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All I want is a peaceful, normal life, instead of this irreparably broken mess.
MARK
Nothing has gone as planned this week.
I’ve doubled our patrols and increased the number of soldiers on each team to a minimum of four men. There’s fresh activity in an area east of us, a region we’ve cleared top to bottom three times over the past year. Each time we stabilize it, a new group of bullies barges in to tyrannize the locals who live near our base camp. Their mere proximity to us creates suspicion that they’re American sympathizers. As a result, we’ve rushed to their aid multiple times to protect them from overzealous nationals.
Unfortunately, our assistance only increases the distrust they face. It’s a no-win situation for people who only want to live their lives in peace.
I’d planned to video chat with Charlie both yesterday and the day before, but with things going off the rails here, I haven’t been able to. Both times I dashed off an apologetic email and let her know I was safe, that work got in the way. She understands. She’s lived it. She was an Army medic for eleven years, with her last six years in my unit with Lila, another medic, and Tucker, my right-hand man.
Charlie and I were best friends long before we enlisted. Lila and Tucker are an unexpected gift, a perfect complement both to each other and to me and Charlie. My parents are long dead, and I was an only child. Charlie’s parents were killed right before we enlisted, and she was an only child, too. Lila grew up bouncing around the foster system. Tucker’s the only one of us with a real family outside the military. We formed our own family unit on a battlefield, and the three of them mean everything to me.
I’ve just finished conferring with Colonel Sherman, a good man I’ve worked closely with for over a decade. He’s also concerned about the uptick in activity to our east. Our meeting ran long, and it’s two-thirty in the afternoon. I calculate the time difference halfway around the world, realizing it’s roughly four am in Colorado. I really wanted to chat with Charlie, to read her facial expressions and listen to the inflections in her words, but military life demands flexibility. I’ll record a quick video and follow it with a longer email. I set up my webcam, and when I’m ready, I smile broadly and press record.
“Hey, Baby Girl. It’s two-thirty in the afternoon here, so it’s about four in the morning your time. This was the only time I could grab. I’ll email when I have a few minutes. Things in the Sandbox are about the same. Winter in these mountains is a pain in the ass. At least it’s not snowing. Maybe this weekend, though. It’s so cold, even the mountain goats are bitching.” I grin at my pathetic attempt at humor. “But the hot chocolate you sent is a big help, and so are the extra thick socks.” I lift my cup for the camera even though it currently holds coffee. “I'm hoping to take leave next month if things are stable. I’ll fly to the states, maybe crash on your couch for a couple of weeks if you don’t mind. Oh, and the old bird made me promise I’d tell you he misses you.” I grin again, wishing the Colonel were here to scowl at my nickname for him. It’s a term of affection for a man who’s the closest thing I have to a father.
My smile fades at a sudden flash of Charlie as she once was, with laughing green eyes and an unguarded smile. “I miss you, too. I hope –” I swallow hard at the sudden emotion rising in my throat. “I hope you’re doing okay. You sound different in your emails.” There’s a vagueness to her letters, something she isn’t saying, and I’m positive something’s troubling her. I stare into the camera and chew my lip. “You know you can talk to me, Charlie. Always. About anything.” I rub the back of my neck, wishing I were there instead of here.
I draw a deep breath and paste my fake smile back in place. “Anyway, I need to run. Tell Tucker and Lila I miss them. I miss you most of all, Baby Girl. Take care of yourself, okay? Love you.” I thump my right fist twice over my heart, a gesture she and I have used for years to say “I love you”, then reach forward and stop the camera.
When the red light is off and I’m certain it’s no longer recording, my smile evaporates and my shoulders sag.
Something’s definitely off with Charlie. I’ve noticed it over the past several months. She still sends emails a few times a week, but they’ve become centered around Tucker and Lila and work. She doesn’t discuss herself or how she’s doing.
How she’s really doing.
