Page 637 of One More Kiss

Josephine “Jo” Booker

The momentI heard Mann’s voice the fragile dam broke and gave way to more tears. I could barely get a word out much less break the news to my brother’s friend that he had killed himself. Luckily, Detective Reynolds was there to take the phone from me and explain my reasons for calling. Unlike he did with me, Reynolds didn’t leave anything out and hearing him tell Mann Andrew took his own life, somehow made it real for me.

I am not going to wake up from this nightmare.

I’m going to bury my only brother and I’m going to have to do it all by myself.

“Here you go,” Detective Reynolds says as he sets a Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of me. I lift my chin and offer him my thanks before taking the plastic lid off the cup. Adding some sugar and a drop of half-and-half, I use the red plastic stirrer to mix it all together. I bring the cup to my lips and take the first sip as Reynolds takes the seat across from me.

He looks just as tired as I feel and a pang of guilt slices through me as I take another sip. I’m sure Andrew’s case isn’t the first of its nature, that Reynolds has probably even seen worse, but that kind of tragedy has to affect a person. It traumatizes them and makes them reflect. In fact, I bet he can’t wait to go home and hug his loved ones.

I wish I could.

I wish I could pick up the phone and call Andrew. I’d tell him all the things I didn’t get to say during our last call. I’d tell him I loved him, and I’d ask him if he was okay. I’d give him the fucking money he asked for without hesitation.

Staring at Reynolds, I set the coffee on the table.

“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “I promise not to leave until Mann gets here.”

Go home to your family.

Here today, gone tomorrow.

Reynolds smiles faintly at me as he shakes his head.

“Even if Mr. Mann didn’t ask me to swear on everything I cared about, I’d still be here waiting with you.”

After Reynolds briefed Mann on what happened, he didn’t get back on the line with me. Instead, he instructed Detective Reynolds to make sure I didn’t leave the station until he got here. That was two hours ago, Mann lived about a half hour or so from where I lived in Durham, so it shouldn’t be much longer before he arrives.

“Is he a friend of the family?” Reynolds questions, drawing my attention back to him.

Andrew and Mann didn’t know each other very long. They met while they were both in Afghanistan, training for a special ops mission. Much to his dismay, I would routinely send my brother care packages. I took my role as a military family member very seriously and even though my brother could give a shit less if he had a supply of beef jerky or not, I still sent those packages like clockwork. Sometimes I even got fancy and decorated the boxes to fit with the season. I think that’s how Mann wound up with one of my boxes. Where Andrew didn’t appreciate my scrapbooking skills or the little felt Christmas tree I shoved in the box, Mann did, and he even wrote me a letter to thank me.

I remember how excited I was when I went to the mailbox and saw the envelope. Of course, I thought it was from Andrew and I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a moment where I felt a little disappointed. I mean, aside from Aunt Barbara, Andrew was all I had, and he never once bothered to reply to any of the letters I sent him. He video called once in a blue moon—but those calls were always rushed and thinking about it now, they seemed forced. Like he felt obligated to check in on me.

But there was something special about holding a physical letter in my hand. That first letter didn’t say much other than ‘thank you’ and yet for reasons I still don’t I quite understand, it meant so much to me. After that, I started sending Mann packages too and letters…so many letters. He responded to every single one.

Did that make us friends?

I don’t know.

After their mission failed and they were both discharged, I didn’t hear from Mann. He and Andrew went their separate ways once they were back in the states, then Thanksgiving rolled around and my brother extended an invite to Mann. Neither of us expected him to show, but just as we were rolling out Aunt Barbara’s favorite china, the doorbell rang.

Now, I’m not the type to fawn over a man. I’ve been burned enough times to know they’re a dime a dozen, but Johnny Mann was the exception. He was taller than I figured, and his hair was longer than in the photos I had seen. He wore a pair of Wranglers that had seen better days and a tight fitting black thermal. His muscles rippled beneath the material and the sight caused my pulse to quicken. Johnny Mann was ruggedly handsome in all the right places and he stole my fucking breath that day. He also robbed my ability to formulate a sentence because I stood in the doorway staring at him with my mouth agape—not my finest moment, I know.

But I couldn’t help myself.

Technically he was a stranger standing on my Aunt Barbara’s porch, a stranger who someday wanted to build his own house. Someone who loved beef jerky but hated potato chips. A man who could dismantle and fire a weapon on demand. He preferred two wheels over four and had visited twenty states during his life. He hated hunting, thought fishing was for pussies and could take down anyone in a game of pool. He was a stranger who confided in me, letter after letter. A private man who shared his deepest secrets and greatest desires. The more I stared at him, the more I had to remind myself he wasn’t there for me. That this wasn’t some scripted story between pen pals. He was there because my brother invited him—nothing more and nothing less.

Wrong.

Sure, he didn’t mind the turkey dinner or Aunt Barbara’s pestering to go for seconds, but by the time dessert rolled around, Mann made his reason for accepting Andrew’s invitation clear. He was starting his own business and wanted my brother to be his partner.

Why that never panned out, I don’t know. But Mann left shortly after he and Andrew went outside to discuss things. He didn’t even come back inside the house to say goodbye and that hurt more than when his letters stopped filling my mailbox. Mann didn’t do relationships of any kind. If you no longer served a purpose in his life, he cut you out of it—something he made crystal clear that Thanksgiving.

I never heard from him again and to be honest, I’m not sure he and Andrew spoke much afterward either. Calling him was probably a bad idea on my behalf but its too late now.

I look back at Reynolds and shrug my shoulders before finally replying to his question.

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