In the Stillness(8)

Ryker stood and took my shoulders. He looked over at Lucas for a second before taking a deep breath and looking back at me. “This is different, Natalie.” Shit, he used my full name. “We won’t really know where we’ll be going for a couple of weeks, but . . .”

“But what, Ry?” My shaky voice betrayed the strength I was trying to portray.

Bush is going to send them to Afghanistan.

His jaw beat against his skin like a bass drum. “We’ll be fine, we’re trained,” he smiled and gave a little laugh, “it’s our job.”

I believed him. He was unwavering, confident, sure. In fact, when I looked over my shoulder, Lucas suddenly seemed bored with the whole conversation. That boy was a soldier, through and through. It was like he’d always prepared for this moment while the rest of us plodded happily along in our lives, and he was just now feeling alive. It’s not that Ryker didn’t look like a soldier the way Lucas did; it’s that I didn’t want him to.

“So you’ll . . . what,” I swallowed back my tears, “leave next week and . . . that’s it? I won’t see you till you come home from wherever they send you?”

Ryker wiped my cheek with his thumb and just nodded.

“But for the next week?” I leaned into his hand.

He kissed my forehead. “Every day and night for the next week.”

*

Eric knocks on the bathroom door.

“Yeah?” I stand with a shiver, realizing the water has turned cold.

“Just checking. You’ve been in there a while.” I can tell he’s resting his forehead on the bathroom door; it’s what he does when he’s emotionally exhausted—rests his head.

I need to get my shit together or Eric will call my parents. Today I’ll play nice and give him some attention so he’ll leave me alone for a few days.

“I’m fine, Babe, be out in a minute.”

I turn off the water, pour peroxide down my hip and over the razor, and mentally prepare for twenty-four hours alone with my husband.

“Tosha called your cell. I picked up and she said she’s home from her trip—wants you to call her about getting together for lunch.”

Thank God for Tosha.

I open the bathroom door and smile up at Eric. “Do you mind if I grab lunch with her, then you and I can spend the afternoon and evening together?”

He buys my smile and returns one of his own. “Of course. I’ll clean up around here and when you get home we’ll find something to do.” He playfully wiggles his eyebrows and I know what he means. Too bad we can’t have sex till tonight, with the lights off, so he can’t see what I just did to my hip.

Shit.

I rise on my toes and kiss his scruffy chin. “You need to shave.” I force a giggle before turning to the bedroom to dress.

“Have fun with Tosha, I’m gonna go grab some coffee.”

I throw on a thin long-sleeved shirt, despite the seventy-degree heatwave, and prepare for lunch with my best friend— the only person who knows me better than my husband thinks he does.

An hour later I’m sitting on the patio of The Pub, while Tosha illegally smokes a cigarette over our margaritas.

“Tosh, put that shit out, you’re going to get us kicked out!” I laugh and sip my lunchtime alcohol. Tosha and I always order liquor with lunch; it’s been our small act of rebellion since we turned twenty-one.

“Oh screw them.” She rolls her eyes and puts her cigarette out on the table. “Anyway, what’s going on with you? You look all . . . emo.” Despite being a professor, she often finds herself at a loss for an appropriate word.

You have to tell her. Just do it now and get it all over with.

I take a deep breath. “I went to Lucas’s grave yesterday.”

Tosha chokes on her margarita. “What the fu- what? What the hell possessed you to do that?” She unabashedly reaches for a second cigarette.

I see you. Stop staring at my left arm.

“I don’t know,” I’m honest, “I had some free time yesterday and just drove around. Before I knew it, I was yelling at him for dying. It was ten years ago, Tosh, ten f*cking years ago.”

She hasn’t taken a drag since she lit her cigarette; she’s staring at me slack-jawed.

“You yelled at his grave? Does Eric know you went there?” She finally pulls on the cigarette. A good long drag.

“Yeah. He doesn’t get it, though. I lost my shit on him this morning.”

“I don’t really get it, either, Nat.” Her eyes bleed concern.

“I’ve just been stressed lately, I guess—”

“It’s not Lucas’s fault. Or Ryker’s. And, not even really yours, you know.” She plays with her hair with one hand and holds her Marlboro and margarita in the other. “You got sick . . .”

“Yeah.” I snort sarcastically.

“Then . . . you got better. And met Eric.” Bless her heart—she’s trying to believe her own words.

The truth is, I got through it. Then met Eric.

“It felt good, though. To cry a little at his grave.” I shrug and swallow some salted tequila.

“You haven’t seen—”

I shake my head and cut her off. “No, I haven’t seen Ryker.”