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“Then what happened with Brock just now?”
“That was me overthinking my effort to not overthink… I think.”
Aaron stops loading and sets the magazine on the table. “You’re sure? Maxen didn’t say anything to upset you?”
I almost laugh. “Upset me? Really? What kind of a Marine would I be if words could derail me?”
In a move that shocks the hell out of me, Aaron stills my hand that’s angrily shoving rounds into the magazine. “A human one?”
The three other men… Aaron? There’s no way. After eleven years, I’d know. Right?
Shaking off the insane thoughts and Aaron’s hand, I finish reloading, awkwardly responding, “Um. Did you not go through the same basic training I did? If getting my feelings hurt was going to paralyze me, I wouldn’t have survived the bus ride to Parris Island. Besides, we’re not human anymore, remember? We’re Marines. We’re machines.”
“Right,” he says quietly, pulling his hand back. “Well, are we machines still going out for pre-mission beers with Brock tonight?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t we?”
He tilts his head and studies me, trying to ferret out what I’m hiding. “No reason. Just wondering.”
“Fine. See you there.”
Taking my dismissal for what it was, Aaron walks out with no further questions. I prop my hands on the cold metal tabletop, drop my head, and blow out a long breath. It’s not like me to lie or hold back my thoughts from Aaron. I’m just not ready for him to learn what I don’t yet understand myself.
Feeling extra jazzed up by the confrontations with Maxen and Aaron, I shove in my ear protection and start the training program. I need to shoot some shit.
I haven’t seen Brock since this morning when I lost the sparring match to him, Aaron, since our talk at the range, or Maxen since he kissed me. The reason why is simple. I haven’t seen anyone because I disappeared from the compound midway through the day.
If anyone asks, my excuse is that I had things to handle before our deployment. The real reason was that I was tired of second-guessing interactions between me and the men I work with. Well, all except Knot and maybe Spatch. And also, perhaps because I was trying to avoid Maxen.
By twelve hundred, I’d packed all my work gear, checked in with Birdie, and snuck out like a cowa… like someone who would rather avoid the further testing of their inept emotions.
Lunch is a chicken gyro, picked up from my favorite Greek place and eaten in the company of my judgmental beta fish. “I hope you’ve gotten over your little spat with Marshall.”
Gunny turns around in his tank as though saying, “You wouldn’t.”
“I’m sorry. Since we don’t have any extra teams available to rotate in, this will be another open-ended deployment. Your automatic feeder might not be enough this time. It’ll be better if you stay with Bonnie.”
Bonnie is my fifty-six-year-old neighbor. She’s divorced and lives alone with her golden retriever, Marshall, who has developed an unhealthy fascination with my fish. Until Bonnie gets home from work, I’ll spend time packing clothes and clearing my fridge of anything I don’t want to mutate while I’m gone.
Those tasks are completed quickly with a lot of time left between now and when I expect Bonnie. My headspace isn’t exactly a good place to hang out right now, so I change into running gear and bolt from my quiet apartment.
I Uber to the start of the trail at Cloncurry Road and Hampton Boulevard and run the six-and-a-half miles back to my loft on Front Street. This route is my favorite, but I mix in others to keep things varied for safety’s sake.
By the time I make it back home, I’m in a much better state of mind and decide to kill some time by calling my dad after a quick shower. With my hair tied up in a towel, I flop down on the sofa and pull out my phone.
The call connects after the first ring, but my father doesn’t answer right away. Instead, I hear, “This will have to wait, son. This could be a customer.”
“Dad, I can clearly see Sadie’s name on your screen.”
“Well, you’re going to have to wait anyway.”
A door closes on my brother’s protest, and I’m already smiling. “Hey there, Sport.”
“Hey, dad. Is Blake trying to make you learn email again?”
“Damned kid. I’m beginning to wish he’d joined the military with the rest of you.”
That damned kid he’s talking about is thirty-three years old. “I thought you always wanted at least one of us to follow in your footsteps.”
