survived. “I’m Pete Swenson’s sister.”
She finally smiled, and Sebastian noticed the smallest of gaps between her front teeth.
“Oh. Wow.” Sebastian stuck out his hand. “Your brother’s a hero.” She didn’t return the gesture, so he returned his hand and kept talking. “I mean, all the Volunteers are. But especially him.” She still didn’t do anything, so he still kept talking. “Didn’t they just finish filming a movie? They’re playing themselves? It was on the news.”
“Yeah.” Britt couldn’t hide her disdain. “Something like that.”
Pete Swenson’s sister doesn’t regard him the same way everyone else does, Sebastian thought. That’s interesting. He wanted to ask about it. But her voice suggested wariness. So did her posture. She must get questions about him all the time, he realized. So instead he asked how she knew Mia.
“I reached out a couple years ago,” Britt said. “We got coffee. She was there with you all. With the cythrax bomb and everything. I wanted to know more and my brother wasn’t here. We became friends.”