Page 1 of June: Jess' Story

THEN

ONE

Alex

September 22, 2010

ETA: Approximately 22 minutes. Palms get damp. My heart rate increases. Then, right on cue, there’s a burn in my chest.

This isn’t something that happens to everybody, but it happens to me.

Some guys practically sprint home. But not me. I drag. I methodically and slowly move through the compound, taking time to tie up any and all loose ends.Anyone need a debrief? Need a buddy to go see the medic? The psych? Need a ride?Everyone knows that I’m the one to come to.

They probably think I do it in the name of brotherhood. And maybe I do, a bit. But mostly, I do it to avoid what’s waiting for me. At home.

I avoid home. Not that I’d call the condo home. That’s just a place I sometimes sleep.Sometimes. If I can avoid it, I will.

“So, you ever gonna answer me?” Blanks is staring at me like I’m an idiot. He’s been waxing poetic about cryptocurrency the entire drive. Mentally, I’d tuned him out at mile marker 52.

“Sure.” I stare back at the road. As each landmark we pass grows in familiarity, so does my blood pressure.

“Sure is your answer? Or sure, you’re gonna answer me?” If I give in, maybe he’ll stop talking about this. It’ll buy me 16 minutes of silence, I hope.

“Sure is my answer. There’s 500 euros in my rucksack. It’s yours…if you can shut the fuck up the rest of the drive.” Blanks breaks out in a huge grin and doesn’t say a word. Frankly, I would’ve given him a 1000 for ten minutes of silence, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Six more exits, eight and a half minutes approximately.The silence inside the cab of my truck is deafening now. No music while we drive. That’s a rule, everyone knows it. Blanks still asks on occasion, but my answer never changes. I need to be able to hear.Stay alert. Stay alive.

It’s a simple mantra, but one I swear by.It’s one that’s gotten me this far…

Blanks lives two condos over in the small North Carolina town we’re currently stationed at, so there’s almost never a time he drives himself to and from the compound. I don’t mind it because he’s a lingerer, too.

His reasons are different from mine, though. He’s got no one at home to go to. No one to call. No one to see. If he’s not at the unit, he’s alone. Doesn’t date either, doesn’t try, doesn’t want to. He’s a bit like a younger me, except happier. He’s me, with a smile.

Turning off our exit, we pass the Waffle House andjust like clockwork, just like every time we pass the dilapidated restaurant, my body knows and my stomach turns. A small sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. My jaw tightens. My thumb starts thumping against the steering wheel nervously.

I’ve got less than three minutes now. Approximately two and a quarter minutes if I averaged it. And I have.

Blanks sees the shift. He always does, but today he doesn’t say shit. He wants that 500 euros.

I pull into my assigned parking space, kill the engine, then stare straight ahead at the brown and beige condos where they’re probably waiting for me. With smiles and cheer. Because they always are. And I always ruin it. Every damn time.

The sound of Banks slamming the door shut pulls me out of the void I slip into whenever I come home.Again, it’s nothome. Never home. Whenever Icome back— that’s more appropriate.

Swallowing the guilt and anxiety I step out of the truck, grabbing the euros still hidden in a discreet pocket, then pass them off to Blanks.

“What should we call it?” he asks, a smile on his face. He’s not oblivious to what I’m going through, but this is how he copes. He makes plans for the future. When things get hard, when shit hits the fan, like it did in this last mission, Blanks doesn’t get down. Instead he focuses on tomorrow. Making plans, manifesting that he’ll be around to do…it. Whateveritis.

“Whatever you want it to be.” Couldn’t care less. I’m probably flushing $650 down the drain. Bitcoin, or whatever the fuck he talks about incessantly is probably just a fadthat’ll be dead in a year and a half, but it bought me 16 minutes of silence. Silence I desperately needed.

Blanks slams a hand down on my shoulder, giving me a good look in the eyes. There’s a lot that passes between us without a single word being said. Aside from Damian, he’s probably the only person that gets me.

His brows furrow:One, I’m sorry about Corey. Two, I’m sorry you’re about to go in there and be miserable. Three, stop being miserable, you fucking twat. You have a wife and a little girl in there that love the fuck out of you.

His eyes say all that, and I give a brief nod.

Pulling my ball cap down a little further, I block out his knowing eyes, and he releases me to grab my rucksack and kit.

Hoisting his own bag over his shoulder, he turns and leaves. No other words needed, and no goodbyes. I don’t do goodbyes. At least not well.