Page 39 of All of You

I knew I’d pissed him off as the red wave of anger washed over him from his shining bald head to where his neck met the olive-green collar of his uniform. Perfect.

Just another thing to make me question what the hell I was doing here anymore. And that was the question: why was I even considering staying in? I never felt excited to go to work. I never felt like what I was doing made any difference at all. On the worst days, the heaviness of future deployments, future loss, future injury loomed over me.

Everyone didn’t feel this way. Major Flint didn’t, and we’d been through the same deployment—he’d held my hand while we waited for a MEDEVAC for Jones as he died in my arms.

Shit. I didn’t want to be thinking about that.

But as I packed up my water bottle and coffee mug and signed out of my computer, I knew the truth of the situation wasn’t that simple. I didn’t want to continue doing the work of the Army, but I had no idea how to do anything but the work of the Army. I had no skills, no degree that had a clear non-Army job attached like teaching or engineering or accounting.

And maybe the worst part? I’d always planned on this. I’d planned on the Army. It’d been my plan since graduating high school. I’d envisioned retiring after twenty years, maybe more. I’d seen myself as a soldier for life.

But I was faced with the larger reality that I didn’t want to be a soldier anymore and had no idea how to get out, how to figure out what came next.

A year ago, these kinds of thoughts would have sent me into a tailspin that very few things could pull me out of. I took a deep breath and looked out at the horizon while driving. What a relief to feel the walls hold—the edges of my mind weren’t collapsing in on me at the thought.

I was discouraged and angry with myself for assuming I’d love the Army and not having any Plan B, but I’d figure out something. Either I’d move forward in my Army career, promote to captain, and move to go to the captain’s schooling that would take place before my next longer assignment, or I wouldn’t.

I’d be forced into figuring that out in spring. For now, I’d just… see. I’d see if Flint and Thatcher and the other people I liked working with could make me want to stay enough to actually do it. And I’d try to figure out what the hell I’d do if I got out.

Saturday morning, I worked out long and hard, then cleaned up and sat around mentally preparing for whatever was in store for me at Whit’s. Today was our big pre-tour meeting. As I grabbed my keys, my sister sent me a message—it contained a link.

I clicked on it to find a photo of Whit with her hand on Jamie Morris’ arm. They were both smiling, both angled toward each other, evidently having lunch together or doing something that necessitated sitting near each other.

Super.

I messaged her back. “Don’t worry about it. They’re collaborating.”

Her response wasn’t a kind one, and despite what I’d told her at Thanksgiving—that I knew Whit hadn’t cheated on him, nor him on her, for that matter, and that I trusted Whit, she was skeptical. Bridgette would always fight like an angry badger to protect her family, and I suspected, especially her little brother. There was no point arguing with her or trying to talk her into trusting Whit until she met her.

Which she probably would never do.

I knocked on Whit’s door right on time, and Nikki opened it for me.

“We’re meeting in the dining room—she’s just finishing up reviewing the rider and a few details with Jeremy, the tour manager. Then, we’ll talk through some of the logistics with you. Jot down any questions you have as we go—Jeremy is incredibly tightly wound about timeliness and won’t answer questions until he’s done with his presentation.”

I followed her to the dining room, a room I had never seen but which turned out as anticipated—expertly decorated, airy with a touch of down home, and absolutely gorgeous, since Whit sat inside it at the far end of the table. A man who looked like he was probably only an inch or two taller than her with jet black, slicked-back hair and pale skin sat to her left, and they were both silently reading the screen of a laptop angled between them.

“Yes, that’s all good,” Whit said.

And just those few words, totally unrelated to me, made my stomach turn over.

“Okay. Then that’s it. Is this guy going to make it—” Jeremy started, then stopped as he saw Nikki sit down to the right of Whit and gesture for me to sit next to him.

Some juvenile part of me had a mini tantrum that I wasn’t getting to sit by Whit, but I told that baby Ben to shut it.

“Ben Holder, nice to meet you.”

“Jeremy Lantz, nice to meet you. Here’s your schedule, your print of procedures—things like loading and unloading, call times, packing suggestions, and a bunch of other stuff. We’ve got a few legal docs to sign, and then Whit should fill you in on anything else, but you can always contact me.”

He shoved a pile of papers in front of me on the table. It looked like it was about twenty pages deep.

“Thank you,” I said, looking down at the stack.

“And by you ‘can always contact me,’ he means never contact him under any circumstance unless you want your head ripped off,” Whit explained.

I looked up to find her smiling back at me. Jeremy grumped out something unintelligible, and she added, “What? You know that’s true. Ben won’t cause any trouble. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

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