Page 71 of Between Here and the Horizon
“I still love you,” she whispered. “I lovebothof you. How can I not?”
“So, what?” I choked on my laughter. “I get done out here in a couple of months, come back to New York and then we all live together? One big, happy family? Ronan gets you Monday through Wednesday, I get you Thursday through Saturday, and we take alternating Sundays?Jesus fucking Christ, Magda.”
She cried, unbearable, gut-wrenching sobs, hands covering her face, and it was Ronan to put his arm around her and comfort her, not me.
“How long?” I demanded. “How far along are you?”
They were both silent for a moment, and then Ronan gave me an answer that made me want to throw up: “Sixteen weeks.”
“Four months?Four fucking months?”
“I know, brother. I’m so, so sorry. I know there’s nothing I can say to make this right, but—”
“Don’t call me that. Don’t call me brother. We’re done here, Ronan. You’re right. Thisisunforgiveable.” I slammed the laptop shut, cutting off the connection. It wasn’t enough, though. I picked it up and threw it, sending it hurtling across the tent.
It was over. It was all over. The world as I knew it was gone. Magda was having Ronan’s baby, and I was still stuck in Afghanistan, pretending to be him. I rushed out of the tent and ran across the base, my head thumping, my heart galloping in my chest. It didn’t take me long to find the colonel. He was bending over some intel reports in the comms room, squinting through the wire framed glasses he’d taken to wearing. When he saw me, he drew himself up to his full height and cleared his throat.
“What can I do for you, Captain? Where’s the fire?”
“I want to extend again, Colonel.”
His frosty expression thawed a little. “That’s not possible, Fletcher. Much as I’d like to keep you on out here, you’ve been in-country too long. The higher-ups will demand you go back to active duty in the States for at least six months before we can have you—”
“With all due respect, Colonel Whitlock, do you think I am unfit for duty?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Do you think I’m mentally competent?”
“Normally, I’d say so, but right now you’re looking a little crazed, Ronan. Might I ask what’s brought this on?”
“Just the need to serve my country, sir. The need to protect those I love and keep them safe.” This was the perfect spiel to reel out to Whitlock. Blind patriotism got him in the feels every single time. He scratched his nose, looking at me, and then gave a perfunctory nod.
“All right, then. I’ll have the paperwork drawn up for you to sign in the morning. I’ll write a personal letter of recommendation requesting that your application for another extension is granted, but I can’t guarantee it’ll be accepted.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No, thankyou, Fletcher. Good men are hard to come by out here.” He paused for a second, glancing back down at his intel papers. “You know, out of the two of you, I was always sure your brother would be the one to build an exemplary military career for himself, Ronan. Don’t get me wrong. You were always an excellent soldier. You’d never have made it to captain otherwise. But when Sully left, you really began to shine. I suppose sometimes a man needs to step out of his brother’s shadow in order to show his true colors, hmm?”
Five months later, I was on my back in a desert just outside of Kabul. My body was burned, my lungs raw from smoke inhalation, and Colonel Whitlock was calling me a crazy bastard, ordering men to get me onto a chopper before I bled out and died.
On the other side of the world, Magda was giving birth to my nephew. His name was Connor. On his birth certificate, under the section titled “father,” a nurse in bright pink scrubs, exhausted from a fourteen hour shift, wrote the nameSully James Fletcherinneat blue ink.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Trigger
The funeral was gray and grim. The sun never seemed to stop shining in California, but somehow the world was a dark, black place, and the cheerful weather couldn’t do anything to change that.
Mom hadn’t stopped crying. I hadn’t stopped either. It was all too much. Dad was gone. Sully had been dragged off by the military police, and no matter how many times I’d called to find out what was happening with him, no one would tell me anything. Eventually I found out that he was being held at Camp Haan Army base in Riverside, and that he was awaiting a hearing. I still couldn’t believe any of it.
Impersonating a commissioned officer. That’s what the soldier had said when they arrested Sully at the airport. There was no way he had impersonated a commissioned officer. No fucking way.
We held Dad’s wake at the restaurant. Half of the neighborhood turned up to bid my father farewell. We drank, we ate, and we told stories. The afternoon was bittersweet—a true homage to a wonderful, kind and generous man who had touched so many people’s lives. My aunt, Simone, organized absolutely everything. She was a godsend. She greeted everyone at the church. She coordinated everyone, making sure they knew where and when to show up for the wake. She arranged the flowers. She made sure everyone was comfortable and had enough to eat and drink. She corralled people away from Mom and me whenever it looked like we were on the brink of total breakdown (which was often).Without her we would have been lost.
As the day was winding down, I busied myself collecting plates and glasses from the restaurant, trying to keep my head—it was lovely that so many people had come to show us their love and support, but I really couldn’t take another person telling me how sorry they were for my loss. I was carrying a stack of plates through the back into the kitchen when I saw a tall, bird-like figure dressed in black, stood apart to one side.
Robert Linneman.
