With my father safely behind bars, my mother daring to venture outside again (slowly— very, very slowly), and spring around the corner, I want to be able to forget about Heath.

After all, he’s been gone now longer than we were ever together— almost five months. But I can’t help thinking about the fact that it was supposedly a six month deployment— is he going to come back?

I don’t know how I’ll feel if he does. I don’t know what I’ll do if he does. My heart longs to see him again, even as my head scolds me, reminds me that it didn’t work out for a reason, reminds me that I’m not cut out to be a military girlfriend and that Heath wasn’t the boyfriend I wanted in the end, drunk on the floor of his father’s house.

Still, I comb the newspapers, looking for information on a SEAL mission, reading between the lines as if our town’s little Daily Holler is going to be sending me secret information in news stories inches from ads for this weekend’s rodeo. The internet is just too vast a hole to fall in to, so Bella handles that medium for me, shaking her had “no” each morning when I walk into the coffee shop. No, there isn’t anything new to report today. No, there are no reported deaths or missions or victories.

If I were a less stable person, I’d start to wonder if he’d ever existed at all.

Though if that were the case, my sanity would be proven by running in to none other than Vic at the gas station one boring January morning. We’re both silently staring at the rack of candy bars together for a full ten seconds before we look up to navigate stepping around one another and realize who our fellow candy-patron is.

“Vic!” I say, startled.

He smiles in an unimpressed, grizzled way that reminds me why I didn’t ever like him. “Karla?”

“Karli,” I say. I’d be hurt if it were any other guy’s dad, but with Vic, this doesn’t particularly surprise me.

“Right. Good to see you. Hope things are well,” he says gruffly, and grabs a king-size Snickers like it personally offended him. He walks toward the counter and slides it across to the attendant.

I want to let it go, but I can’t, not when I’m face to face— or, well, face to back-of-the-head—with a source that might actually know something for real about Heath. With Vic right in front of me, information on Heath isn’t something I can laugh at my need for; it’s vital, and I hunger for it in an almost primal way.

“Heath,” I call out to Vic’s head. “How is he? Do you know where he is?”

Vic goes still, save for his fingers on his wallet; he runs them across the worn leather thoughtfully before turning around to face me. The guy behind the counter looks unimpressed with whatever this exchange is over, and goes back to meddling with the lottery machine.

It’s not until Vic is facing me head on that I notice he looks rough. He’s always looked rough, of course— it’s sort of his entire aesthetic. But Vic is a new level of rough right now, his eyes bloodshot, skin dry, hair greasy at the roots.

“If there’s anything you can tell me, I mean,” I say quietly, stunned and surprised by his appearance— and by the hard gleam in his irises.

“If you could know where he is, he’d have told you,” Vic says.

“Maybe. I don’t know— we sort of fought right before he left, and I just…I just want to know if he’s okay,” I say. “Do you know that, at least?”

Vic looks at the ground for a second, then back to the counter. He removes a five-dollar bill from his wallet and slides it across the counter. I think the conversation is over, but when he turns back around he finds my eyes again and speaks as he unwraps his candy bar.

“I don’t know where he was. I don’t have the security clearances to know where my own god damn son was, because he’s a SEAL, you know. Too good for me,” Vic says.

“Oh,” I stumble. “I mean— I guess if he can’t tell anyone where he is—“

“I said I didn’t know where he was. I know where he is now,” Vic says, taking a bite of the Snickers.

“Oh,” I repeat. “Can you tell me?”

Vic chews. I’m pretty sure he’s doing it slowly on purpose, and it takes some real willpower on my part to keep from reaching forward and smacking the stupid candy bar out of his hands.

“I’m trying to stop drinking,” Vic says.

“Oh.” This, clearly, is the only word I’m capable of forming right now. I swallow and force something else from my mouth. “Uh, good luck. Is it going well?”

“Sometimes,” he says. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Oh.”

“Heath said it was this or he’d move out. Said he’s sick of this shit and that he’d go to my bosses. It was a real fucked up thing to do.”

I don’t smile. I want to smile— really, really badly— but I don’t smile, barely managing to keep my lips in a firm, hard line.

“I think it’ll be a good thing. I’m sure it must be hard though,” I finally say, still not smiling, don’t-smile don’t-smile don’t-smile—

“That motherfucker,” Vic says. He heaves away from the counter and walks toward the door— now, it’s clear, the conversation really is over

“He’s okay though, Vic? Heath’s okay?” I ask, frantic to get an answer to that, at least, if Vic won’t tell me where he is.

“He got hit by an IED. His arm is tore up. He’s recovering,” Vic says as the door chimes jingle ahead.

“Oh my god,” I say, blinking, almost frozen— but then I dash out after him. “He didn’t lose his arm, did he? I mean, is he hurt long-term—“

“You ask him,” Vic says, dropping the candy bar wrapper on the ground carelessly and then jamming his keys into his truck.

“Where can I write him? Do you have an address?” I ask hurriedly. I know that the minute Vic slams his door shut, I’ll lose the chance at this information.

He snorts. “Yeah. Fifteen Milton Drive.”

I stop, shaking my head— that’s the address of Heath and Vic’s house. “You’ll forward it to him?”

Vic snorts again, louder this time, and I think just for the effect. “He’ll open it himself. He’s been home for a month.”