I’m sitting at a bar. And I’m not exactly sober. I down one beer after another. I want to forget, drown the pain. I wish Hell Week was still ahead of me to numb my thoughts.

Mac chose Dad. Mac chose Dad. Mac… She doesn’t love me. She never will. I will be alone for the rest of my life.

“Hey, man,” Killian says quietly, sitting down beside me.

“Hey.” I manage to slur the single syllable.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

I shake my head and down the rest of my glass. “Can still think.”

“There’s easier ways, man. I could knock you out,” he jokes, but I don’t feel like joking.

“Do it.” I gesture for the bartender to bring me another beer. After all, I should make use of the fact that I’m a legal adult now. He appears to have one ready and waiting.

“Come on, Hunter,” Killian says. “No woman is worth doing so much damage to yourself.”

I take the first sip from my new glass. “I thought she was worth it.”

Shaking his head, he squeezes my shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” I down the glass.

“Let’s go, Killer.”

I nod and put a few bills on the counter. The barkeeper waves at us. As we walk out, Killian has to prop me up—otherwise I’d be crawling. As we step outside, my stomach turns, and I vomit right there on the pavement.

“Fuck,” I groan, wiping my mouth.

“Come on,” Killian says, grasping my upper arm. He drags me ahead a little, to a spot with some picnic tables. I let myself drop onto a bench and put my head in my hands.

“Why doesn’t she love me?” I mumble through my fingers.

“You need to talk to her again, man. Let her explain. You need to be sure.”

“I am sure.”

“Talk to her again, Hunt. Otherwise, you’ll wonder forever. You’ll always doubt yourself.”

“I don’t doubt anything. I know it. It’s over.” Tears run down my cheeks. My Mac! No, not mine. As of today, I finally know exactly where we stand. She was a sweet dream that turned into a nightmare.

I don’t know how I get into my bed, but when I wake up the next morning, it feels like my skull’s been split in two.

* * *

I’m standing in my superior’s office.

“Are you sure, Tilman?” he asks.

I nod. “Positive, sir.”

He looks at the papers and nods. “Okay. Your flight leaves at eighteen hundred.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

I march back to the barracks, pack my stuff, and say goodbye to Killian, who thinks I’m a stupid fucker for doing this. Maybe, but anything’s better than staying here in San Diego, where everything reminds me of her.

* * *

They won’t send you to war that quickly, but with my commander pulling some strings, I at least get to leave San Diego. Which is worth a lot. I’m sent to another base to prepare for deployment, and I’m more than grateful—it would be torture to be geographically near her. At the same time, this is torture, too, because I still feel they might send me back at any time. When they finally send me overseas, I’m relieved.

When I get to Camp Leatherneck in the Helmand Province in the south of Afghanistan, I can breathe more freely. Which is ridiculous, because it’s ninety degrees in the shade, and the ever-present dust immediately settles on me like a second skin. But anything is better than San Diego.

They show me to my cot, and then I meet the boys in my unit. And when they’re showing me around the mess hall, a familiar voice calls out from a group assembled nearby. “Hey, Hunter!”

I turn around and see Jackson Halliwell from boot camp. I grin as I sit down beside him. “Good to see you, man!”

“What are you doing here?” he asks as we shake hands. “Weren’t you going to do FORECON?”

I nod. “Yep. Just got through BUD/S, but I didn’t want to leave all the fun to you.”

He laughs. “About time. This is my second trip.”

“Well, if I’d known I was coming here anyway, I would have come sooner.”

“How’s Hastings?”

“Texas is still doing Force Recon.”

“You know who else is here?” he asks. I shake my head. “Montana.”

“Joey’s here?”

“Yup. He’s off base right now, but he should be back the day after tomorrow.”

I smile. “I had no idea this was clown camp.”

“No, man, clown camp is where those army pussies are,” he says seriously.

“That bad?”

“They just play football all day long, and when we get back from missions, we have to compete with them for the phones just so we can call home for fifteen minutes.”

I’m definitely not going to join that competition. I’ll be happy if nobody calls me. Why should Mac call anyway? She’s made her choice.

“Isn’t that the way it always is?” I say, shaking my head. “The grunts doing all the work?”

He nods. “They are just damn fobbits.”

“Fobbit?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.

He laughs. “Let me teach you some military-speak here. A fobbit is someone who never patrols, who’s always on base. Like a hobbit who never leaves the Shire.”

“Ah… But I thought Marines were doing recon missions.”

He laughs. “Sure, but those army pussies aren’t.”

“But we wouldn’t want to swap,” I say.

