Page 41 of Point of Contact

Jesse nodded, grateful for a neutral topic of conversation. “It is. I’ve been out for several months now, and obviously I still do it.”

Trevor raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re out of the Army?”

“Yes, sir—I mean, yeah.”

“What are you doing now that you’re out?” Trevor seemed sincerely interested.

“I, uh, I’m actually bartending at that new restaurant that just opened downtown, Jelly’s?” Jesse shrugged, mumbling, “It’s something, I guess, until I figure some stuff out.”

“I’ve heard good things about that place.”

“I like it. We get a pretty good crowd.” It was a good crowd...young, attractive people with a hip, fun vibe. Too bad Jesse couldn’t relate to any of them, finding most of them shallow and unbearably silly. “It’s something,” he repeated.

Trevor sipped his coffee, then put his mug down. “It means a lot that you came to see me, Jesse.”

His nervousness spiked again. Guess we’re done with the small talk. “Have—have any of the other guys come to visit?”

Trevor shook his head. “No. My casualty assistance officer forwarded me some nice emails from a couple of them, sending me their condolences and wishing they could’ve been here for the funeral.”

Jesse bit his lip, getting up and wandering over to stare out at the backyard. A light snow was starting to fall, dry flakes that didn’t drift, but skittered across the patio and pool decking in the wind. “It was really hard on all of us, that we couldn’t be here for him. Really hard.”

Trevor’s stool scraped along the floor as he came to stand next to him. “I know, Jesse. You all had two more months of a job to do, and I totally understood that.” He hesitated. “Will you...tell the other guys that for me when you talk to them?”

“Of course,” Jesse said gently, and Trevor’s shoulders straightened a little, as if one small burden that had been weighing him down was lifted.

Jesse took a deep breath, turning back to the island and the box he’d placed on an empty stool. He lifted it to the counter and laid his hand on top of it. “Trevor, one of the reasons I came today was to bring you this.” At Trevor’s inquiring look, Jesse went on, his voice soft, “These are some of Riley’s things.”

Trevor froze, staring first at Jesse, then at the box.

“What? I thought—” he croaked, clearing his throat and trying again. “I thought I’d gotten all of his belongings by now. The Army sent me two huge boxes a while ago.” Trevor’s face was pale, his gray eyes stark. “And Riley brought everything home from the barracks before he deployed. How did—”

“I put all my stuff in storage before we left,” Jesse said, “and when I went through it last weekend, I—well, I found some of Riley’s things mixed in with mine. It’s not much, little odds and ends, but I thought you might want them.” He paused, a sudden fear clenching his gut. “Should I not have—”

“No, no, I want them. Thank you, Jesse.” Despite his words, Trevor looked distressed, and he made no move to open the box, staring at it like it was a snake about to bite him. Jesse didn’t understand, and suddenly a long-forgotten memory welled up, of his mom being confronted with a package arriving addressed to his dad sometime after his death. Her face had looked exactly like Trevor’s did now.

Jesse reached out to touch Trevor’s arm. “Would you like me to put that somewhere for you? In his room, or up in a closet somewhere out of sight? Just until you’re ready to go through it.”

Relief seemed to engulf Trevor’s entire body, and he slumped for a moment. “Jesse, I would appreciate that more than you know.” Jesse patted his arm before picking up the box and tucking it close to his side. Trevor led him down a short hallway and into a warm, beautifully appointed office. It was bright and airy, the desk positioned so he could look out over the backyard. Some wooden file cabinets lined one wall, and green plants were everywhere.

Trevor waved his hand at a stack of something tucked away in one corner of the room, covered by a sheet. “Can you just put it with those, please?”

Jesse glanced at Trevor, walking over to lift the sheet and noticing Trevor quickly turning his head away while he did so. There were two large boxes underneath, and Jesse could see the address label: From the Department of the Army. To PFC Riley J. Estes, C/O Trevor Estes...

“When those were delivered, I was here alone. The doorbell. I couldn’t deal—” Trevor looked at Jesse, his eyes bone dry but shadowed with pain. “Unexpected visitors ringing the doorbell sometimes sends me into a panic attack, so I just stuck them in here...”

Fiercely glad he’d chosen to knock instead of ring the bell, Jesse nodded. “Well, let me take care of them now,” he said calmly. “While I do, would you mind making us another pot of coffee? I’d love a fresh cup.”

The expression on Trevor’s face was conflicted, a mix of gratitude and an unwillingness to be a burden. Jesse gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Trevor. I remember where his room is, and I’ll just put them in there. For someday.”

Trevor sucked in a shaky breath. “Yeah, for someday,” he whispered. “Okay.” He turned and fled to the kitchen. When he was gone, Jesse carefully lifted the first big box, the smaller one he’d brought balanced on top of it. A short walk down the hallway to the last door on the left, a twist of the doorknob, and Jesse was in Riley’s room.

He stood still for a moment, closing his eyes and letting the memories brush along his skin and take root in his chest, making his heart ache.

“Rawr!”

Riley leaped out of his closet wearing an evil clown mask, waving his arms. Everyone jumped, but Smitty let out a piercing shriek, much to Riley’s vast amusement. “You scream like a ten-year-old girl, Smits. Jesus.”

Smitty whacked him on the arm, yanking the mask off Riley’s head and throwing it back in his face. “Fuck you, Estes,” he said shakily. “I fuckin’ hate clowns.” His face was white as a sheet, his forehead clammy.