Page 82 of Not How I Saw That Going

We drive back to her apartment in heavy silence.

“What a night,” Lyndi sighs as I carry a sleeping Crew back to her apartment.

I lay him in his bed and join Lyndi in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe you cleaned up this mess,” Lyndi says, going to the cupboard and pulling out a cup.

“I didn’t finish.” I grab a rag off the counter, douse it in water, and kneel at the edge of the carpet where Crew had started bleeding. I scrub at the blood that has dried into the tan shag carpet, but it just smears into the fibers, turning the color an angry brown.

I scrub harder.

I rinse out the rag then go right back to my knees, rubbing the spot until my hands ache. I have to get it clean. I press my weight into the scrubbing motion, pushing the rag harder and faster against the floor.

Why won’t it come out?

My breathing speeds up and sweat breaks out on my forehead, but the blood stays. I gag on the almost imperceptible metallic scent. It’s not like it was in Iraq, but it’s still there, plaguing my mind, my memory.

Why can’t I erase the past?

Dainty fingers cover my calloused ones, and I freeze.

“Ward,” Lyndi’s breath tickles my ear.

I turn my face toward hers. She’s so close I can make out the flecks of green in her eyes, the freckle on her lip.

“I’m sorry.” I clear my throat and pull back to my knees. “I didn’t mean for him to get hurt.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault.”

“I was watching him. I was in charge of making sure nothing bad happened to them—I mean him.” I struggle with the last word, trying to pretend the old familiar pain in my head, in my heart, doesn’t exist. That it never existed.

Her eyebrows furrow. “You didn’t want him to get hurt. You can’t blame yourself for something you had no control over.”

She has no idea. A tear slips down my cheek and I turn my head before she can see it. I stand up and go back to the sink. The rag slips from my hands and drops into the sink. I brace myself against the counter on shaky arms. My head drops, and only then do I notice the blood plastered on my shirt. I rip it off and toss it under the water. I wring out the shirt, filling the sink with red.

There was so much red in the water after Kabul. I watch red liquid circle the drain and my stomach rolls. My heart hangs like an anchor in the pit of my stomach, keeping me in the middle of a forsaken sea. The place I deserve to be.

“Ward,” Lyndi says again and shuts off the water. “What’s going on?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I did it again. I put someone’s life in danger. I let you down. I’m sorry.” I sniff.

“What happened over there?” Her voice is barely a whisper and her forehead creases in concern.

She knows.

This whole time, I thought I’d been hiding my past from everyone, but even though they didn’t know the details, they knew. I’ve only been hiding it from myself. Maybe it’s time I set it free.

“It was my fault. In Iraq.” My voice cracks, and I sink against the counter with my confession. My hand rubs an all too familiar spot on my chest, the numbers I’ll never forget. “I got questionable intel, but I was team leader and it was my call. I decided to act on it.” I sniff again and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I led my team into an ambush.”

A hand clenches around mine, dragging it away from my face. Lyndi doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my hand. I expect to see revulsion in her eyes, but she’s looking at me the same way she always does, like she cares. It gives me the strength to continue.

“Four of my teammates were killed. Two wives were left without husbands, four kids without fathers. Parents without children, siblings without brothers. All because of me.”

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to reassure me it wasn’t my fault. I’ve had enough people try to take that job.

My whole body droops as the fatigue of the day—of the last three years—settles over me.

Lyndi tugs on my hand and leads me to the couch. I fall down beside her, grateful not to be alone with my thoughts right now.