Page 3 of Ringer

I used everything I had, every ounce of political currency and goodwill, to get a special post at a base near Boston. Three years, limited time in the field, in the only city she said she could live in and then I could retire. Get a job doing security in the private sector or grab a gig in government contracting. It would be enough.

Punch.

My CO looked at me hard. You be sure Mulvaney, because you got a lot of guys pulling a lot of favors to make this happen. You miss the field? Tough shit. Wife wants to move to Florida? Tough shit. You hate your life every day? Tough shit.

No sir. This is what I want.

They are what I want.

Kick, kick, kick. Dodge.

Then I take a seventeen-hour flight home from a real mind fuck of a tour in Asia. Can’t wait to get home. I walk in and the lights are on. She waited up. She never waits up for me. Maybe this really is a fresh start. And I feel something new, something different: hope.

I take one look at her face.

Nope.

Punch.

We have to talk, she says in a flat voice. It’s over. There’s someone else. No, I don’t want to try anymore.

I act like an idiot. Say marriage was forever; still believe that. I’m a man that keeps my commitments. She looks me in the eye. I’m pregnant.

Punch-punch-punch.

A second of hope. I love my kid. Another one would be amazing. But then I realize – it’s been years since anything happened with her and I.

Years.

Three months pregnant.

I’d been gone five.

Not my kid.

She keeps talking: I’m sorry, Jack, but you have to leave. Now. I stand up, grab my stuff, and drive to a nearby motel. Headed out the door and she calls: where will you stay?

Part of me hopes. Maybe she still cares. Maybe there’s a chance for JJ for us to work with out for JJ. Nope. She served me divorce papers at 7:59 am the next morning.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

Families are tough things to hold together. They’re like bones and hearts and lives not bound together by discipline. Easy to fracture.

Easy to break.

Easy to lose focus.

“Jack,” there’s a warning note in Owen’s voice.

I focus on his face.

Be here now. Prepare to win the fight.

The real fight you’re training for today. Not the one you lost three weeks before Christmas, two years ago.

“Sorry, man,” I grit out.

Focus.

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