Page 39 of Tangled Like Us
Until now.
“What is it?” Banks asks, studying my posture.
I unwrap the cord around the radio. “I told Jane that we served in the Corps.”
Banks laughs hard. “No you didn’t.”
I look him right in the eyes. Unflinching. “I did.”
His mouth downturns in thought. Not in anger.
Bottom line, Banks and I have been prepared for the whole truth to come out. Not just within the security team or the famous ones.
But the whole world.
Back in February, Security Force Omega gained some fame through a viral Hot Santa video, and we expected the press and public to find out about us being Marines.
Really, all it takes is an online search. But you have to know what you’re looking for.
What ended up happening: no media or fans cared that much about SFO to dig that deep. The most Banks and I get are autographs while we’re on-duty and the occasional paparazzi question about our height and being twins.
We’d built ourselves up for that impact, packed on our Kevlar and waited for the firefight, and it never even hit. I should’ve been relieved, but I think we both landed somewhere between frustration and discontent.
Banks stares back at me. “Did she ask why we keep it a secret?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I told her the truth: the security team would ask us why we didn’t choose the Navy, and we didn’t want to get into it.”
We didn’t want to unload our pasts on the team and deal with it again, and the real answer to that question surfaces a lot of shit.
Easiest solution was to keep our military service a secret. We never hid who we are. We use military jargon all the time, but no one questions us. They just conclude that our knowledge comes from our dad. Because we were raised by a SEAL.
Which is also true.
Just not the full story.
He rubs his eyes. “So you told her that we served, but you didn’t tell herwhy. Did you tell her we’re combat vets?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her you were a squad leader?”
“No.”
Banks scratches the scruff on his jaw. “What you’re telling me then is you’ve given her a millimeter, and you made anoathwith Jane to be more transparent.” He lifts his shoulders in a tight shrug. “Just go the full hundred yards, Thatcher.”
I want to tell her everything. Banks sees that I want to.
But I compartmentalize a lot, and ripping open taped boxes isn’t natural for me. I turn on my radio. “I’ll think on it.”
He massages his forehead. Above his right eye. Breathing harder through his nose.
“You still want me to do the maliocch’?” I make sure before I go grab oil and matches.
He nods stiffly. “Please.”
8
THATCHER MORETTI
