Page 106 of Fight Or Flight

Brooklyn

It’s been four weeks and still no word from Eric. Not a phone call nor a response to any of the letters I sent. At this stage of his training he should be deep into the white phase, learning to identify every weapon and how to assemble and dissemble each of them. He should’ve also received the weapon he would use throughout his training. One website I research often suggests that the trainee name his weapon. I wonder if there is any truth to that and if there is, what did Eric name his weapon—let’s hope it’s a little more badass than Splish and Splash. When we have kids, I’m naming them. He can continue to name our pets and his weapons.

Also in the white phase, Eric should learn how to zero his weapon. Everyone looks into a scope differently, but this part of his training will allow him to customize his weapon and make for a more accurate shot. Once that is nailed down, he will begin to hit targets.

There’s team building exercises and skill-development tasks, too. And according to this blog post, he will become all too familiar with MRE—Meals Ready to Eat, for civilians like us. I can’t picture him eating anything out of a bag that isn’t a Dorito, but I’m sure he’ll get the hang of it.

I’m also sure he’s going to eat like he’s going to the chair when he finally is finished with training. Lauren does too, and she’s been stress cooking all these freezer friendly meals that neither me nor Riggs have the heart to tell her he probably won’t have a chance to eat. When he does finally graduate, he will be stationed to a base and expected to report for duty three days after graduation.

Speaking of which, that’s the topic of today’s letter. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t responded to any of the others, I still write him every day. I tell him how close I am to graduating and I fill him in on some things we’ve been doing as a family. That I’ve gotten close to Bella and every Saturday she and I go for manicures. I update him on the adventures of Splish and Splash—they don’t really do much, but they’re alive and that’s an adventure in itself and a total accomplishment on my behalf.

Anyway, back to my letter.

I’ll be graduating before he finishes training and I’ve held off on choosing a college until we know where he will be based. The military only provides housing for married soldiers so Eric will live in the barracks, but he’ll be able to come and go off base and I can visit him there. It’s something we have discussed in the past, but it’s worth a mention again since the sale of the Connecticut home I shared with my mom is finally complete—a pleasant surprise Riggs and Lauren sprung on me the other day. Now, I have the means to move, I just don’t know if I’ll be living in a dorm close to his base or an apartment. I suppose it doesn’t matter so long as it’s close to him.

I’m just about to start penning my letter when my phone rings on top of the pull-out. Sighing, I drop the pen and make my way to the bed, but my feet come to a halt when I catch a glimpse of the wallpaper on the screen.

My heart stops.

The butterflies return.

He’s calling!

He’s finally calling!

Snapping out of my trance-like state, I dive onto the pull-out and my fingers fumble with the phone in a rush to answer it. When I finally get my bearings, I swipe my thumb across the screen and lift the phone to my ear.

“Oh my God,” I rush out. “Is it really you? I was just sitting down to write you another letter. I miss you. How are you? Tell me everything.”

I ramble and I ramble, desperate to get every word—every question—out. But he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t utter a single word, and for a moment, I think I’ve lost him.

My heart plummets as I stare at the timer on the phone, then I bring it back to my ear.

“Eric?”

“Yeah,” he clips, his tone hoarse. I want to think it’s emotion I detect in his voice, but the dense ache in the pit of my stomach doesn’t allow me that privilege.

Something is wrong.

Something is very, very wrong.

“Eric?” I repeat. “Is everything okay? Are you—”

He cuts me off.

“How many have there been?” He grinds out the question. I’m not sure what he’s referring to, so I take a minute. The military wives group warned me that the conversations would be rushed, and I’d have to decipher the questions. I can only assume he’s asking how many letters I’ve sent.

“I’ve sent one every day since you left. Haven’t you received them?”

Regret instantly fills me. I knew I should’ve sent the letters through Sandboxx.

I found an app that overnights letters and photos to servicemen, all you have to do is type what you want to say into the app and attach a photo if you want and they will print it and send it, but I didn’t do it because I read somewhere that it doesn’t matter how quickly you send mail to your soldier, the process on the receiving end is still the same. Still, by now he should’ve received at least one—unless of course I got the address wrong, which I don’t think I did.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he snaps. “Don’t play me Brooklyn, be honest. How many guys have you been talking to since I left?”

My heart stops. I must have misheard him.

There is no way he’d ask me that question.

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