Page 29
Her features tighten up and so does her spine as she sits straighter. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because we agreed on my place. That was one of the rules.”
“Rules can be adjusted.”
“These can’t.”
Her tone is definitive, telling me I need to cool it. Push too hard, and it’s over.
Besides, this is temporary. She’s made that abundantly clear, and I agreed to the terms with my eyes wide open.
Convincing myself I can change her mind will only lead me down the same road I’ve traveled a hundred other times in my life.
…with me standing on it alone.
“Fair enough,” I say.
Silence takes over, and for a while, we listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers vinyl she’s put on the record player.
Her gaze wanders over to me as she samples some of the mac and cheese. She swallows and then juts her chin at my left forearm where my sleeve’s pushed up past the elbow.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that tattoo. What is it?”
I glance down at the ink—the Air Force insignia overlaid with a skull wearing a beret, the TACP motto curving underneath in block letters. It’s slightly faded from sun exposure but still vivid enough to be noticeable any time I’ve got my sleeves rolled.
“It’s a TACP thing,” I say. “Tactical Air Control Party. Got it after I finished training—kind of a tradition among the guys in the unit.”
“I like it. It’s sexy.” She reaches out and traces the outline of the skull with her fingertips, sending a jolt straight through my protruding veins. “What made you want to join the Air Force in the first place?”
Most people ask that question casually, expecting a simple answer about patriotism or adventure or not knowing what else to do after high school. Even getting their education paid for.
But Vivica asks it the way she asks about a horse’s symptoms: direct, attentive, genuinely wanting to understand the cause.
“Stability,” I answer. “Grew up without much of it. The military seemed like a place where I could have a constant in my life. Something reliable. At least for twenty or so years.”
“What do you mean by ‘grew up without much of it?’”
I set my plate down on the coffee table and lean back into the couch, letting the question sit for a second.
It’s not a story I tell often, and not one I enjoy telling, but the bond we’ve formed makes me feel comfortable talking about it.
“My parents were nomads. That’s the generous word for it. The less generous word is deadbeats. They’d show up every few months with big smiles and bigger promises. They’d stick around long enough for me to start believing them. Then they’d take off again whenever the mood hit. My grandma raised me. She’s the only reason I turned out halfway decent.”
She caresses the length of my forearm, eyes soft and sympathetic. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
“It is what it is. Made me who I am, for better or worse. But it showed me you can’t count on people sticking around—or anything being reliable. Everything changes, and people come and go. Even your parents.”
“I get it,” she says grimly. “Nothing is forever. Not even love. Especially not love, actually.”
“Is that what your ex-husband taught you? What you learned from the divorce?”
She nods slowly and scoops up more mac and cheese onto her fork. “He confirmed it. But life taught me that long before Craig did. I watched my parents go through a nasty divorce at a young age. My favorite aunt lost her husband young too. It’s part of life… things ending.”
“I’m guessing nobody’s ever confused you for an optimist?”
“That’d be correct. I prefer to live in reality, and sometimes that’s the grim truth. Death happens. Most marriages end in divorce,” she explains. “It’s easy to question what the point is.”
