Adam

"Come down to Brooklyn, it'd be great to catch up, you said," I yell over the loud music and general conversation to my buddy, Jon. "Only we ain't doing much of that."

Jon grins at me, nods and shrugs. I don't think he heard a word I said.

The music's too loud and the place is packed, mostly with college girls, like some real famous sexy boy will be playing tonight, instead of all these indie nobodies. And none of the girls look like they're here for one night stands. Not that I am. I'm here to hang out with Jon before he deploys again tomorrow night, so maybe it's good that the music's too loud to talk.

A hard knot is forming in my stomach from just seeing his regulation cut. It feels way too much like regret. But is the knot worse than the sickening feeling of still being on active duty? Right now, I don't know. And that pisses me off even more.

The music dies out to scattered applause, and sentences spoken too loud due the sudden drop in noise.

"So, you miss it yet, Adam?" Jon asks, taking a long swig of his beer. The knot in my stomach tightens. I hate that my first thought is, Yes. Mostly, because I fucked it all up so bad I don't even have the option of reenlisting. A less than honorable discharge. And after my behavior in the last month, I was lucky to get that much. It means there's no way back. And not much of a way forward either. So I might as well not miss it.

I haven't seen Jon in almost nine months. Didn't even know if he was still alive until he called a few days ago.

"Whatever," I say since it sums it up pretty well. "So where are they sending you?"

"The new team's meeting in Italy. We'll see from there." Jon takes another long swallow of his beer. "I wish you were coming too."

I don't bother replying. The team used to be me, Jon, Eric, Philippe, Matthew, and Carlo. Along with Bjorn and Anders before them. Now it's just Jon. And five other guys. Jon got lucky because he was injured before the last mission. The one I alone survived, because I can't seem to die.

"This'll be my last deployment," Jon says, peeling the label off his beer and tearing it completely in the process.

"If they let you go," I say, feeling my teeth grind together.

Jon grins at me, but it's a sad thing more than anything else. "They'd have let you go too. You just have no patience, never did."

"I have plenty of patience for shit that warrants it. That shit did not. I couldn't even get a medical discharge, and I've had PTSD so long it's the new me. We all did."

"A few nightmares and shakes aren't PTSD, Adam," he says, in that clipped tone he always gets when he's nervous. And I've seen him shit scared of dying kinda nervous more times than I care to remember. "Why are we even talking about this? You wanted out, and you're out."

"So long as you've still got plenty of commitment left." I should stop goading him, because it never ends well with Jon. He's got a long fuse, but he packs a mean punch. And he's not shy with those. Nor is he far from delivering one, judging by the flashing in his dark eyes.

"You're actually pretending you don't get why they wouldn't let you leave easily?" he asks, his tone biting. "You were like the best, they couldn't promote you fast enough, and then one day you just up and decide you're done…of course they put up a fight."

He's got a point. One I try not to dwell on.

"Forget it," I say and turn away from him. "I made my choices and I'm living them now. Hope you make it back alright."

The last of my words are drowned out in screaming so loud a battlefield's got nothing on it, hell, fifty bombs going off at once got nothing on it.

Everyone's standing, facing the stage where a new band is setting up. From the euphoria, you'd think it was the Beatles, or like Elvis come back to life.

The singer's got his back turned as he adjusts his guitar, but all eyes are on him. As are mine. I wish they weren't the second he turns.

Motherfucker.

Of all the places Jon had to pick for our reunion it had to be here.

I haven't seen my brother Jesse in over four years, at least not in person. But he's in all the magazines now and all over the Internet. The hottest new singer. Country meets rock, and it's explosive. He's calling himself Jesse Dean now. But I knew him back when he was still Jesse Archer and singing these sappy songs in the bedroom we shared. He hasn't been returning my emails or calls. Hasn't been returning anyone's calls. Because he's too good for the poor, destitute, fucked up, dysfunctional Archer family. Too good now that he's made it big. It’s the last thing I ever expected from him.

I'm balling my fists up so tight they hurt. If I have to deal with the family bullshit, why doesn't he? He has the means now!