“Obviously. We’re Marines. Semper fi.”

Semper fi, indeed. Jackson’s completely right about the state of things here. When you hear veterans talk about deployment, you sometimes imagine it’s like a nice school trip, with beach volleyball tournaments and poker. But I quickly realize the people I’ve heard talk about deployment were obviously not Marines. For us, free time is for pussies.

* * *

Sleeping inside the CHU—container housing—is not all that comfortable. Especially because of FAB: the omnipresent stink of feet, ass, and balls. Men are disgusting. I have no idea how women deal with us, but I’m happy they do. Good thing my ass already knows how it feels to be chafed raw by sand.

I quickly get used to the work, but before my first mission, nervous energy courses through my body. I was trained to do this, but this is not an exercise. Our exercises were hard, but in those, our opponents were our instructors. They were trying to train us—not kill us. But here, in the deadly south of Afghanistan, the conditions are different, and every little mission can be deadly. Danger is lurking everywhere, and every step could be your last. You never know when you might step on a mine and be blown into pieces. Or be surrounded by a herd of goats that’s actually a deadly weapon, as it’s been fitted with C-4 explosives.

You quickly learn, when in doubt, to shoot before they can shoot you. We try to avoid civilian casualties, but we prefer their deaths over our own.

* * *

“Two clicks north,” I tell our grenade launcher, who follows my instructions and dives down. We all do—as the grenade hits a Taliban stronghold.

“Killer, three o’clock!” our sergeant yells, and I shoot in that direction. I don’t know how they know my nickname, but hardly anybody is referred to by their real name here. Our sergeant’s called Spider because a tarantula climbed up his cammies once. And the grenade launcher is T-Rex, because his real name’s Rex. Cruel tongues claim his arms are so short he can’t even touch his own dick.

My shot hits the man coming at us. He’s not the first person I’ve shot in the three months we’ve been here, but it doesn’t get any easier to kill people. I mean, better him than me, but it would be even better to do without this waste of human life. But that’s just a utopian thought. Like all of us here, I believe the war is right. And helping create a utopia here in a country void of democratic structures and respect for human rights feels good.

“Heads down!” T-Rex calls before he fires the next grenade.

What was supposed to be just another regular patrol is quickly turning into a full-out battle.

“Ask for backup,” Spider commands, and Jumbo, our radio operator, relates our position so the Birds can come help us. “Killer, cover Rex!” Spider calls, and I see T-Rex moving the grenade launcher into a better position. I give him covering fire.

Out of the blue, bullets come from behind us. In an instant, T-Rex is hit.

“Spider!” I yell. “Rex is down! I’m black on ammo!” I’ve completely run out of ammunition.

“Jumbo and I will cover you. Get Rex! Where are those damn Birds?”

I run out from our cover, grab Rex, heave him onto my shoulder, and drag him behind a rock.

“Where do we gather?” I shout.

At that moment, the Black Hawks appear, shooting at the T-men—the Taliban hiding out here.

“Withdraw!” Spider calls. Like mountain goats, we deftly climb down the rocks toward our relief team.

“Time for Dustoff,” I hear Jumbo calling into his radio. “T-Rex’s been hit badly.”

“Can see Pink Mist,” Spider confirms. “We’ll take care of his wounds in medevac.”

The Bird lands briefly and takes us on board, and like nothing’s happened, we’re on our way back to Leatherneck. Our medic sets to work, inserting a port in T-Rex and treating the three bullet wounds in his side and shoulder. Motherfuckers!

Back at camp, they operate on Rex. We nervously wait around until we finally get the news that he’s going to survive. What a relief. But he won’t be part of the team anymore. Because he’s getting a free ticket home.

After being on MREs—field rations—for six days, we can hardly wait to get to the DFAC—the mess hall. MRE stands for “meal ready to eat,” which is a threefold lie: It is not a meal, it is not ready, and it is most certainly not something to eat. We put loads of Tabasco on it just to make it taste of anything at all. But what can you expect from something that’s designed to last five years?

After we’ve eaten real food again, everybody goes off to check their mail or get on the phone. I don’t do either. Both Carey and Mac have written to me countless times, but I haven’t read any of it. I don’t want to know what they have to tell me. I don’t want to listen to Mac’s bullshit, and Carey’s just going to try and tell me to listen. The little fuck is definitely on her side, and I don’t want to feel the pain of his betrayal every time.

Sometimes I talk to Killian on the phone, and we keep in touch through email. But here in Afghanistan, where it’s 100 degrees and you’re drowning in moon dust, you’re so far away from home it’s difficult to maintain even the slightest connection.

