Well, almost everything. He opted for the college athlete route while I picked the military, so I guess he won the quality of life lottery on that deal. Somehow, fate knew he’d need to be home for this week, you know the week I came back from the dead. Although, I don’t really believe in fate, so we’ll blame the coincidence on his university’s pre-planned fall break.
“So, can I see the tats?” Graden asks with a mouthful of spicy chorizo.
I squint a not-impressed expression at him. “No.”
“Come on, dude. You bragged about all the ink you were sporting in those letters right before …”
He breaks off, and I know what he was about to say. Right before I was captured. Right before I got gone. Right before I became missing in action.
What the people who silence themselves before they say that don’t know is what that really means. Right before a bunch of fucking sand ghosts took hammers and drills to my body. Right before they starved me and kept me up for hours on end with rambling music or water torture. Right before they filmed four different videos in which I thought they’d saw my head off in another minute.
Shaking my head, I push the images into the dark box I’ve tried to secure them in at the back of my brain.
“Whatever, dude. You’re not seeing them,” I answer sternly.
Not only do I feel like an idiot for bragging about the full sleeves I had a military buddy ink my body with over there, but I don’t want Graden to see the scars. To see the arm-length silvery patch where one of the enemy soldiers dragged a machete down my arm.
“Fine. Be that way. Hey, have you whined at your parents for the new Madden, yet? Bet you could ask for anything and they’d buy it.”
He’s always been good at distracting me from anything of a serious nature. Not that he wasn’t a beast on the football field in high school; he wouldn’t be the starting wide receiver at a division one college if he wasn’t. But in terms of anything other than sports and training, you can count on Graden to be the quintessential class clown.
“Dude, Madden has been the last thing on my mind.” But now that I think about it, video games might be a fun outlet, as long I don’t have to shoot anything. “But bring it over tomorrow and I’ll kick your ass.”
“Oh, bro, don’t even start. You haven’t held a controller in a year, I’m going to wipe the fucking floor with you.” He snorts, giving me a cocky grin.
This feels normal, the two of us shooting the shit. It almost makes me forget, for one second, how fucked up I am.
When Graden insisted on eating at Ocean Taco, the only Mexican joint in Brentwick, I hesitated. It’s right on Dellan Drive, the main street in town, and anyone could see us. Or worse, we could run into a certain person I’ve been avoiding since I gave her verbal whiplash in my backyard.
But he told me to stop being a pussy, and no one had talked back to me since I’d gotten home. It felt so good, that I relented and agreed to venture to the most public of streets in our hometown.
“Hey, man!” Graden rises halfway out of his chair, waving someone over.
When I turn, I notice Scott, a kid two years younger who played football with us back in high school, giving us the bro nod as he waits for change from the girl at the hostess stand.
Scott approaches us, the new captain of the football team from everything I’ve read in the local paper since I’ve been back. When you can’t stand the white noise of a TV, too close to helicopter blades, and the frequency of the radio makes you jumpy, your last resort is old-fashioned reading.
“Hey, man! I didn’t know you were home.”
The two fist bump and do the half shoulder guy hug we’re all universally versed in. Then he turns to me.
“Wow, Everett, great to see you, man.” He holds out a fist, and I weakly bump it.
I’m having a problem with physical contact, no matter how much my brain rationally knows that these people aren’t going to hurt me.
“Thanks. You too.” Is it, though?
“What are you guys up to?” He eyes me cautiously, as if he’s trying not to say the wrong thing or act like he hasn’t just glimpsed someone who came back from the dead.
“Nothing, man. I’m home on fall break, just lying low with this guy. Had to come get some grub, it’s too good to stay away. How about you, how is the season going?”
I tune them out as Scott regales Graden about the Brentwick football season, how they’ve won both games they’ve played, what the roster looks like. I focus on my burrito, cutting, forking, and chewing. Turning my hearing off is a new skill, one I’m glad to have mastered. Too much social interaction grates on my nerves these days.
“So you talked to Kennedy?” Scott says, and I’m slammed right back into the current moment.
I can tell he tried to bring it up organically, though his voice makes it sound anything but.
That’s when I remember that he’s dating Rachel, one of the girl next door’s best friends.
I wonder if she’s said something to her fucking cheerleading squad already. Probably whined about her crush snubbing her or some ridiculous shit that means nothing in the grand scheme of life. Why else would he be asking?
“Oh, man, she got hot since you’ve been away. Didn’t you guys have some kind of fuck buddy pact if you ever came back?” Graden elbows me.
My gut roils, and I shoot him a look. “No, we didn’t.”
I don’t bother answering the rest of his question, or responding to his speculation about her looks. We all know how much of a fucking knockout Kennedy is, it doesn’t need to be said.
Scott looks back and forth between Graden and I, an awkward silence falling over us. “All right. Well, there is a barn party tonight if you guys want to come. I know it’s just high school shit, but there will be kegs and weed.”
He throws up a hand and departs as easily as he came.
Graden turns to me. “Let’s go to that party.”
“No.” I immediately shut it down.
“Aw, come on, why not? Free beer, hot high school chicks, a little bit of fun. You remember fun, right?” His voice is a lesson in mocking.
“Fuck off. I just don’t … I don’t want a crowd.”
“Drink enough and you won’t notice them. We’re going.” Graden flips me off, and shoves a huge forkful of Mexican food mess into his mouth.
And because drinking a vat of alcohol to numb my brain actually does sound like a good idea, I don’t argue.
6
Kennedy
Pulling my jacket more firmly around my shoulders, I snuggle into whatever warmth I can get.
“Can we please close the doors?” I whine again.
Judy, the head EMT at the Brentwick Rescue Squad, turns her kind blue eyes on me. “No can do, lady. If we get a call, you know the drill. Out the door as fast as we can.”
A gust of wind blows through the two large garage doors at the front of the rescue squad building, past the two shining ambulances parked inside, and into my bones where I sit on a stool.
“I know, I know. It’s just so cold!”
My EMT uniform is bulky and does insulate well, but it’s an unseasonably cold September night, and I’m cranky. I knew I’d be working a late shift, but didn’t realize it would be on the night that Rachel and Bianca wanted to throw the barn party. Now, I’d not only be late, but I’d be exhausted from however many emergency calls we’d make, and my hair would look like crap.