Page 8 of How You See Me
“We’re fine, honey. Don’t worry. We have insurance, and I picked up some design work—book covers for indie authors. It’s fun. Keeps my mind busy.”
“That’s great, Mom. I’m glad.” Standing, I grab clean cammies from the closet.
“And your father is helping.” The confession comes across quick and cautious. She knows it’s going to set me off and is bracing for it.
“Excuse me?” I throw the uniform onto the bed and start pacing. A different kind of anger, now bubbling in my gut, needs an outlet. “Helping how?”
“He pays for most of her medical bills.”
“But he’d have to be involved to get those.”
“Correct.”
“Seriously, Mom? You’re talking to him? Is Ava?”
“Hayes—”
“I’m sorry. I can’t deal with this right now. I need to go.” I lock it all away—my opinions, emotions, years of pent-up frustration—before I say something I’ll regret.
“Okay, honey. Be safe.” Disappointment laces her audible sigh. The one thing I never want to be for her.
I soften my tone, guilt taking hold. “Tell Ava I’ll call her tonight. I love you.”
“Love you, too. And please talk to your CO. Maybe you’ll catch him on a good day.”
Those don’t exist, but she doesn’t need to hear that. She deserves to hold on to this hope. It’s more than I have.
???
I move through my morning routine like a man gearing up for a battle he's already lost.
Every step on the trek to Major Perry’s office is weighted with not only the things I had to bury to show up today but also the words he won’t allow me to express.
“Enter,” he responds to my knock, and I step in. He doesn’t even glance my way. “Make it quick.”
“I need to talk about my leave requestbefore—”
“Is someone dead?” His dark eyes find me over the rim of his readers. No tact. No empathy. No humanity.
“No, sir. My little sister—”
“Denied.”
The vein in my neck pulses. “Sir, she’s—”
“Not dying.” His tone is cold and dismissive as expected. “Get to work, Staff Sergeant.”
I swallow down the response rising in my throat like shards of glass.
He won’t see me crack. But someone will feel it.
???
I stay longer on the sparring mat than I intended. Before entering, my body had already been pushed past its limits, but I need the pain. I want it.
Private Dixon—big Georgia kid, all muscle and wrestling trophies—tears me apart one takedown at a time. Sweat blinds me. Knuckles and knees bleeding. Lungs scorched inside. Yet, I demand one round after another. He wipes the mat with me, happily, but with each loss, my rage slowly drains out.
By the time I drag myself back to my apartment, I’m wrecked. The anger simmers lower now, next to a stitched-together lie, telling me I’m fine. I don’t even bother changing. Just collapse face-first onto the bed and fumble for my phone. It’s late, but I need to hear Ava’s voice.
