Captured(21)

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. Slept worse places than on fresh hay.” That statement ends up being way more loaded with meaning than I intended.

She does a duck-her-head-and-nod thing, lets a thick pause hang between us. “You should eat,” she says eventually, lifting the plate.

I take the plate from her, take a seat on the lowered tailgate of the truck. “Thanks.”

There’s a metal fork on the plate, held in place by the plastic wrap. I peel away the Saran wrap and dig in, forcing myself to eat slowly. My instinct is still to wolf the food down as fast as I can, but I don’t let myself. I have to do everything I can to distance myself from being a captive. I might have hated the gradual reintegration program the military doctors forced on me, but I recognize the necessity of it. I’m not okay. I’m not comfortable around people. I have flashbacks. I get violent when I’m startled, suffer bouts of rage that don’t make any sense. Little things. Like that board just now. If I hadn’t gotten it off….

I don’t go there. I have to learn control.

I take careful, measured bites, chewing slowly and thoroughly. Hold the fork like a civilized man, between my index and middle fingers and thumb, rather than in my fist. Reagan slides up onto the tailgate beside me, and my chest tightens. It’s hard to breathe. I stop eating, turn and look at her. She’s on the far side of the tailgate, leaving a good foot between us, but it’s still too close.

People get close to me and I tense, expect violence subconsciously.

She unscrews the top off the Thermos, pours black coffee into the top, hands it to me. I take it, careful to keep my fingers away from hers. Sip the coffee. It’s thick, black, strong. She just sits quietly while I eat, and, slowly, my tension fades. I know, mentally, she poses no threat, but my reaction to people, to anyone, is automatic, unconscious. I can’t help it, no matter how hard I try.

When I finish the huge mound of food she brought, she takes the paper plate, folds it up, tosses it deep into the bed of the truck. I hold onto the fork, poke my fingertips on the grease-shiny tines. Silence, long, awkward, delicate. She lifts one hip, produces the letter. I glance at her, see the chain of the dog tags against her tanned neck. My gaze focuses on the letter.

She’s going to ask me a question.

“He didn’t read the letter until you and he were—” She cuts off, won’t say the word.

“Captured,” I fill in for her. “No, he didn’t.”

She doesn’t respond, but seems troubled. “And by the time you read it to him, he was already” —another pause where she has to summon the word, force it out— “dying.”

I can only nod. I think I know what she’s getting at. And I know for a fact I absolutely cannot handle this conversation right now. Not now. Maybe not ever. There are some truths that are too potent to speak of, too damaging to reveal. To guilt-freighted to see the light of day.

I hop off the truck, toss the fork into the bed. “I should go.” I grab my shirt from the cab. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“You—you don’t have to leave, Derek. I’m sorry I asked. I know it can’t be easy for you talk about…what happened. I just—”

“You have questions. Shit only I can answer. I get it. It’s fine. But some stuff…there’s some shit I just can’t talk about yet. I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I should go. I don’t belong here. This is his place.”

I’d forgotten my scars. I can feel her eyes on me, on my shoulder, on the twin puckered and pinched scars. Doctors say I was insanely, incredibly lucky to have survived my wounds. Movies make it look like a “real hero” can take bullets to the shoulder and keep going, act like it’s nothing. It’s not like that. I should have had surgery. Could have lost the arm. Could have bled out if the bullets had hit an artery. Any number of could’ve scenarios, but somehow I pulled through. There’s a loss of motor control, even still. You get shot, you’re damaged. Plain and simple. But mostly, I’m fine. I forget the scars are there, especially when I’m alone, and then I was focused on my discomfort at being around Reagan. Now she sees the scars. Her eyes move, search. Find the scars from Iraq, shrapnel scars to my back and legs from the grenade. Cut on my bicep where a bullet sliced me, rescuing Hunter.

That grenade really did almost do me in. That was luck, too. Fortunately, the corpsman got to me pretty fast, patched me up and got me to a field hospital. Lost a lot of blood, took some time to heal, but no lasting damage, cycled back to active duty soon enough.

That was then, this is now. Now? I won’t be going back. I can’t. Won’t. I’d rather f*cking die than ever lift a rifle again. Than ever see another Afghani face.

I shrug into my shirt, covering the scars.

I don’t want to leave; I like it here. Texas is peaceful, quiet. Open. I feel like I can breathe out here.

But I have to get out of here: Reagan is a potent presence, reminding me of Tom, of the letter. Of the self-serving lie. I see her, and I hear the words of the letter. Thomas, my love….

Shit. I think I whispered those words out loud. She heard; she’s looking at me, staring, eyes curious, shocked, brow furrowed.

“What…what did you say?” she whispers.

“Nothing.” I stop breathing, hoping she’ll let it go.