Captured(43)

“Reagan, I—”

“You could say anything right now. Reassure me. You’d mean it, too, I’m sure. But you could change your mind. Things change. Feelings change. And yeah, I want you. You want me. We have this insane chemistry, and you make me feel things…such amazing things. And I want more. I want all of it. But I’m scared, Derek. I’m scared of feeling guilty. And—it’s been so long since…my last time, with Tom. I’m sorry to bring him into this right now, but you need to know what I’m feeling. It’s been so long since my last time with Tom, I barely remember it. I’m forgetting him, Derek. And that scares me. It hurts. What he looks like, what he felt like. What we felt like. And I’m scared that if I keep letting this happen with you, that it’ll—it’ll be better. Than before…than with him. And what would that say about me? He was the love of my life, Derek! I loved him…so—f*ck.” She sucks in a sharp breath, an almost-sob. “I loved him so much. And I don’t want to feel like I didn’t. It’s so damned complicated, and when I think about it, try to figure it out, I just get more confused and mixed up. I think sometimes maybe you should just go, because then things would go back to the way they were. The farm, Tommy, Hank, and Ida. Tommy would grow up, I’d get old, the end. But I…I don’t want that. The way things were sucked. I think about you going, and something inside me just…resists it. I don’t like it. And when I’m with you, not even doing anything, just being around you, it’s easy to feel like…like it would be okay. Like it could work out.”

I stay silent, let her think, let her talk. Absorb.

She tugs at the hem of her shirt, making the outline of the tips of her breasts and her nipples stand out. I can’t help looking once, and then return my gaze to her face. She searches my eyes. “I wish I could be the kind of girl who can do casual sex. It’d make this easier. I want you. I’m crazy with wanting you. But I can’t do casual. I just can’t.”

“Can I say a couple of things?” She nods at me, and I take a moment to breathe deep, let it out, formulate what I want to say. “I can’t give you some reassuring speech about how to deal with grief. I don’t know what to say about that. I’m f*cked up over it, too, honestly. Losing Tom, losing—shit—watching twelve of my buddies get f*cking slaughtered. Watching Tom die. Being a prisoner of war. It f*cked me up. I may never be normal again. So…I don’t have any reassurances about forgetting him. Because I can only remember him the way he was at the end. And that—it blows, Reagan. I’m glad you don’t have that. I’d be happy if I could forget him. Sometimes, I think, you just have to…accept that you’re gonna feel like shit. You miss him. You forget him sometimes. I want to think that’s natural. It’s your heart healing, your mind helping you past the hurt. I don’t know. I know none of that is making you feel any better, and I’m sorry. But I know you loved Tom. He knew you loved him. But I want to think that Tom would want you to find…peace. Happiness. He wouldn’t want you to be alone, or to suffer. Or to be miserable.”

I have to pause and gather my thoughts. Sometimes you just have to put it all out there, good or bad.

“I know you’ve got a lot to think about, as far as this thing between us goes. It’s complicated. It’s not just sex. You said you can’t do casual…well, neither can I. I used to. A lot, actually. It’s all I did. I wasn’t really a very great guy in that regard. I chased tail, and I got a lot of it. But it was all casual. I never got close to any of them. I mean, how could I? I’d have a couple of weeks, maybe a month. I told myself it wouldn’t be fair to the girl to act like it meant anything but fun. Why start something I couldn’t finish, right? But I’m not that same guy anymore. I’m a f*cking mess, Reagan. I’ve got damage. Baggage. Nightmares, survivor’s guilt, all sorts of complex psychological bullshit. And how could I ever saddle anyone with all that? I could go somewhere and probably get a girl to take me back to her place, but as soon as she saw my scars, as soon as she wanted to make small talk, I guarantee you most girls would run screaming. I couldn’t tell some innocent little hipster city chick who’s never left Houston about being tortured by the f*cking Taliban. I couldn’t tell her why I still wake up in the middle of the night crying and screaming. She wouldn’t get it. How could she? I’m too messed up to play the games I used to play. So…I can’t do casual, either.”

Silence again.

Reagan opens her mouth to speak, but closes it again. She looks at me in the eyes and sighs. “I have to ask you something, Derek. And I…I need an answer. It’s about the letter.”

Fuck. My hands are shaking. I turn away and pace the length of the kitchen. Sink into a chair, elbows on my knees, head hanging. “That letter kept me sane. I read it to him so many times I had it memorized. I still do. I think…I think I started to feel like—not like it was meant for me, but…I don’t know. Something about how much you loved him, how obvious it was in the letter, it gave me hope. I would…not read it, but say it to myself. Recite it, I guess. After Tom died, when I was cold and hungry, after they kicked the shit out of me, or broke my finger or whatever. That letter kept me going, over and over and over again.”

I look at her, keep my eyes on hers, unblinking. “Thomas, my love,” I say. The words come easily. “I’m writing this in our bed. You’re lying next to me, sleeping. There’s so much I wish I could say to you, but I know time is short. You ship out tomorrow. Again. I can’t say it doesn’t bother me. It does. Of course it does. It hurts every time. I act brave for you, but I hate it. I hate watching you lace up your boots. I hate watching you pack your bag. I hate watching you straighten your tie in the mirror. I hate how goddamned sexy you look in your uniform. Most of all, I hate kissing you goodbye, hate watching you turn around, your broad back straight as you disappear down the jetway. I hate that your eyes are dry when mine are wet.