He could get my mom some proper care. Or at least move her to a new house. Preferably away from that mean asshole of a husband of hers. Our father. So Jesse knows just what she's dealing with. What we're all dealing with. But no, little Jesse is too good for any of that shit.

Well, we'll see about that.

"What is it?" Jon asks as I slip off my barstool.

Nothing I’m about to explain. Jesse's got some answering to do, and if he won't do it over the phone, he'll do it right here.

This is a bar, not even a concert hall, so there's no separation between the stage and the floor. I don't even know what a star of Jesse's caliber is doing playing in a place like this, but it will make talking to him easier.

"Gotta piss," I tell Jon and proceed to elbow my way through the crowd toward the stage, not paying attention to the angry mutters and jabs I get.

I'm betting there's not much of a backstage in a place like this, and not a lot of security either, save for what Jesse brought with him. Should be easy to handle.

I keep to the edge of the crowd, as I approach. Jesse's making eyes at the girls right in front of him, so he doesn't see me.

Eventually, I make it to the back of the stage, take position right at the door leading to the back room. There are no bouncers anywhere and no one stops me, or asks what I'm doing there. Now I just gotta wait.

I always hated waiting. It's the worst part of any mission. Give me action any day, all the time, but the waiting kills me. Another three songs into his set, and I'm ready to drag him off the stage.

I could stand still for hours back in my old life. And judging by the roaring of the crowd each time he starts a new song this could take hours.

I adjust my position to get rid of the pins and needles in my legs from standing still too long. It's amazing how quickly the training comes back. There’s no need to stand perfectly still here, but I do it, because I can.

My foot gets caught on a wire, which leads somewhere behind the curtain lining the back of the stage. I kneel and pull it, causing a strange lull in the music as the guitar, I think, fades. Must be my lucky day. I fish my knife from my boot and cut the wire to buy myself more conversation time with Jesse, then edge along the wall behind the curtain, feeling my way to the backstage door.

The drums are the last to go silent, and I hear feet thumping across the stage, barely audible over the disappointed complaints from the crowd.

A few moments later, Jesse's voice rings out over the annoyed ding of the audience. "This is just a minor technical difficulty. We'll be right back."

Followed by more thumping.

I lunge at Jesse from my hiding place the second he walks by.

"You really should answer your emails," I snarl more than say to him as I push him through the open door, slamming it shut behind us and leaning against it. We're in a narrow hallway, his band mates in front of us. They haven't caught on to what's going on yet, but they will soon.

"Adam? What…did you do that?"

"Yeah, I called and emailed and left a million messages in the last three months. You haven't answered any." I've got him pinned against the wall. "How 'bout you just come home for a bit, see the shit you left behind."

"I'm busy right now," he says, and struggles to get out of my grip, like that’ll work. I just hold him tighter.

"What's going on?" the drummer asks.

"I haven't been home because there's no point, Adam," he says, ignoring his band mate. "I did what I could."

"Which is precisely nothing. I guess you're just a famous singer now, too good for any of us."

"Oh, that's fucking rich coming from you!" His pale face is flushed now, like it always was when he got upset. I forgot about the redness. "You're the one that left. Two visits in eight years. A post card once in awhile. We didn't know if you were dead or alive most of the time. And you dare accuse me of not doing my part? How many of my emails did you reply to? None, or there about. Fuck you, Adam. Don't you have a war to fight in? Or die in?"

His words cut deeper than they should, mostly because he’s telling it like it was. But also because, apart from my mom and sister, Jesse’s the only member of my family that I truly love. And here he is spitting this venom at me, like Dad or one of my other brothers might.

"I thought you were better than me!" It's true, I did. Jesse's a year younger than me, but I always thought he had his shit together. And besides, he’s such a sweetheart even my dad couldn’t find a lot of faults with him. Whereas with me…

"Bullshit, Adam. You don't think anyone's better than you!"

