Captured(71)

God, that kid. So sweet.

He lumbers to his feet and runs over to me. He grabs my leg and reaches up. “De’ek.”

I lift him up. Hold him. “It’s all right, little man. Sorry I scared you.”

He touches my face. “Sad?”

I force all emotion out of my features, bring up a smile for him. “Nope. I’ve just gotta—I’ve gotta go.”

“Go where?”

How do you even begin explaining this to a three-year-old? “I…I’ve got some work to do. I have to go be a Marine.”

I hear Reagan choke.

Tommy tilts his head, looking deep into my eyes. Holy hell, this kid looks so much like Tom it’s eerie and painful. Eventually he just wiggles, and I set him on his feet. “Okay,” he says, sober and far too understanding for his age. “Bye-bye. See soon.”

God, my throat is tight. “Yeah. I’ll see you soon. I’ll be back. Okay?”

He goes to the wooden toy chest and digs in it. He brings out a little plastic figure that he hands me. It’s a character I recognize as Cubby from Jake and the Neverland Pirates. It doesn’t escape me that Cubby always has a map, always knows the way, how to find the path. I take it from him.

“Cubby,” he says.

“Cubby,” I repeat, putting the toy in my pocket.

Reagan still won’t look at me; she’s focused on the notepad she’s still writing in, focused on not crying. It’s a failed effort, because I can see tears on her chin.

I need a minute to gather myself before I can say goodbye to her. So I go up to the bedroom, our bedroom, taking the stairs three at a time. Pull a shirt on. Socks. Lace up my boots. Leave everything else. I leave it here, because I’m coming back. With my head down, I clomp down the stairs, slowly this time. Reagan is still writing, not looking up at me.

I stop in front of her. Kneeling down, I reach up and brush a lock of hair behind her ear. She turns her head away from my touch, and then she sniffles and nuzzles her cheek into my palm. She finally looks at me. Her blue eyes shimmer and shine. They’re wet with tears. She’s in agony, and she’s terrified.

“Don’t go.” Her voice breaks.

“I have to.” I swallow hard. “It’s this or jail.”

“I heard.”

“I’ll come back.”

“Yeah.” Bitter, sarcastic, angry. “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that….”

“I will.” Touch the corner of her mouth with my thumb. Run the pad of my thumb over her lips. “I will.”

“You’d better.”

This is the ritual. This is how you say goodbye: You use words like you’d better to cover up how you really feel about goodbye. You’d better—as if not dying in combat is a viable option.

She’s shaking and trying to hold in the sobs. Tilting her face up to mine, she kisses me with salt-stained lips. Reagan pulls away first and stands up straight. She takes my hands and pulls me to my feet, then hands me a folded square of paper. “Read it, Derek. Just…read it.”

I put the letter in my hip pocket and pull her against me in an embrace. Her arms wrap around my neck; her face wets my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Reagan. I know I promised you—”

“I love you,” she cuts in over me, her words muffled in my shirt.

“Love you, too.”

She tips her face up to mine, kisses me softly, then backs away and shoves me toward the door. “Go.”

I go.

The inside of a Humvee is one place I never wanted to see again.

The lieutenant colonel, a man in his late forties with a square jaw and intelligent eyes, stares me down for long minutes. Finally, he speaks. “So, you and Barrett’s widow?”

I’m a heartbeat away from throwing the limp-dick pencil pusher out of the truck with his teeth in the back of his throat, but Alex speaks up for me. “Jim?” His voice is razor-sharp. “Shut the f*ck up…sir.”

It’s silent all the way to Ft. Worth.

Dawn comes early the next day. I’m now clean-shaven, hair cut high and tight, geared up and buttoned down, sitting in the back of a rumbling, echoing troop transport. I’m destined for Kandahar, and I’ll get my orders as soon as I’m boots-down.

Oorah.





CHAPTER 18





Derek,





You changed me. You gave me my life back. Until I met you, I never thought I’d love again. Never thought I could, or even should. But somehow, love came to me, in the form of you.

So, that being said, I hope you understand when I say I HATE that I’m writing another goddamn letter. I hate writing letters. It’s the loneliest thing in the world, but I’m really good at them. I’ve had enough practice, after all.

This time, though, I’m at a loss. I have no clue what I’m supposed to say. All I know is that I haven’t had enough time with you.

This is my fourth attempt. There are three wadded-up balls of paper in the trash in the kitchen. Most of them were ruined by crossed-out sentences and tear stains. I never sent a letter to Tom that had a tear stain on it. I’d rewrite them, several times, if I had to. The messed-up letters all say the same basic thing. How much I love you. How much I’ll miss you. Blah blah blah. But I can’t write any of that. I just can’t. I have to write what’s in my heart. I can’t hide it, and I can’t keep it in. I’m sorry.