I want her.
I want to get to know her, really know her. And I want to make her smile. I want to feel her strawberry lips on mine and brush her hair from her face. I want to do dorky touristy things together, things I’d never be caught dead doing with anyone else. I want to show her more constellations. I want to take her to another Panoramic Sunrise concert because god damn it, she deserves a do-over.
I want her to wait for me, to push my limits and do annoyingly sweet things and tell me she misses me.
And I don’t want her sleeping with anyone else.
Shoving what’s left of my things into an Army-issued duffel bag, I find a crumpled scrap of paper—an old report of some kind, the edges burnt, and I grab a pen from my desk drawer. Scribbling a note, I fold the paper into fourths and tuck it in my pocket.
First chance I get, I’ll send it.
“Corp, we gotta go.”
I glance up to find Lt. Peters in my doorway, looking white as a ghost. The familiar, sickening sound of bombers breaking the sound barrier rumbles above us, vibrating through every breath, every thought.
I’m not a religious man much to my mother’s dismay, but I find a handful of seconds to make a promise to God. Let me make it home alive, and I promise I’ll tell her how I feel. I’ll be the man she deserves, the man I’m supposed to be. I’ll change. For good.
And I’ll tell her everything.
Twenty-Five
Maritza
* * *
Melrose cups her dog’s wrinkly face in her hands and rubs her nose against his. “You seem down lately.”
“Me? Or the dog?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes before pulling her dog into her arms. “You. Murphy’s always happy. He’s living the good life.”
“I’m not … not happy,” I say, reaching for my bottled water on the coffee table. I unscrew the cap and lift it to my mouth before adding, “I guess I’ve just been thinking about Isaiah lately.”
“Still?” Melrose sits up straight in our leather arm chair. “You haven’t seen him in, what … several months? And you knew him all of a week?”
“I know, I know.” I take a swig. “And it was nine days. I know, okay? Don’t think I don’t have this conversation with myself on a regular basis. I just guess I’m trying to make sense of how two people could hit it off so well and how we were writing these cute little letters back and forth and then he just … stopped.”
“You need a new hobby or something that doesn’t involve obsessing over pointless stupid shit like Corporal Douche Bag.”
“It’s not like I’ve been moping around the last few months. I’ve been living my life, doing the exact same things I’d be doing had I never met him,” I say. And it’s true. I catch movies. I grab drinks with friends. I lunch with my favorite people. I read books and visit family. By no means am I sitting around waiting for the mailman or some serendipitous knock at my door. But it doesn’t make this whole thing bother me any less. “I just want to know that he’s okay, Mel. At this point, it doesn’t matter why he stopped writing. I just want to know if he’s safe. That’s the only thing I care about.”
Melrose begins to respond but my phone steals the show, vibrating across the coffee table.
“Ugh,” I say, glancing at the screen and declining. “It’s that blocked number again.”
The few times I’ve answered, it’s always been nothing—like someone’s on the other end, muting their line.
“You’re still getting those?” she asks, forehead wrinkled.
“Yup. At least every other day.” They started a couple of months ago, and at the time I didn’t think much of them. Most of the time they happen when I’m at work or in class and my phone is on silent. But now I get them almost every day, sometimes two or three times.
“For the love of God, will you change your phone number? It’s the only way to make these stop.” She cradles Murphy in her arms and kisses the top of his head.
Pulling in a haggard breath, I stare at the black glass in my hand. I’ve been putting it off for months … maybe because a part of me wanted to make sure Isaiah had a way of contacting me should he need to or want to or whatever.
But that argument seems a bit moot at this point.
“I’ll do it first thing tomorrow,” I say. Rising, I head back to my room and grab my notebook—the one I’d been keeping all the letters I’ve written him the last several weeks, ones I vowed not to send until I’d heard from him again.
There are so many things I wish I could tell him—stupid things, really. Like I wish I could tell him I finally decided what I want to do with my life, that I finally picked a major and I’m starting classes this August. He’d be happy for me. At least, I think he would.
I guess I don’t really know anymore.
At the end of the day, Melrose is right.
He’s just some stranger I knew for nine days, and after all these months and all these letters, he’s still just some stranger.
Twenty-Six
Maritza
* * *
He would’ve come home today.
At least, six months ago today was when he left, and he’d claimed his deployment was six months unless he decided to extend it.
I changed my number last week, which sort of signified the fact that I decided to let him go, to let go of the briefness of what was and all the questions that will never have answers. But still, he slips into my mind without permission on a regular basis. Melrose says I should learn to meditate, to mentally place my thoughts of Isaiah on a cloud and blow them away with a gentle exhalation.
I think she’s full of shit.
I tried that … a dozen times … and not once did it work. If anything, those thoughts only came back with a vengeance, lingering longer and overstaying their welcome ten-fold.
It’s like a sickness, an incurable disease.
Rach says I need closure. Mel says I need to see a shrink, which is a little dramatic in my opinion but she is her mother’s daughter and her mother is of the opinion that shrinks are the answer to all of life’s problems. That and Xanax.
All I know is I just want to move on with my life and be okay with not knowing why he stopped talking to me or why I continue to give a damn.
“You okay?” Rach ties her apron around her waist after clocking in Tuesday morning. “You look a little lost in thought.”
I force a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Do I need to remind you that I’m a mother of three and my lie-dar is so strong it can pick up a lie from up to eighty yards away? You’re lying, Ritz. Don’t lie to me.”
Tying my hair into a low ponytail, I turn to face her. “I stayed up all night checking all the public military casualty records I could find.”
“Sweet Jesus. This is worse than I realized.” Rach pinches her nose and places her palm on my shoulder. “Find what you were looking for?”
I bite my lip and shake my head. “I’m not proud, okay?”
“Is he alive?”
I shrug. “From what I can tell. Without being next-of-kin, there are certain records I couldn’t access.”