The door bumps into my back, causing me to take a step forward. A thick arm wraps around my neck, taking my air, but I can still smell sour sweat mixed with aftershave. A bouncer. But I'm not done talking to my brother yet. So I stomp on the man's instep, take advantage of his loosened grip to elbow him in the stomach and then the face. The whole sequence takes about half a second. Another bouncer is pushing his way towards us from the other side, slowed by Jesse's band and entourage crowding the narrow space, where they were hanging on every word of out exchange.

"At least get Mom a nurse!" I tell him.

"She doesn't want anything from me, none of them do. They just want their misery, sickness and hatred. I did what I could. Now it's someone else's turn."

“Mine, you mean?” I hiss.

“Yes, why not? You’ve been dodging it for long enough!”

The bouncer finally reaches me, and I let him drag me away, not fighting this time. Not because I couldn't take him, but because of the defeat, the dark anger in Jesse's voice. He’s never spoken to me this way, and he used to be the only one in my family who really cared. If he doesn’t care anymore, than it probably is over.

"Alright, alright, I'm going," I say to the bouncer as he drags me along the hallway to the door at the end, but he's not letting me go.

He pushes me out onto the sidewalk so hard my lower back snaps painfully as I struggle to keep my balance.

"And stay out!"

The one I elbowed has joined him now and is eyeing me like he'd rather land a few punches before he has to get back to work. I'm ready for it, but they just go back inside.

Then I'm alone on a dark sidewalk, the smelly river glistening black in the distance, and I’m wishing full on that I still had a real war to go back to. Because the one I'm fighting with my family now is not one I'll win. So, fuck yeah, I miss it. I made a mistake leaving the Marines and coming home. And yes, I do regret it.

* * *

Taylor

"This is gonna be…Tha…Bomb." My sister Claire has said this at least ten times with the exact same intonation since we got to this dark and crowded bar.

"And I got us the best table in the place," she adds.

I nod and let my friend Amanda take this opener. I'd rather not be here, and it's starting to show in my voice whenever I say something. It's probably on my face now, and I doubt Claire will stand for it much longer. But I don't want to fight with her tonight.

I should be at home sleeping off my jet lag. Or talking to my boyfriend.

He didn't pick up when I called him this afternoon as I got off the plane. Didn't answer my text. It's eleven PM now, five AM in Anjou, the tiny French seaside town I left him in yesterday night. So he probably won’t be calling me now. Yet I keep the phone on the little round table we're sitting at, waking the screen every few minutes just in case he does.

"Who's gonna call you now, Taylor?" my sister snarls at me, as I do it again. "Jeez, can't you just enjoy yourself for once?"

"It's morning where Henry is. You know, my boyfriend?" I regret the jab as soon as it's out of my mouth. She broke up with her boyfriend a few months ago, and hasn't met anyone new. But I really don't like her tone. I don't know when our relationship turned into such a bickering mess, but it's all there is now.

"Hey you two, take it down a notch," Amanda says. "Jesse's coming on in a few."

I shrug and lean back in my chair, taking the phone off the table and cradling it in my lap. I only came out tonight because I haven't seen Claire or Amanda for months. I could care less if Jesse Dean is performing tonight. Sure I like his music, but it's nothing wow. But I do need to spend some time with people my own age once in a while, I think. Dating Henry is all operas, the theatre, and philosophical conversations. He's thirty-eight, fifteen years older than me and classy as they come. I don't even remember the last time we went for a drink in a normal bar.

There's a lull in the music, and people are starting to crowd into the small space between our table and the stage, obscuring the perfect view we have of it at this bombastic table my sister found for us. Claire and Amanda get up to see better, but I don't. I've barely slept in the last twenty four hours, and my feet ache just from sitting down. I shouldn't have worn heels. But my legs are too chunky for flats if I'm wearing a dress. That's what my sister was letting me know with her look earlier, and it's what Henry says too. I tend to agree. I just wish I was more used to wearing heels.