I spoke to Shane once but hung up when he started talking about Mac. I don’t want to hear anything about her. I don’t want to know how great her life with Dad is. I have no interest in her life. Fuck her.

“Hey, Hunter!” a voice calls, and I turn to see Joey Montana.

A smile breaks out across my face. Joey’s been like a white elephant. You hear about it but you never see it. Our missions have always been timed so that we didn’t see each other. Whenever I’ve been in, he’s been out, and vice versa.

“Montana!”

He laughs, and we hug, hitting each other’s backs so hard my knees nearly buckle. But I’m a man, so I stiffen up. If somebody hits you on the back, you grit your teeth and stand up straight—otherwise you’ll be labelled a pussy. And seriously. You would be.

“Good to see you, man,” he says as we sit back down at the empty table I was sitting at alone.

Still hungry, I attack another serving of food from DFAC 6. It may not be the best thing I’ve ever eaten, but after six days or MREs I would eat the sole of my shoe. “How’s Mandy doing?” I ask Joey between bites.

“She’s pregnant,” he says proudly, taking a picture out of his breast pocket. In this photo, Mandy’s a voluptuous creature wearing a beach ball under her shirt.

“Wow. When’s she due?”

“Three weeks.”

“Are you going to hold her hand over Skype?”

He smiles. “No, man, my deployment’s over next week, so if everything works out, I’ll be home in time.”

“Nice,” I say, shovelling rice and curry into my mouth.

He nods and smiles happily. “How’s Mac doing?”

At that very moment, Jackson sits at our table. “Oh, shit, man! Don’t say that name. She’s the unspeakable.”

I ram my elbow into his ribs. “Asshole.”

He laughs. “It’s true, though, isn’t it?”

Joey gives me a questioning look.

I sigh. “Mac chose my dad.”

He gives me a sympathetic look. “Fuck, man!”

“You said it.”

“She can’t be that great if she chooses an old man,” Jackson says.

I shrug. “I guess not.” But deep inside, I know she’s great. The greatest of all, which is why it hurts so much that she’s not mine.

“I was always hoping she’d finally choose you,” Joey grumbles.

I just nod. What am I supposed to say to that? Me too? Fuck.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Jax?” I ask Jackson, hoping to change the subject.

He smiles. “Lots of them.”

Joey and I laugh. “Fuck, man. A lot of them? That means a lot of trouble.”

He laughs, too. “Yeah. I have enough trouble for ten joes. But I can’t make up my mind. They’re hot, nice, and crazy about me—all three of them.”

“Do they know about each other?” Joey asks.

“Hey, man, I wouldn’t be alive if they did.”

“Didn’t you say they were nice?” I ask.

He laughs. “Only as long as they get what they want. Otherwise, they turn into hyenas.”

“We should start a bet,” Joey says. “On how long you can keep this charade up.”

“You’re too late.” Jax grins. “It’s already been started. Ask Red if you want in.” He points to a large redhead laughing with a few other Marines a few tables over.

“So what’s Killian up to?” Joey asks, turning to me.

“Keeping at it, as far as I know.”

“When’s he finished?”

“If all goes well, six months.”

“Wow. So maybe I’ll see him on my next deployment.”

“What’s your rotation cycle like?” I ask.

“Seven here, twelve back home.”

I nod. Same here. “Where’s home?”

“North Carolina. What’s your base?”

“San Diego so far. But I’m hoping for something different.”

He nods. “Such as?”

“Germany.”

He smiles a little. “Wow, you couldn’t get any further away.”

“Exactly.”

“You’ve got it bad, huh?”

You can say that again.

* * *

Three days later, Joey Montana is brought back to camp dead. He was out on a routine mission when their vehicle hit a mine. It exploded right where he was sitting. He was killed instantly.

In the days after that, I find myself wondering how something like that can happen. A great guy like Joey dying in such a horrible place just a few days before he’s supposed to go home to his woman and watch his child be born. Fate does not mean well for us. Not one bit. You’d think we would have gotten used to the idea of death, but not where our own guys are concerned. It may sound cold, but the death of a faceless enemy isn’t as hard. The death of a person you honestly like nearly kills you, too. Every time.

Somehow, that puts everything into a different light. If life is so short and fickle, should you waste it in hatred and anger? Or should you forgive those you love? Mac can’t help the way she feels. Yeah, she toyed with me, but if she loves my dad more than me, then that’s just how it is, and I can’t do anything about it. Maybe I should hear her out after all…