Page 3 of Gorgeous

TheMajor Jameson.

Bennett raves about his commanding officer. When he first enlisted, he was a wee bit of a pussy. Bennett was a privileged kid and had zero common sense. He claims he was hazed like a mofo, and things turned around for him after he was assigned to Jameson’s unit. He became confident and more knowledgeable in all things adult-like. Bennett claimed major took him under his wing and molded him into the man he is today. My brother respects the hell out of Cade. This fall, he will have served under Major Jameson for a year.

I try for a smile and pull it together. “Hi—”

Major Jameson cuts off my reciprocating greeting, nudging Bennett in the side. “Sister, huh? Might want to Skype her somewhere else so the guys don’t see.” He shakes his head, catching my eyes before looking away. “They won’t hesitate to get off on the sound of her voice.”

Kind of like he just did.

My mouth drops open. Was that supposed to be a compliment? I’m not sure, but I catch the slight twitch of Cade’s lip, flashing me a playful wink as he disappears out of camera range, taking his phenomenal ass with him.

Bennett glances behind him at Cade’s departure and mutters out, “Yes, sir,” before turning back to me.

“Did you know he was out here?”

I will spare my brother the awkward and go with, “No. I had no idea.”

Bennett and I speak a little longer before he has to go. I tell him that I miss him and that I love him even if he is weirder than the lady with twenty cats down the road. We share a smile and then a laugh. He promises to call me next week but he never does.

That call was the last time I saw either of them.

Bennett died two days later.

Major Jameson was never heard from again.

Dear B,

I have to make this email short. I’m in desperate need of some shut-eye. I’ve been waking earlier than the platoon to condition with Major Jameson. I’ve been falling behind in our physical fitness assessments. Some days I think I’ve made a huge mistake enlisting in the Marines. What was I thinking, B?

By the way, I saw your review of Kick-Ass. Perfectly written. #yourestillaloserthough

Private Bennett Brannon

“Are you sure you want to do this, B? I mean, I doubt he’ll even recognize you. It’s been four years since you’ve last seen him.”

I pause, dropping the yellow sundress into my suitcase. Actually, it’s been three years and eleven months, but I don’t want to argue with Jess and defend my actions, yet again, that moving from New York City to Georgia without a job, to check up on a man who may or may not remember me, is a good idea.

I will admit, it sounded better in my head a few days ago.

“What happened to all that nonsense about living like we’re twenty-two?” I smirk at Jess until I realize my mistake. “Wait, no,” I blurt out but Jess is already smiling like she’s got me exactly where she wants me. “T-Swift singsdancing like she’s twenty-two, not living, goober. Besides, you act like you’re in your fifties and did not just turn twenty-two, so technically that phrase doesn’t apply to you.”

“Oh, well. What’s done is done,” I admit with a shrug, wadding up my discarded dress and shoving it into my suitcase. The fact is, I made my decision and I’m sticking with it. Even if it is a terrible one. A stubborn bitch to a fault, I will fall on my sword before I admit to Jess that I might be questioning this decision a bit. She’ll “I told you so,” me for days.

With an exaggerated and highly dramatic sigh, I meet Jess’ pinched expression. “I need to do this,” I say with an air of confidence, my voice not nearly as shaky as when I chanted it last night into the bathroom mirror like I was doing some kind of Bloody Mary ritual. “He needs help, Jess. I can’t leave him out there all alone.” I shrug my shoulders like this is all the explanation she needs to understand my rationale. I may not be a psychologist or anything, but I think I can find this man—a hero in my eyes—a place to stay, even if I might not have one myself.

Jess doesn’t agree, and like gum underneath the disgusting desks at our old high school, she’s hardened and not letting go of the subject until I see her point. And right now, her point is simple: She thinks I’m being an idiot.

I’ll agree I’m being a bit irrational, but I’ve already decided.

I’m doing this shit.

Jess tries again, this time softening her normally sharp tone by reminding me, “He has a family, Breck. He doesn’t need you to come save him.”

Ugh.

“I know he does, Jess.” It’s like I’m talking to my grandma when I slow my words down so she can fully comprehend what I’m saying without having to repeat it a bazillion times. “But you didn’t see him,” I say, snatching the newspaper article from my bag—the only way I can think of to get her to understand the gravity of his situation. The paper’s edges are crumpled from pulling it out, crying for the man my brother used to rave about being so full of life but now only existing.

I’ll never forget his eyes. Haunting, yet sharp and aware. A jawline that is all straight lines and good bone structure from his Irish heritage.

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