A gap in the amassing throng of people gives me a good view of probably the only two people still trying to have a conversation in this noisy place. One of them—a guy with the wavy dark hair, wearing a simple white t-shirt and faded jeans, which despite the simplicity seem tailor made just for him—looks like he wants to be here even less than me. I'm really good at seeing this in people, this displacement, this yearning to be somewhere else. The call of the kindred, I've named it some time ago when it got especially overwhelming. Back when I still wanted to write poetry and stories. But it's a stupid notion. I have what I want in life. I'm doing what I want, have the man I want. And everyone gets lonely sometimes.

The phone lights up in my hand on its own just as the crowd erupts in a roaring applause mixed with shouting and screaming. Finally.

I open the text from Henry.

Come back to bed, ma cherie. It's cold here without you!

I read the words over and over. They don't click, don't fall into place. Yet the text is from Henry, and he sent it to me. But he's never called me ma cherie before and there's no way I can come back to his bed. I'm thousands of miles away. Maybe he's being cute, poetic. But that's not Henry, he's all serious, all proper, all the time.

What are you talking about? I text back, my heart thumping in my chest so hard I might pass out.

Nothing, no reply.

Minutes go by. The music is too loud. I can't breathe. Things are twisting, crumbling, breaking and I don't know why.

"I need some air," I whisper to Amanda as I get up. She nods, but I'm not sure she really heard me.

I nearly twist my ankle as I push through the crowd for the door.

The air outside is clear, almost cool. Though that's probably just because it was so hot inside.

Still no text from Henry. I dial his number. It rings and rings. I can almost hear his ringtone echoing in the silent stone cottage he rented for the summer, so he could work on his book. I was an afterthought. He didn't ask me along so we could watch the sunset together, snuggled on the tiny porch overlooking the ocean. We hardly even kissed during the four weeks I was there. Didn't have sex at all. He was too busy working on his book, too stressed out. So why would the bed be empty without me?

It's pitch dark where I'm at, yet I can see the pink dawn rising outside the bedroom window in France. Disturbed now by the incessant ringing.

"What is it, Taylor?" Henry finally asks. "I was sleeping."

But he's out of breath, like he'd been running. The cottage is too small for that. My heart won't stop racing.

"You sent me a text," I say, my voice so faint, I can hardly hear it.

"No, I didn't," he snarls.

"Sure you did. You called me ma cherie and asked me to come back to bed," I say, my voice firmer, but only just.

There's a pause, complete silence on his end. My heart feels like it will explode at any moment.

"Oh, that," he finally says, sounding like he's been holding his breath this whole time. "I meant it…as a…never mind, you wouldn't get it."

I think I hear a woman's voice in the background, calling his name faintly.

"Who's that calling you?" I ask, my voice shrill.

"No one…what?"

"Do you have another woman there?" My mind flips through the faces of all the women I met in France. The older divorcee who rented the house next door to us is the only one that sticks. "Is it Cynthia?"

"No, I'm here alone," he says harshly. "You're imagining things, as usual. Maybe you were dreaming. Go back to sleep, Taylor."

"I'm not in bed." I'm as awake as I can be, and my heart's about to explode. "And I distinctly heard someone calling you."

How dumb does he think I am?

I know not to ask that question. Because I know the answer. I have a mind like mud, but eventually some things do rise to the surface. It's one of Henry's favorite analogies. And the one that always makes him chuckle.

"We'll talk later, Taylor. I need my sleep now," he says harshly.

"Are you cheating on me?" I manage.

"Don't be stupid, Taylor. So much for my romantic gesture. Completely wasted on you. Goodbye," he says and hangs up.

I call back, but it goes straight to voice mail. He's turned off his phone.

I can literally feel the tendrils of denial enveloping me. Maybe I did just imagine it all. Maybe I was the one he sent the text to, and I misinterpreted it. He has every right to be angry at me, hang up on me.

But no, it feels too wrong! I know what I heard. I know he'd never send me a text like that because he never has before.

I overlooked the freshman he had coffee with almost every day since spring. Overlooked the lack of sex, even though we're supposedly trying to have a baby. I can't overlook this. And I'm feeling all the loneliness of the world right now, squeezing me so hard I can't breathe, can't move, can’t even think.

