Hard Beat(97)

It’s been a little over nine months since I last saw her smile, heard her voice, laughed with her. For the first time since then, I think I’m ready to see the images from that night. I’m ready to face them.

Not to forget her, but just to say good-bye.

Because for the first time in forever, I can admit that guilt held me hostage from doing it. And not guilt because she was out buying me a birthday present when she was killed but instead for not protecting her long enough for her to find her once-in-a-lifetime. God yes, I loved her. Loved her company and her corny jokes and so many more things about her, but I wasn’t that person for her. It’s taken me the longest time to realize that. And maybe, just maybe, when the hurt fades from all of the shit with Beaux, I’ll be able to be thankful to her for that because learning that I loved Beaux, feeling the intensity of that connection, made me realize what that once-in-a-lifetime might possibly feel like.

And even though it still feels like a spilled beaker full of acid in my chest at times, I know it’s possible. And at least I know that I wasn’t cheating Stella out of that by not trying to rekindle what we might have had.

When I pick up the camera and turn it on, I’m surprised that the battery is still charged enough that when I click over to the slide show of pictures, it responds. The first image that pops up causes a lump to form in my throat but also a smile to come to my face. Stella has her arm around me, a silly cone-shaped party hat on her head, and her tongue stuck out at the camera while I’m beside her, an exasperated look on my face but a smirk on my lips. And of course the first picture captures us perfectly – our friendship, our partnership, everything – so much that it’s just what I need to see to know I’m right and at the same time to be able to say good-bye.

I flip through the rest of them quickly. Pauly dancing on the tabletop, Bob’s Pee-wee Herman dance that I’ll never forget, the shots lined up and down the bar top, the disaster of a birthday cake they made me, but none of them compares to the one time that Beaux stepped out from behind the camera for the picture of the two of us.

Feeling less burdened, I stare one more time at the image of two people lucky in friendship, carefree, and lost in the moment before I look up to catch my own reflection. The lines around my eyes are a little deeper now and my eyes a lot more weary, the curve of my mouth still holding on to the bitterness some. Reflections don’t lie. They magnify the truths you want to hide from, the reality you don’t want to face, the shit you need to get over.

They also make you want to punch the mirror so you don’t have to see anything you don’t want to.

Well, at least I’ve dealt with one of the two women who f*cked me up. It’s still best if I don’t think about the other one too much.

Restraining order, my ass.





Chapter 29





W

hen I enter the conference room, I’m already late. My plane landed on time but then was delayed on the tarmac due to airport traffic. Once I make it through the security checks at the meeting facility, sign my life away to confidentiality, and open the door, I’m not quite sure what to expect. The tiered room is medium in size, with the back portion filled with people sporting their press credentials and the front of the room a sea of military uniforms ranging from fatigues to dress blues to the more subtle suits and ties usually typical of intelligence officials.

I work my way as close to the front as I can, but since the press person leading the meeting is speaking already, I don’t want to draw too much attention my way. The whole flight here, I questioned the justification of this meeting, its overall purpose, and then as I’m seated and tune in to the speaker, I realize it’s just what I thought – a dog and pony show. A propaganda fest promising numerous embedded missions to ensure that we report in a positive light all of the action that we will see once we get boots down on the ground.

I’m not a rookie. I’m irritated that I have to even be here when I’ve proven time and again that I’m not going to bad-mouth U.S. military tactics for the sake of television ratings. I could be on a plane right now to ensure I’m the first one at the scene instead of here wasting my time.

My head’s down as I doodle on my pad, taking the names of the people who are speaking although I’ll never use them when I’m in the middle of dirt and dust and gunfire, but it’s something to do rather than let my mind run away with thoughts of once again touching down without a photographer.

Especially the one I want the most.

The speaker begins to finally talk about the one thing I have interest in, the terrorist bombing at the embassy. And as explanations begin, I look up to the screens flashing images of the on-site devastation: twisted metal, concrete rubble, smoke, and dust. Then she moves on to the deaths incurred. When the image changes, everything in my body freezes as Beaux’s image appears on the screen.

The image changes before I can process it fully. Before I can believe it. I laugh out loud like this is some kind of joke, my eyes looking around for the hidden cameras, but as I meet the appalled gazes of those around me, the bottom drops out from under me. All I can do is look back at the screen in front of me and wait for the image to appear again in the series of photographs.

I’m staggered. Confused. Broken. Disbelieving.

I struggle to draw in a breath, fight incoherency as I try to process thoughts, wince as the pain in my chest constricts so tightly, I feel as if someone is pulling my heart out and not letting go of it all at the same time.