Duty(61)

“I know,” she says. “It'll protect you, because it has my love in it.”

I reach down and look at my left hand, where my class ring has sat for most days since I got it as a firstie. I take it off and put it on her left hand. “I know you can't wear it, but it's the only ring I have for now. Keep it safe?”

“I'll wear it under my shirt,” she promises. “When I can.”

“Don't risk yourself,” I reply, trying not to be harsh, but still, I want her to understand the importance of this. “One person sees a West Point ring around your neck, and we're both screwed. My name is on it. So, no PT, no field work in it.”

Lindsey nods and clasps it to her chest. “I promise.”

The sound of a car outside my house and the beep of a horn break the spell, and I kiss her one last time. “I love you. I promise, I'll come back.”

“I love you too.”

In the taxi, the driver, who's probably ferried dozens of guys to the airfield just like me, gives me a sympathetic look as I put my gear bag in the back. “Ready, buddy?”

“Yeah,” I whisper, casting one last look at the house. Lindsey stands in the doorway, one of my t-shirts hastily pulled on, and she waves, even though I can see the tears she's wiping away as she does.

“That's tough, buddy. I don't know which is worse, going over alone, or going over while leaving people behind.”

I don't say anything, and the taxi driver gives up on conversation. Instead, he just drives, dropping me off at the airfield with my two bags. For the first time in a long time, I don't have a beret on my head, and the patch on my shoulder isn't the 82nd Airborne's.

Six months can't pass quickly enough.





Chapter 20





Lindsey





The weight of his class ring is comforting between my breasts, and the second dog tag chain that I wear around my neck is totally anonymous. In fact, under my duty bra, in between my breasts, about the only way anyone would be able to tell the ring is there is if someone punched me in the chest, which I doubt is going to happen.

Like Aaron told me, I don't wear the chain during PT or when it could be noticed, but I only do it to protect him. I don't really care one way or another. I've made up my mind . . . or have I?

“Hey, Morgan?”

I look over and see Beanie come into the S-1 office, all grins and false cheer. It's been six weeks since Aaron left, which means I've got, as of tomorrow, six months left on my enlistment contract. Beanie's going to be giving me the full sales pitch, I'm sure.

“Come on over, Beanie. What's up?”

Beanie comes over, snagging a chair and sitting down next to me, just outside my desk area. He knows the deal—an office soldier defends their desk area like a street gang defends their turf. Cross that line without an invite, and you might just get a knife in the ribs. “Hey, Captain Lemmon sent me over. He wanted me to see if you'd made your decision. We've got battalion breathing down our necks on retention for this quarter, and I don't think you need the Sergeant Major down here trying to give you the hard sell, you know?”

I know. For most of the six weeks since Aaron left, I've been bouncing between two extremes, from telling the Army to go to hell to re-signing for the long haul. The problem is, what if it was just rapid infatuation again? What if, after both of us being celibate for so long, we were just literally f*ck-drunk and were saying anything to get our damn rocks off one more time?

“I gotcha, Beanie. But things are complicated. No offense to you or anyone else in retention, but I'm getting awfully damn tired of Lance spending twelve hours a day in daycare. And that doesn't even count the FTX we've got coming up next month, where he gets to spend a whole week hanging out at my neighbors' house.”

Beanie hums, his fingers drumming on the edge of my desk. “I know it isn't ideal in that regard, Morgan, but the signing bonus and the bennies, you can't beat them. I mean, I don't wanna be cruel about it . . .”

“But you're going to be anyway,” I interrupt him, leaning back in my chair. My stomach rumbles, and I rub my tummy absently. It's been going on for a few days now, and I hope I didn't pick up . . . oh, hell. I plaster a smile on my face and gesture for Beanie to go ahead. “Gimme the pitch, Beanie.”

“Well, you're a single mom, Morgan. And I'm not trying to be a dick. My mom was a single mother too, so I'm speaking from experience. She busted her ass twelve hours a day all the time, sometimes six days a week to keep food on the table. And we never had a spread as good as what you're able to do for your son. The signing bonus alone on the big contract, you set that aside in a savings plan, and you've got a good chunk of what he's going to need to go to college down the road,” Beanie reminds me. “Just sayin', the grass looks greener outside the service, but before you change houses, make sure that it really is.”

Beanie and I talk another few minutes before he leaves, and it's nearly lunch time. Instead of eating what I packed, I grab my keys and drive to the PX, concerned. It was the same way last time. A few days of rumbly stomach in the morning, no real sickness, just looking at breakfast and not wanting to eat, my stomach doing little twists the whole time.

The over the counter pharmacy has kits for sale, and I pick one up, glad that Bragg is so large that the worker doesn't know who the hell I am. I take my package to the toilet and do my thing, not able to look at it after. I have to force myself to read the result, and it takes me a few seconds to accept it.