* * *

Adam

After a few more minutes of glaring at the back door, just in case the bouncers do come back, I wander over to the railing and stare at the river. It ripples like stone, looks solid enough to stand on.

Behind me, the music grows louder for a moment, then cuts off again, so I guess Jesse is back in his element. What the fuck was I even thinking going after him with all those accusations? Maybe all I wanted was to ruin his night. Now I doubt I succeeded even that much.

I turn to the door, hoping Jon came out looking for me with my jacket. Instead, I see a girl staring down at her phone, completely unaware of the guy pissing against the wall behind her. She might as well be all alone in the middle of the woods judging by the lost look on her face, illuminated by the bluish light from the phone screen.

"It's gonna be alright!" I yell at her, stupidly, but I had to say something, the pull was too strong. She's glowing, and not just from the phone screen.

She looks up, her eyes fixed on me, but not quite focused. "What?"

"Whatever it is that's bothering you…It's gonna be fine." I don't know why I'm even still talking. I should be pretending I never said anything in the first place.

She walks closer across the cobblestones, her legs wobbling in the high heels.

"You got a cigarette?" she asks.

I shake my head. "You shouldn't smoke anyway."

"Shouldn't…there's a concept," she says and grabs the railing like she needed something to steady her.

"Yeah, I guess," I say, not really sure where this is going, but I like how close she's standing, how the low neck of her dress reveals just a hint of what's under it. As though that wasn't already plainly evident in the curves of her body. "People shouldn't steal, for example."

"People also shouldn't cheat on their girlfriends," she says and I finally get it. But a cheating boyfriend is still better than a committed boyfriend.

"Or lie," she adds.

"Or die." I have no idea why I said that. Probably just because it rhymes. But maybe not.

She's glaring at me now, her eyes wide, the light from the streetlamp making tiny flames dance in their brown depths. I tell my face to grin, will myself to say something funny to break the tension, but I can't.

She's got a perfect oval shaped face, and the softness there, the timelessness makes my breath hitch in my throat. She should be on some church painting, rocking baby Jesus in her arms, not stranded on a Brooklyn sidewalk talking to an idiot.

"I think we can agree that life sucks," I finally hear my voice. Good. At least I didn't go for the baby Jesus comment. "Personally, I just take every day as it comes and try to make the best of it."

Sounds cornier than it feels, but thankfully I don't say that.

"That's one way of dealing with it." She smiles and relaxes a little, slips her phone into the tiny purse hanging on her hip, suspended by a thin strap that divides her full breasts just perfectly. My cock is rock hard, I realize suddenly, just from picturing what her dress is hiding. Which is odd in itself. I haven't had any sort of reaction to girls in months. So maybe that's why my mouth’s just hanging open now.

Or maybe that's because the need to grab her and drag her to a nice cozy bed somewhere, and do it all to her is rapidly erasing all rational thought. But that's not even it. With this girl, I could be happy just looking at her. Even from across the room. Just watching over her. And it's a scary feeling, as scary as it is sweet.

"Well, you know why my life sucks," she says, swaying a little like the wind's moving her. Or like she wants to fall into my arms as much as I want her to. "Why does yours?"

Where do I even begin? Nowhere. All I know is that, if I make this girl mine now, it might suck a little less for awhile.

Behind her, the doors of the bar open wide, and people start crowding out. I guess cutting the wire did the trick. Or maybe Jesse was too upset to keep playing. Good. He should be upset, the traitor.

The girl turns, and squints at the crowd. "I should go. My sister'll be looking for me."

"Let her look," I say. There's no time to waste here. Carpe Diem, live for the moment, and all that shit. I wasn't just being cute before, it's how I've lived my life for the past eight years. Longer maybe, and I recognize a moment worth snatching when I see it. I need this girl, right now.

