A Lover's Lament(98)

“Don’t go,” I beg, my nerves taking over. “I need to you to make love to me one more time.” Hurriedly, I pull the sheet off of us and wrap my legs around his waist. My hands roam every inch of his body, because suddenly I need one last chance to memorize everything about it so that when I’m home by myself and I’m missing him, I can pull the memories out and drown myself in them.

“Slow down, Katie.” Devin wraps his hands around my wrists, then pulls them to his face and kisses them. “We have time, baby. I’m going to make love to you, and then I’m going to drive myself to the airport—”

What? Is he crazy? Hell no. “No.” I shake my head, brows furrowed. Doesn’t he want to spend as much time with me as he can? Doesn’t he want me there right before he boards the plane? “I want to go with you.”

“No,” he says, gently nudging me to my back. His larger than life frame hovers above me. “I’m going to show you how much you mean to me, and then I’m going to leave you right here in this bed, sated and happy. That’s the memory of you that I want when I go back to Iraq. I don’t want to see you crying in the airport. I want to see you lying here in this bed, your hair fanned out on the pillow with the sexiest little smile on your lips. Because you do,” he says, kissing my lips, “you get this smile on your face, and it makes me feel f*cking fantastic. It makes me feel like, for once in my life, I’ve done something right. And I need to feel that when I leave here.”

Well, son of a gun, how am I supposed to argue with that? My heart swells and I let my knees drops, allowing Devin to settle between my legs. “So this our goodbye? Right here in bed, instead of at the airport?”

“We aren’t saying goodbye, Katie. This isn’t goodbye. It’s a promise … remember that dream we just talked about?”

I nod, feeling him position himself at my entrance.

“This is a promise that you’re going to be waiting for me when I come home … a promise that we’re going to make those dreams come true.”

“Do we need to shake on it?” I ask, finally gaining the strength to smile.

“Oh baby, we’re gonna do more than shake on it.”

And with those words, Devin pushes inside me.

Home.





“Tiger Lily”—Matchbook Romance

THE HOLLOW ACHE IN THE pit of my stomach is something I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. JFK is flooded with mobs of other passengers walking past the barstool I’ve claimed as my own, but I pay no attention to them. I don’t see my fellow bar patrons, because in this moment, right now, I just need to forget.

I take two shots of Jameson and chase them with a shot of pickle juice. Not wanting to be seen drinking in uniform, I slide the shot glasses as far down the bar as I can. I don’t like disrespecting the uniform and any other time I’d be stronger than this, but leaving Katie was unbearable. There is nothing okay about how I’m feeling right now, and there’s definitely nothing okay about leaving her again. Of all the shitty things I’ve experienced in all the years of my life, this—this right here—takes the cake. This kind of hurt sticks with you; it f*cking guts you wide open.

I wave two fingers toward the bartender and she nods in acknowledgement. She chills two more shots of Jameson and sets them before me, along with the requisite shot of pickle juice. I glance around me, making sure no one is looking, and then down all three in succession before once again sliding them down the bar. I feel like an * for drinking these feelings away, but the warm tingle the Jameson creates ripples through my body, just under the skin, and numbs the pain a little.

I want to call her again. I need her soft voice to help ease this ache in the center of my chest, to help me forget where I’m headed. But I have to remain strong. These feelings can’t take away from me doing my job, getting back to my men and making sure they all get back home. But I can’t help but wonder how in the hell I’m going to do that when I’m leaving the best part of me back with Katie. How will I do it when a shell of a man returns to Baghdad?

Tilting my wrist, I look at my watch, which is much harder to read now than when I first walked into the bar. Twenty minutes until takeoff. Twenty minutes and I’m that much closer to a world completely opposite of this one. The harsh reality of it pulls the air from my lungs and sits heavy in my throat. I’m choking on the truth.

I order and down two more shots, pay my bill, and then make my way to the gate, my eyes counting the tiles on the floor as I go.

Fuck reality.




By the time I reached Germany, I had gotten drunk, sobered up and gotten drunk again, spending more money than I’d like to admit and sleeping uncomfortably close to my flight neighbors. I blabbered to them midflight about Katie, our ten years apart, and our four beautiful days together. Somewhere over the Atlantic, several of them bought me shots, which contributed greatly to my absurd level of intoxication. Some of the women listening in bawled their eyes out, and I think at one point I did too.

As I board the plane to Kuwait, I’m no longer drunk but now have a sharp, shooting pain piercing my temples, eyes, and the base of my skull. The throbbing nearly blinds me and makes the cabin lights seem like halogen lamps burning holes through my retinas. Several of the other uniformed personnel staggering onto the flight look the same way I do—the walking dead lurching their way back to hell.