Survivor (First to Fight #2)(21)
My stomach clenches. “Tell me what, Sof?” My voice is rougher than I intend it to be and she shrinks back a little. I force my tone to gentle. “Tell me what?”
“I’m leaving,” she says to her feet.
The gas chamber at boot would have been easier to take. “The hell do you mean you’re leaving?”
She squares her shoulders and finally manages to meet my eyes. The emptiness in hers causes the knot in my stomach to triple. “I mean I’m going and I’m not coming back.”
My hands ball into fists by my sides. “Where are you going?”
Now that she’s confessed her secret, the words start coming more quickly. Except now I wish I hadn’t convinced her to talk. “I’m going to test out of the rest of my classes here for this semester. I’ve got enough credits to graduate early. I’ve already spoken to the counselor at Tulane and accepted their offer. I start in the fall.”
Those hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “That’s good, though, isn’t it? That’s what you wanted.” I scrub a hand through my hair. “You’re acting like this is a bad thing, Sof, and you’re really f*cking starting to freak me out.”
“No, I mean, yeah, it’s good.”
“Then, I don’t understand. What’s the problem?” I cross the room and gesture for her to sit next to me on the bed. Before I left, before we were faced with the sudden shift in our relationship dynamic, coming here was easy. We’d sit on her bed and talk for hours. This time, she doesn’t lean back against my chest and play with my fingers as she chatters about our future. Instead, her back is ramrod straight and her eyes dart to the door every few seconds like she’s searching for an escape.
When she doesn’t say anything, I change tactics. “Why wouldn’t you text me back?” Apprehension claws at my throat, makes it hard to choke the words out. I can feel the whole situation going bad, but there aren’t any moves I can make from here to salvage it.
“I think we should break up,” she says, her face carefully blank now. Her whole body is wound up like a top.
I’ve had a lot of training over the past year. Live grenades, sophisticated weapons, war-hardened Marines with a grudge. I’ve gone to thousands of briefings and trainings and classes designed to teach me how to respond in any and every situation that may come up during war and none of them have prepared me for this.
“You’re going to be in South Carolina, I’m going to be in Louisiana. You’ll probably deploy soon and I know I’ll be going to graduate school at some point. I won’t be able to follow you around the globe wherever they decide to send you next. What’s the point in dragging this out?” she asks, unable to meet my eyes. “What’s the point? I don’t want to keep you in a relationship that’s going nowhere. It’s not fair to you.”
I try for a calm response. “You know none of that bothers me. You know I said I would wait for you to finish school before we made any decisions. I don’t have a problem with a long distance relationship.”
“Well, I do,” she snaps.
I jerk backwards. “Since when?” The whole world has to be off-axis. Tilted a couple degrees in the wrong direction because I’ve never felt so off in my life. Scrabbling for control, I ask, “What are you saying?”
She sucks in a deep breath. “I’m saying, I’m not sure if I want to spend the next few years of my life holding out on a future that may or may not happen. I’m seventeen, Jack. I’ll be in college. These are supposed to be the best years of my life. I shouldn’t be spending my Friday nights on video chats with someone a world away when I could be having fun. Enjoying myself.”
When I’m not able to find the words to respond, she gets to her feet and drags out another suitcase, flinging me a defiant glance over her shoulder. “You should just go, Jack. I want you to go.”
Confident she’ll change her mind in a couple days, I take the few steps to cross her room and stand in front of her. I cup her cheek with one hand, but she flinches away so I grit my teeth and drop it by my side. “You wait until the day before I’m leaving to tell me this? I guess that’s better than writing me a letter or doing it over the phone right?”
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” she says, her voice barely over a whisper.
Shaking my head, I open the door. I have to get out of here. Get away from here. “Goodbye, Sof,” I say.
Present
“SOFIE,” COMES A voice from the end of my bed. After hours staring at the note I found on the porch, I finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep around 2 a.m. I squint my eyes at the clock and see barely two hours have passed, even though it feels like seconds. Alarm shoots me straight up in the bed when I hear the tell-tale sounds of Donnie about to ralph, then he adds, “I don’t feel so good.”
I have mere seconds from the statement until he’s doubled over the toilet in my bathroom. I rub his back with a hesitant palm, because isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with a sick kid? Even if he’s nearly as tall as you are and big enough to toss you around a little.
When he’s done he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You okay?” I ask. What is wrong? Did he eat something bad? Is it the flu? I resist the urge to abandon him in the bathroom to do a quick internet search for communicable diseases in North Florida. While he flushes and shuts the lid on the toilet, I wet a washcloth with cool water and press it against his forehead.