My arms move on their own, but as soon as they're wrapped around her it’s like they were there all along, like they belong there. I feel the hotness of her exhale as I kiss her full, heart shaped lips. She's rigid for a moment, then softens in my arms, returns my kiss, neither hard nor soft, just everlasting. I'm so hard it hurts, and the kiss is all I ever wanted wrapped in a neat package of soft, sweetness, and all these other things no girl has ever made me feel before.

"What are you doing, Taylor?" a girl's voice screeches somewhere near us, the tone part shock part surprise.

But this perfect girl in my arms is not moving, so I ignore it too, let her tongue find mine in her mouth, enjoy the feel of her hands stroking my sides. All I ever lost is returned again in that kiss, along with the gift of all I ever wanted.

"Oh my God!" another voice screeches, and this time she grows rigid again, pushes away from me.

Her eyes are glazed over as she looks up, and my lips are so cold they might freeze.

"I gotta go," she says and moves away to where two girls with eyes so wide they might pop out of their heads are standing. I hold onto her arms as they slip away, grabbing onto her hands.

I grin at her, mesmerized by her glistening lips. "No, you don't, beautiful."

She looks at me like she can't believe I just said it. But she is beautiful, no, more than that, gorgeous. She shakes off my grip and runs her hands over her hips. "But I do."

One of her friends, or maybe her sister, grabs her by the elbow and pulls her into the crowd, out of sight. Even in her heels most people are taller than her.

"Wait!" I yell, but it's no use. She's gone! Literally every cell in my body compels me to follow. It's pure instinct, I couldn't fight it if I tried.

But the crowd’s thick, still swelling by people exiting the bar. I had no idea that place could hold this many people. But all I know is that I have to find her, take her with me, make her mine, give her anything she wants, and will ever want.

The crowd finally begins to thin by the time I make it back to the doors. And there she is, climbing into a grey car parked in the alleyway next to the bar.

"Wait!" I yell again not nearly loud enough for her to hear me.

She stops anyway though and looks back at me, the longing so clear in her dark eyes I know I'll never forget her, for as long as I live.

The thought disappears as she slams the doors shut and the car drives away.

New York plates. Delta Charlie Echo 3 2 7 6. I work on memorizing the license plate number. I can still find her.

"Where'd you get to?" Jon asks, slamming my jacket into my arms.

"What?" It takes me a few moments to disengage from the pull this girl still has on me. "Oh, they kicked me out."

"Why?"

I shrug and put on my jacket. "Never mind."

He's looking at me now with questions in his eyes that I hope he won't ask. Like if I'm alright. Or whether I need to talk. Which I think no man should ever ask another one. Especially not one who's seen the same things.

"So, the concert's over?" I ask to forestall those questions.

"Yeah," he says and looks down the street where only a few stragglers are left of that huge crowd that stood between Taylor and me. Man, even her name sounds hot.

"Listen, it was nice catching up, but I'm gonna head home. You know, the wife…" Jon says and grins at me, offering his hand for a handshake.

I nod and grasp his forearm. "You stay safe over there, alright?"

"Always do." He slaps his free hand over my arm. "And you figure out this shit that's bothering you, Baby Face."

I cringe at the nickname, the memories it brings, the regret surfacing. "Or I might just appeal getting discharged. Maybe reenlist."

"You should," he says and releases me. "War's what you were born for."

He's not the first to say that to me, and I'm thinking they may all be right. I don’t function well on the outside, if anything, I learned that in the last few months.

I watch him walk off, wondering if I'll even see him again, my stomach twisted in knots again. But reenlisting’s not actually much of an option for me though.

Taylor might be. Just thinking of her soft lips is enough to loosen the knot. And maybe I should just leave it at that. Because with my track record, if I try for anything more, I'll just destroy it completely.

It's loss I can't deal with, I figured that out awhile ago. It's my nemesis, and it's everywhere I turn. So by rights I should be used to it by now. That's another "should concept" that solves nothing. It only puts things in clearer perspective. It'll be hard putting Taylor with all those other memories. Maybe impossible. That's not where she belongs.

Delta Charlie Echo 3 2 7 6. I repeat the license plate number in my head ten more times. Taylor belongs in my arms.