Lou said Forty was in a helicopter, and it made a hard landing. He got burned saving another passenger. The other guys died. It messed up his arm so he couldn’t be a sniper anymore.
He can drive his truck just fine. I’m assuming he can ride his bike. He’s got to be mostly okay, right?
I bet he didn’t listen to the doctors. That’s why there’s all those expired medicine bottles. He’s crap at listening. He decides what’s right, and that’s what he does. Like enlisting. I told him over and over that I didn’t need a house and all of that. We could get an apartment downtown. We’d get jobs. I’m not afraid of work.
But he had it in his head that he needed to provide for me. He thought that no matter what I said now, one day I’d wake up and realize I’d made a shit deal, and I’d bail. Like his mother, I guess.
Which is really stupid, considering I’ve woken up every day my entire adult life, thought “this is a shit deal,” and rolled out of bed to go to work anyway. Is there really an opt out?
I squeeze a big ol’ squirt of toothpaste on my brand-new brush and scrub the salty taste of Forty out of my mouth. I don’t like to swallow, but I was cumming so hard, and he was so into it, I got kind of carried away.
After I rearrange all the stuff in his medicine cabinet, I wander back into his room. I’m gonna touch everything. Starting with the closet. The front of my T-shirt is damp with blowjob drool. I need a change of clothes.
Forty’s room is in the new annex. This whole part of the clubhouse hadn’t been built yet when I left town. It’s really modern, but somehow, it fits with the renovated 1930s garage that houses the commons, the bar, the kitchen, and the cramped rooms we used to pass out in back in the day.
Forty’s closet matches his fancy bathroom. It’s a walk in, with recessed lighting and cedar hangers. It’s mostly empty. I start opening drawers. Socks, folded and stacked in neat rows. I shuffle the black dress socks and the white gym socks. Underwear and undershirts, folded and organized by cut. I shuffle those, too. Ammunition.
Ammunition?
Yup. Three drawers of ammunition. Organized by caliber and manufacturer. I leave that alone. Messing with a man’s hoard of ammunition just seems unwise.
In the last, shallow drawer, meant for watches and cufflinks, there’s a rectangular jewelry box. Inside, there’s a gold medal hanging on a green ribbon with white stripes. There’s an eagle on the medal, and the letter “C” on the ribbon.
There’s nothing else in the drawer. I shut the box and put it back, trying to remember exactly where it was.
My stomach feels funny. Like I’m nervous. But I’m not afraid of being caught. That’s not it. I shove the feeling aside and keep exploring. There are plenty of shirts. I help myself to a white button up, and I roll up the sleeves. Then, I randomly reverse the hangers.
Forty has a lot of cargo pants, and he hangs them up by shade of earth tone. Weird. At the back of the closet there’s a garment bag. Inside, there’s a dark blue jacket with gold buttons and a dozen striped ribbons on the breast. On the left sleeve, there’s a badge that says Ranger.
That funny feeling comes back. It’s kind of a mix of queasiness and dread. The dread makes no sense. The helicopter accident happened. It’s over. Forty’s fine. Or fine enough. I couldn’t have done anything, even if I’d known at the time. It must have been almost three and half years ago. Back when I was working as a receptionist at the day spa that turned out to be a rub-and-tug place and got shut down.
I shouldn’t be touching his uniform. I zip the bag up carefully, and I wander out and perch on the edge of his bed.
I was so mad when he enlisted. He’d said he was just going to talk to the recruiter. Hear the man out. But he came back with paperwork, and there was nothing I could say. He had an answer for everything.
Of course, he wouldn’t get killed. What? Did I not have faith in him?
This was gonna be good for us. He’d be able to get ASE certified, and the Army would pay. When he came home, he could work at the Autowerks with Big George. Make real good money.
I had a year left of school. I’d hardly miss him. We’d email. Video chat. He’d send money home. When I graduated, if I wanted, I could go to school. Or better yet, I could get started setting up a place for us. I wouldn’t have to worry. He’d take care of everything.
He was excited to go.
Oh, hell. He wanted to go. I guess I’ve always known that, but until this moment? That’s not a part of how I tell myself the story.
My heart cracks in my chest, quiet as an eggshell.
Back then, I knew that the instant Forty’s horn didn’t wake Ed Ellis up every morning, my life was going to go off the rails. I was scared shitless, and Forty was stoked to go make a man of himself.
If I had told him what was going on, I’d have ruined it for him. Forty would have kill Ed, gone to jail, and he wouldn’t have been gone two years, he’d have been gone forever.
I could do two years. It would only be a year until I could move out. I could get a gun; I knew bikers. I wouldn’t shoot Ed. Just get him to back off. Or I could tell Mom. There were moments. She’d come up behind me, scoop up my hair, twist it into a bun, and tell me how much it looked like Grandma Ruth’s. There were moments I thought maybe she’d help me, if I told.
Around and around in my brain, words teetering on the tip of my tongue. But then Forty was gone, and things flew out of control, and so did I.
But that’s not quite the truth, is it?
Forty left, and I was so angry. I was gonna make him regret it. I knew he couldn’t come home and rescue me. I pretended to fuck around on him because I wanted him to hurt as bad as me. Feel as powerless as me. Because I was mad he needed to leave me to feel like a man when I needed saving right where I was.
I was stuck and scared and hurting, so I decided to make him suffer.
Oh, shit. What a freaking mess.
What am I doing? There’s not some long lost love to rekindle here. There’s only strangers who once upon a time were two kids who needed to grow up.
I go try the door again. Still locked. I bang until my palm throbs. No one comes. No one even hollers through the door to knock it off.
I can’t be here. I need a hair pin.
Forty’s not gonna have a hair pin. A paper clip might work. I go to his desk and dump the drawers. I don’t need to be in this kind of rush, but I’m still tearing through his shit, whether out of shame or panic, I’m not even sure.
I dump the nightstand drawer onto the bed. A box of condoms, spare batteries, and a miniature copy of the New Testament. The condoms are half gone. Ouch. The hits keep coming.
I go back to his desk. There’s his laptop. I can email for help. Yes, I can message Fay-Lee. She’ll spring me. I shake the mouse, and his screen blinks to life. Please don’t be password protected. Please.
Oh. Double ouch.
I don’t need a password. His browser’s still open, and I guess he hasn’t set it to automatically log him out. He’s on LoveMate.com. Seriously? Who doesn’t use the app on their phone?
I’ve never seen the actual site, but it’s easy enough to navigate. Big mistake with the profile pic. It’s a headshot. He’s not smiling, his hair’s buzzed way short, and he’s clearly in fatigues. The whole thing screams “backwoods militiaman with no sense of humor and a shit ton of canned goods in his bunker.”