Charlie keeps her cards close to her chest, but she and I have always been open with each other. If we hadn’t, we’d never have survived the crap we’ve been dealt, like losing my mom when I was a kid, or my dad committing suicide not long after, or her parents taking me in, then dying when she was eighteen. Charlie and I have been inseparable since we were kids.
It’s not that I don’t believe what she’s telling me. I’m certain everything she’s saying is true. I’m more concerned about what she’s holding back. She no longer talks about her day-to-day life, when she always used to include stories or anecdotes to remind me of the world outside this place. She never discusses what’s on her mind or what’s happening in her life. She doesn’t talk about her physical or emotional health or share anything deep or personal any more. Everything she writes is surface-level information. That worries me, because Charlie’s been through hell, and I need to know she’s okay.
Really okay.
And if she won’t tell me, all I can do from halfway around the world is entrust her to Tucker and Lila. At least I know they’re watching out for her. I trust the two of them with my life. If I can’t be there myself, they’re the next best thing.
I take a deep breath and tap out a quick email, apologizing for the short blurb and promising a more detailed one soon. I attach the video file and hit send.
Even if my mountain goat joke was pathetic, I hope it makes Charlie smile.
CHARLIE
I’m drumming my fingers on my desk, struggling to find something else productive that doesn’t require mental focus. I’ve vacuumed the rehab gym, washed a load of massage towels, scrubbed the community fridge, and recycled the outdated magazines. When I hear keys jingling, my hand automatically slides toward my gun, but I stop myself. Intruders don’t have keys.
“It’s me, Charlie,” Lila calls as she resets the alarm.
I groan. “It’s barely seven. You didn’t go back to sleep?”
“Better. I went for a run.” I hear the smile in her voice, and I know she’s trying to keep me from feeling guilty about waking her. It doesn’t work. “Besides, Tom’s bringing doughnuts. He wants to hear the latest Winner versus Whiner results.”
Winner versus Whiner is what Tom has dubbed my revolving door of Wednesday night blind dates. They started several months ago when I finally surrendered to Lila’s “assertive encouragement”. She knows I long for normalcy, and as she's pointed out repeatedly, that requires achieving a basic level of comfort around males. After numerous disastrous interactions since returning to civilian life, I caved to her incessant demands.
Lila began her quest by setting me up with single guys she or Tucker knew. When that didn’t work, I reluctantly joined a dating website — a true picture of futility in action. Though I’d mostly done it to shut her up, a small part of me acknowledges a need to be able to socially interact with men. Besides, drinks or dinner in public should be relatively painless.
“Relatively”, however, is, well, relative.
Somehow, my utter lack of enthusiasm evolved into Lila selecting my dates, something Tom strongly objects to. Tom is the nicest guy I’ve ever met. When Lila and I graduated from massage school and opened our wellness clinic, we posted an ad for a physical therapist. Our clientele is primarily wounded veterans, a group she and I are comfortable with because of our own years of service. I’d intended to hire a female therapist because ever since Afghanistan, I’m uncomfortable around men, but the second Tom walked in, we both knew he was the one. Tom exudes a calm energy that defused my anxieties immediately. He’s one of those rare individuals who easily connects with people, and he’s relaxed in every situation because he’s comfortable in his own skin. Our male clients like him because he’s a boxer, built like a bulldog with a broad chest, muscled arms, and a nose that’s been broken at least twice. Even though he’s never served in the military, his masculinity gives him man-card credibility. Our female clients adore Tom because he’s easy on the eyes. His boyish grin and twinkling brown eyes could melt the hardest of hearts, and he has a great sense of humor. Women swoon in his wake, but he and I have a sibling-type relationship. It’s almost a shame we see each other that way. He’s practically perfect, especially when you throw in his daughter, Maya, whom I adore.
Tom’s a good friend, and for me, those are the exception, not the rule. My list of friends comprises four souls: Mark, Lila, Tucker, and Tom. It’s a short list, but I’ll take my handful of ride-or-die friends over a gaggle of fair-weather acquaintances any day.
