brought Alia back to herself, as it so often did.
—
“Heard a story the other day.” Nate regarded his shitty poker hand darkly, then folded. Griff and Chaucer were locked into some kind of pissing contest, big bets and lots of posturing. Tron sat back in his chair, looking amused. Probably it would turn out he had something worthwhile, and the other two guys were in it for the buzz.
“Turk, you know him? Last deployment, he had this deal with a buddy. The buddy had a family, and Turk didn’t, so Turk would always take dangerous jobs, missions, trips, whatever, so the friend could get home safe. Turk kept dodging bullets, and then one day, Turk was, like, two minutes too late to board a Hawk for a recon mission and so his friend went instead—”
“You don’t fucking
make
those kinds of promises.” Tron was bolt upright now, and angry.
“Chopper crashed?” That was Griff.
“Of course it fucking crashed,” Tron said. “It crashed, right?”
Nate nodded.
“You make a promise you couldn’t keep?” Nate asked Tron quietly.
“Way too fucking many of them, man.”
All the men went silent. Probably thinking about promises, the ones they’d made in words—
Baby, I’ll come home to you, safe and whole. I’ve got your back, man. Leave this up to me
—and the unspoken ones, too. The promise you made when you said goodbye to family, that you’d try not to get yourself killed. The promise you made to the guy at your side by virtue of standing next to him. The promise you made to yourself that you’d get J.J. home to his family, somehow or other, and that if you couldn’t do that, you’d find some other way to take care of the people he’d left behind.
Talking to the men here—it was dark. Dark, darker, darkest. Since he’d arrived, Nate had heard more heartbreaking stories than he had in all the rest of his active time put together. They were currency here—what you’d seen and done, what had happened to your friends over there and back home. And there were stories even when the men were shut down and silent, even the men who wouldn’t talk about war or who wouldn’t talk at all. You
felt
the stories.
He tried to imagine telling these guys what he was thinking, about promises and about
feeling
stories, but he figured they’d either stare at him like he’d grown two heads or laugh. Not in a mean way, just in a
WTF, dude?
way. They might even think he was kidding.
Alia, though. He could tell her. She’d get it.
Huh.
Griff won the hand and raked the chips into the growing heap in front of him. “I had a friend who came home and his wife didn’t meet him at the field and then when he got a ride home he discovered that the house was empty. Like empty empty. She’d moved herself and all her furniture out, and it was just him, sitting in this goddamn empty house. His buddies took turns doing suicide watch for weeks on him. He’s okay, though. I mean, you know, okay as it goes.”
“Jesus,” said Nate. “That
sucks.
”
“It hacks me off.” Griff sounded pissed now. Didn’t take much to light the fuse of most of the vets Nate knew. “It’s the same women who think they want a soldier. The ones who go soldier hunting in bars and get pregnant on purpose. They’re the worst. Then you come home and you’re not what they wanted at all. You’re all broke-ass and fucked up, and they’re like, ‘I just wanted a cute guy in a uniform,’ and you’re like, ‘Then why didn’t you bang a firefighter, sweetheart?’ ”
His voice had grown tight, the words percussive.
They all looked at him.
Tron crossed his arms and stared Griff down. “That was you. You were the one with the empty house.”
Griff looked away, but you could read it in the lines of his face. The whole goddamn story. If they’d been somewhere else, Nate would have bought the guy enough drinks to make him forget, maybe tried to get him laid, but they were here, and they had cards and stories and the comfort of
—
“Heard a story the other day.” Nate regarded his shitty poker hand darkly, then folded. Griff and Chaucer were locked into some kind of pissing contest, big bets and lots of posturing. Tron sat back in his chair, looking amused. Probably it would turn out he had something worthwhile, and the other two guys were in it for the buzz.
“Turk, you know him? Last deployment, he had this deal with a buddy. The buddy had a family, and Turk didn’t, so Turk would always take dangerous jobs, missions, trips, whatever, so the friend could get home safe. Turk kept dodging bullets, and then one day, Turk was, like, two minutes too late to board a Hawk for a recon mission and so his friend went instead—”
“You don’t fucking
make
those kinds of promises.” Tron was bolt upright now, and angry.
“Chopper crashed?” That was Griff.
“Of course it fucking crashed,” Tron said. “It crashed, right?”
Nate nodded.
“You make a promise you couldn’t keep?” Nate asked Tron quietly.
“Way too fucking many of them, man.”
All the men went silent. Probably thinking about promises, the ones they’d made in words—
Baby, I’ll come home to you, safe and whole. I’ve got your back, man. Leave this up to me
—and the unspoken ones, too. The promise you made when you said goodbye to family, that you’d try not to get yourself killed. The promise you made to the guy at your side by virtue of standing next to him. The promise you made to yourself that you’d get J.J. home to his family, somehow or other, and that if you couldn’t do that, you’d find some other way to take care of the people he’d left behind.
Talking to the men here—it was dark. Dark, darker, darkest. Since he’d arrived, Nate had heard more heartbreaking stories than he had in all the rest of his active time put together. They were currency here—what you’d seen and done, what had happened to your friends over there and back home. And there were stories even when the men were shut down and silent, even the men who wouldn’t talk about war or who wouldn’t talk at all. You
felt
the stories.
He tried to imagine telling these guys what he was thinking, about promises and about
feeling
stories, but he figured they’d either stare at him like he’d grown two heads or laugh. Not in a mean way, just in a
WTF, dude?
way. They might even think he was kidding.
Alia, though. He could tell her. She’d get it.
Huh.
Griff won the hand and raked the chips into the growing heap in front of him. “I had a friend who came home and his wife didn’t meet him at the field and then when he got a ride home he discovered that the house was empty. Like empty empty. She’d moved herself and all her furniture out, and it was just him, sitting in this goddamn empty house. His buddies took turns doing suicide watch for weeks on him. He’s okay, though. I mean, you know, okay as it goes.”
“Jesus,” said Nate. “That
sucks.
”
“It hacks me off.” Griff sounded pissed now. Didn’t take much to light the fuse of most of the vets Nate knew. “It’s the same women who think they want a soldier. The ones who go soldier hunting in bars and get pregnant on purpose. They’re the worst. Then you come home and you’re not what they wanted at all. You’re all broke-ass and fucked up, and they’re like, ‘I just wanted a cute guy in a uniform,’ and you’re like, ‘Then why didn’t you bang a firefighter, sweetheart?’ ”
His voice had grown tight, the words percussive.
They all looked at him.
Tron crossed his arms and stared Griff down. “That was you. You were the one with the empty house.”
Griff looked away, but you could read it in the lines of his face. The whole goddamn story. If they’d been somewhere else, Nate would have bought the guy enough drinks to make him forget, maybe tried to get him laid, but they were here, and they had cards and stories and the comfort of
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