Page 84 of The Bright Side of Brooding
Chapter Thirty-Five
Nick
I’m staring at this grass of a battlefield on which too many died. I’m thinking ofGrassby Sandburgand Dulce et Decorum Estby Owen. I’m thinking of what a strange, storied brotherhood I joined when I shaved my head and laced my boots that first day nearly twenty years ago.
France was beautiful. The battlefields I visited were somber, yet already bustling with springtime life. Such a poignant contrast to the brutal death wrought in those places during World War One.
I did whatever I could to keep my mind off Summer, but what that ended up looking like was much of my notebook alternating between war memorials, reflections on battle and life as a soldier, and thoughts of her.
I didn’t return early. Why would I? Butter was taken care of—his beloved Danielle, the pet sitter, was checking in twice daily because I spoiled him rotten. He’d probably be mildly offended if I showed up a day early and deprived him of any of her affections.
Plus, I’d only come back and have to avoid seeing Summer, wondering about her, aching for her. I’d never expected her to be upset by my incentivizing donations. It simply didn’t make sense, and no matter how I sliced it, I couldn’t make myself feel bad about it.
One conclusion repeated in my mind—something else had to be going on. She wouldn’t be that upset about more donations. She wouldn’t be that upset about me saying I missed seeing her. She’d admitted she was tired, needed space, and we’d now had eight days of space. No communication whatsoever.
I’d swung from hopeful to fatalistic during my travel, and by the time I got home, I just wanted to see her. If we could talk, maybe she’d help me understand what she needed. Maybe she’d show me she could accept help and rely on another person without losing her mind seconds later.
My heart thudded heavy in my chest as I walked to her house. This was it. She pulled open the door, revealing her in relaxed jeans, sneakers, and a white T-shirt withDon’t Worry, Be Happyprinted in scrawling script on the right side. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail, her face looked fresh and clear of makeup, and taking her in, a shudder slipped through me.
Then, the other parts of this moment registered. Her red eyes. The Military Police officers, two of them, sidestepping where I stood in the doorway. Only after seeing them did I register the two MP vehicles parked on the circle. They hadn’t parked directly in front of her house, though, and I’d been so one-track-minded, I hadn’t registered the oddity of their presence there. Until now.
“What happened? Are you okay?” I moved fully inside the house and inspected her, but other than the red eyes, I couldn’t tell.
Summer spoke to the two MPs. “Thanks for coming. Let me know if you need other information or anything.”
They departed, and she closed the door behind them, then locked it. My heart thundered in my ears.
“Summer.”
She crossed her arms tight to her body. “Dennin was here. He didn’t get in, but he really freaked me out. He started out calling me baby, saying he knew I’d been giving him looks. I didn’t open the door, obviously, but told him I hadn’t been. That made him mad, and he started yelling about how I shouldn’t be calling him crazy while he was banging on the door. I called the MPs, and they actually got here really fast.”
That schmarmy jerk that’d been here one of the first times we’d spoken. I’d hoped he’d fade into the abyss, but no dice. She’d mentioned he’d torn down her flyers, but this was a very problematic escalation.
Ire like I rarely felt rose in me, and I wanted to crush the kid—because he was little more than a kid. Probably mid-twenties, clearly immature, and apparently couldn’t take no for an answer. Maybe more disconcerting was the thought that he might be truly unhinged, not just immature and too persistent. To think of what could’ve happened if she’d been coming home, unlocking her door—
I pulled in a breath. “Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come right over.”
She made ahuhsound, and I heard it. The demand, the lack of care.
“I’m sorry. I don’t—that’s not—I’m glad you’re okay. I’m sorry it happened. I hate that he was here again. I’m glad the MPs were nearby and could respond. Did they arrest him?”
She cradled herself, like she needed affection but wouldn’t take it from me. We’d parted on fairly bad terms before the break, and the last week of silence certainly didn’t point to the closeness I’d thought we had. I couldn’t just gather her up in a hug like I wanted. I wouldn’t be someone trying to take something from her she didn’t want to give, especially after what’d just happened.
“I told him I was calling them. He ended up leaving a few minutes before they arrived. I got his license plate, and I actually did file a complaint with them the day after he showed up a few months ago. He spun it to say it was a misunderstanding, but I think having both incidents on record should help.”
“I’m sorry.”
“They were going to track him down right now. Said we’d see more patrol cars out here—they don’t normally do a lot out this way since it’s just you and me from post.”
The military police from Kugelfels didn’t technically have jurisdiction in Germany, but because of the large population of Americans in certain neighborhoods, they did patrol regularly. If there was a disturbance, typically the MPs stepped in first unless it was emergent.
“It’s so stupid. I’ve never had to do that—I called 911 at first. I panicked and totally forgot that’s a US thing. I’ve lived here almost three years.” Her voice shook, and she swiped a hand over her head.
My chest tightened hearing her like this. Knowing what caused it. “It’s just one of those things that’s automatic. You did a great job getting help.”
At least she’d called and not refused to. I said a silent prayer of thanks she hadn’t been so stubborn about it that she didn’t reach out.
She moved into the living room and stood by a chair. I followed and stopped a foot away.
