Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(99)

“Elisa,” his voice is rough. “I think it’s time you know the truth.”





Chapter Forty-Three





Semper Fidelis


“The truth about what?” I whisper.

“About me… You’ve been wanting to know what I’ve done to deserve this.”

I clutch his arm. “I don’t need to know if it will hurt you.”

“Yes, you do. Because you see, from our second evening together, I’ve lied to you.”

My hand loosens on his arm and drops. “Lied to me? About what?”

“About what happened twelve years and eighteen days ago.”

I stop my gasp on the way out because I don’t want to push him at all one way or another. “Are you sure?”

He nods and extends his hand to me, palm up, as though uncertain whether I will take it. I grip it with all my strength. He tucks my hand at the crook of his arm and treads to the bench where the elderly couple sat earlier. His eyes fix on my jawline and throat. Then, he begins in a low, halting voice.

“We’d been stationed at Camp Volturno outside of Fallujah for two weeks. Three hundred Marines strung out on testosterone and adrenaline, armed to their teeth with weapons. Our mission was U.S. presence and raids against insurgents and militia. Tropical vacation after our thunder runs in Baghdad. No mortar fire, no muddy rain, at least two hours of sleep per night. It felt like we were winning.

“I remember lying in my cot on May first, awake at zero three hundred—writing a letter, thinking, ‘This can’t be it. Where are the suicide bombs, the al-Qaeda ties?’ Then Marshall ducked into our tent, sand blowing in.

“‘Drop your dick, Storm. We’re going to Fallujah. Palomino’s got Q fever and Morton’s on his period or something. We’re switching patrol. Do some recon on the city pipes that lead to the hajji market.’

“So we got ready—my entire squad—battle rattle, groin protector, eight magazines of ammo each, knife, two bologna sandwiches, bag of Ruffles. Marshall had this ritual before every mission—he’d sing ‘I’ve Got a Woman’. Day or night. Didn’t give a f*ck who was sleeping. So we belted it out while I skimmed the pipe map, and we set off. On foot of course, how else do you survey pipes?

“God, they reeked! Pitch black. In some elbows, we had to crawl, me at the helm because I remembered the way.

“‘Storm, your brain’s the best f*cking thing that’s happened to this platoon,’ Marshall laughed.

Aiden swallows and for a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Nor do I, now that I realize why he morphed when I spoke those very similar words.

“Anyway. We came out by a middle school, close to the central city market, cammies soaked in sweat. All seemed normal. It was still early. Some kids were out in the schoolyard, playing soccer with a Marine helmet. Then, boom!” He whispers the last word. “The yard imploded. The street. The market. Boom, boom, boom!

“A little torso landed between Cal and me. No bigger than that green bucket. Rib cage apart, bits of lung stuck to the ribs like sponges…” He pauses and swallows hard, as though bile rises in his throat.

“We dug out of the rubble—coughing, spitting, puking. Hendrix kept shouting for us to get back to Volturno. ‘In fifteen minutes, we’ll have hajjis on our ass, Storm. They’ll skin us alive and sell our balls for falafel.’ …But how do you walk away from something like that? How do you at least not check to see if a single child has survived? There’s honor even in the way you wage war.

“So we spilled into the yard, searching for life. Nothing but bodies smattered on rubble. We tried putting some together—you know, for the mothers to bury.

“It was easier for me to match the body parts. This hand’s skin looks like that foot’s. This arm has the same striped shirt as that arm…” His throat convulses.

“That’s when they found us… A guerilla band of insurgents, three times our number. They fired on sight, two Marines down on the same bodies they tried to save. We retreated inside the school—Marshall and I in a classroom on the second floor, Cal and Hendrix on the third.

“We were firing out into the yard, giving cover to Jazz and the others. Then—”

He stops abruptly, his gaze never leaving my jawline. His eyes are dark midnight still, but a fleck of turquoise glimmers here and there, like the light is battling the dark. He presses his back firmly against the bench, shoulders more rigid than I’ve ever seen them. Still, he does not speak. I don’t know for how long.

“Then what?” I whisper at last, gripping the crook of his arm.

He shrugs. “I don’t remember.”

“What?”

“There are a few minutes—ten, maybe fifteen—that I don’t remember. The last thing I recall is a sharp crack in the back of my skull, then nothing. Nothing until I opened my eyes—or rather one eye, this was swollen shut—and saw the clusterf*ck we were in…

“Seven insurgents. Three restraining me. Four playing Russian roulette with Marshall’s toes. They had tied these steel cables around me, twice across the shoulders, three around the elbows behind my back. You get the idea. Then they unleashed themselves on Marshall…”

Another long, immeasurable silence. When he speaks next, his voice is gravelly.