After spending ten days on a surreal Southern estate, Killian and I head back to base. For Marine Combat Training. It’s compulsory for everybody who’s not entering the School of Infantry. Sometimes I wonder why I’m making things so difficult for myself. What is this nagging inside me that won’t allow me to rest, keeps making me push myself? It’s not that I want fame and honor, even though those things are definitely not bad to have. It’s more of a desire to just…be better. To become a better version of myself. Not for others, but for myself.

I don’t know, I’m kind of navigating through this blindly, but I think it’s also a sign of growing up. When you recognize it’s more important to rely on yourself than to listen to others. There’s no single path that makes everybody happy. Instead, there are hundreds, if not thousands of paths, and it’s your task to find the one that makes you happy. I like the idea that maybe I’m not making a mistake, as Dad’s trying to tell me. Just because his path is different than this doesn’t mean it’s better than mine.

And at the end of the day, everybody has to be happy with their own life.

It’s like a changing of the guard. The vertical connections you have with your parents become less important, while the horizontal connections with friends, siblings, and partners become more important. Maybe it’s okay Dad’s view on this is different.

One quiet night on base, I call Dad. The phone rings for a long time before he answers. I don’t know if he lets it ring so long on purpose. But I do wonder.

“Hey,” he says. His voice sounds somewhat small. Not like the powerful and successful businessman I know him to be, not as awe-inspiring as I remember him, even in spite of all his affection.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, and since I can’t think of anything better, I add, “How are you doing?” Fuck, I should have thought that through. Hell, I should have thought about what I was going to say before I picked up the phone.

He snorts condescendingly, which hurts. “How do you think I’m doing, Hunter? My son’s volunteered to become fucking cannon fodder.”

Okay, I should have expected that, but it still sucks that he can’t respect me and my decisions.

“I know you don’t understand…”

“You can say that again! I don’t get why you’re doing this! You’re from California, for God’s sake! What kind of redneck crap is this, goddamnit?”

Wow, I never thought he was such a snob. “It’s my decision, Dad. And you should be in my corner.”

“You want me to support your suicidal behavior? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Okay, this was obviously not a good idea. It’s the exact same conversation that happened at home last summer.. Maybe the whole thing isn’t dead and buried yet. Great.

But, then again… Shouldn’t I expect to be taken seriously? Maybe that’s the problem. Dad was never the kind of dad who didn’t take us seriously. From the very beginning, he trusted us and respected us. And we have never given him reason not to (apart from the stupid stuff all boys do). This is really the first time I’m not doing what he wants me to do in an important situation. For the first time, I’m doing my own thing.

Neither of us can deal with this shift in roles. That’s the problem here. He can’t because he doesn’t know how to react to a situation where I don’t need him anymore. And I can’t because I don’t know how to react to that either.

We’d have to rebuild the foundations of our relationship to fix this. But if you’ve followed a certain pattern your entire life, it’s difficult to leave it—even if it’s the right thing to do. Well, I guess at some point everybody has to leave their parents behind, to a certain degree. That degree is just going to be greater for me than most people.

“Can’t we talk about this properly?” I ask.

“If you’d decided to become a porn star, we could have talked about it properly. This decision is outside the realm of rational judgment, so I don’t see anything to talk about. Our door will never be closed, son, but I can’t support this craziness.”

For a long moment, we’re both quiet, because his words have cut the possibility of conversation short. Then he hangs up.

I run my hand over my short hair. Wow. That went great.

“Hey, man, I’ve been looking for you!” Killian’s voice comes from behind me. When I don’t react, he asks, “Is everything okay?”

Macho culture forces me to say, “Everything’s great.” But, actually, what I really need is to talk to someone like I could talk to Devon back in high school.

“I have to make another call,” I say, and Killian nods.

I dial Carey’s number, but he doesn’t pick up. I could call Shane. He knows everything about me. But somehow it doesn’t feel right.

Almost automatically, my fingers dial a number.

“Hunter?” Shortly after the dial tone subsides, Mac says my name with that dark, husky voice that turns my mind into a juicy porno.

“Yup.”

“How are you doing? Are you okay? Do you need anything? Should I—”

“Take a deep breath,” I interrupt her.

I can hear her do that before she says, “I’m so glad you called.”

“It’s good to hear your voice, babe.”

“Yours, too.”

“What are you doing?”

“Sitting on the porch.”

“Is Dad there?”

“No, he’s in New York.” She sounds sad—or am I imagining it because I want her to be unhappy with Dad?

“Hmm.”

“Hmm indeed.”

“Mac…”

“Yes?”

“Are you happy?”

I didn’t mean to ask her that. It just came out. I bite my lip, curiously awaiting her reply—and at the same time fearing it.

“I think you know the answer to that,” she says softly, glumly.

That is the best and the worst answer she could have given me. Good because it gives me hope. Bad because I don’t want to see my girl sad. Ever.

“Mac… Listen… I—”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Whatever you were going to say, don’t say it.” Her voice is pleading. I can’t turn her down, so I stop talking.

After a while, I hear a small sob. It breaks my heart.

“Don’t cry, babe. Please don’t cry.”

I never meant to ask her if she was happy. But now I regret it even more…

“I can’t do this,” she whispers.

“Do what?”

“It’s like being torn apart.”

I swallow. “Do you want me to stop calling you?”

“I don’t know…” Her voice sounds so lost I realize she really doesn’t know.

I close my eyes. “Okay. I’ll stop calling.”

I can hear her crying, but she doesn’t say anything else.

When I can’t take it anymore, I hang up. I’m such a fucking masochist, it’s ridiculous.

* * *

Combat training is going to turn us into entry-level infantry Marines. So that we know what we’re doing in a combat situation. Our areas of training in MCT will include weapons, explosives, land navigation, radios, grenade launchers, and—my favorite—martial arts, or to be more precise, the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program.

I’ve already done some training with Shane, but this is harder than anything I’ve ever done. We learn how to defend ourselves without weapons, sometimes using everyday objects. We also learn to handle our weapons, but, once again, team-building and mental strength are top priority—recurring themes throughout our Marine training. After all, the Marines are an elite unit, and only the best make it through the training process.

I’ve trained in different martial arts styles before, but this program combines the most effective techniques of all worlds: jiu jitsu, krav maga, aikido, boxing, kick-boxing, taekwondo, and many others are combined into a highly effective fighting style that can save lives.

It takes a lot out of us, but honestly, it’s awesome fighting your buddies and rolling around in the dirt to learn all the grabs, throws, and blows. And I’m not the only one loving it.

All in all, the MCT takes twenty-nine days. After that, we’ll move on. Killian and I are still determined to join the Combatant Divers.

There’s one thing you have to get used to as a soldier. You really do. Otherwise, you’re finished. You have to get used to saying goodbye. In every part of your training, you meet new people. On every mission, you meet people you like, but you have to be able to let them go. Every single time. There’s one good thing about that: You make friends all over the world.