“So remind me, do you have any hobbies?” The psych had a nice sunny office over at the sprawling medical center complex. She was around his mom’s age with dyed burgundy hair and teal glasses and a way of leaning forward when she talked. They’d covered all the hard stuff about the mission, and Bacon had seen her a few other times over the course of his enlistment, so talking hadn’t been particularly hard.
And she was entirely unflappable, so Bacon didn’t try to come up with a cutesy answer and instead went for the truth. “Does sex, hiking, and driving my truck count?”
“All good things.” The barest hint of a smile teased at her lips. “And the sex? That’s going okay since you’ve been back?”
“I just broke up with my boyfriend, so haven’t exactly had a lot of opportunities...”
“Okay.” To her credit, she didn’t even blink at the boyfriend comment. “Would you like to talk about the breakup? Do you feel the mission played a role?”
“No and no.” Bacon stretched, trying to send a clear signal he was done here. He couldn’t tell her about Spencer’s book—their sessions might be confidential in a medical sense, but he didn’t kid himself into thinking that nothing would filter back to the brass, who wanted to know he was fit to send back out. And the whole navy would be interested as fuck in Spencer’s book.
They might even try to stop it. And even as pissed as he was at Spencer, Bacon didn’t really want that for him, didn’t want to sabotage his project.
“All right. Any trouble sleeping?”
Bacon grunted a response because he was sleeping like shit, missing Spencer’s bed and Spencer’s warm body. And some of that must have shown on his face because she nodded knowingly.
“Even if it’s more breakup than mission related, I can get you a script for something to help. Maintaining a normal schedule is so important.”
“I’m good.”
Undeterred, she leaned forward and continued, “That’s why I was asking about hobbies. Do things you like. Sleep. Returning to a sense of normalcy always helps.”
“Did you miss the part where I broke up with my guy?” Despite his best efforts, his irritation was slipping through. “He was my sense of normalcy. My sleep aid. My hobby. All that.”
“I see.” Her head tilted to the right side. “And there’s no chance of reconciling?”
Oh, wasn’t that the million-dollar question? Spencer cared—Bacon didn’t question that. He’d felt it the last time they’d kissed, seen it in Spencer’s eyes even though he was trying to hide it, but it had been there in every action, every touch, every word for months now. Spencer caring wasn’t the issue. He just didn’t care enough. Or about the right things, maybe. He cared about the story more than about keeping Bacon, and that was the truth of it.
“Doubt it. Not unless I leave the teams, and that’s not happening.” He might be asking Spencer to choose between him and the book, but Spencer was doing the same thing, asking him to consider leaving the men he considered family, the life he’d had since he was a green eighteen-year-old.
“Yeah, I heard you made chief. Would you like me to put together a packet of resources for your boyfriend? Sometimes hearing from other military families can make all the difference...”
Bacon had to blink because he wanted a future where Spencer might need those resources more than he could even say, a future where he brought Spencer to base functions, made sure he had support when they deployed...
“That’s not the issue,” he said gruffly. That future was nothing more than a pretty little dream. It wasn’t something Spencer wanted. “Listen, are we almost done? I promised a buddy I’d stop by his room in the rehab unit after my appointment.”
“That’s right. Your former teammate is still in the amputee unit.” She glanced down at her notes. “That’s nice of you to visit. I want to see you again. Tuesday. And if anything comes up over the weekend, you have our crisis-line number, right?”
“Right.” Bacon knew she was just doing her job so he didn’t tell her that he wasn’t in crisis, instead scheduling his follow-up and heading out of the office. But he wasn’t. Crisis implied an active situation he could fix. He wasn’t in crisis. He was in mourning, grieving what he could have had with Spencer, all the silly little dreams he’d started to nurture. And he should have known better. He wasn’t someone who got happy endings. He’d thought maybe Jamie had zapped his ability to fall completely, head-over-heels in love again, but Spencer had proved him wrong, shown him all the romance he’d been missing from his life.
And now it was gone, and he had to find a way forward. Which he would. He had faith in his own resilience, but fuck, slogging through the middle of this sucked. He stopped at the truck for the container of cookies he’d asked his mom to make Donaldson—the guy had a thing for oatmeal raisin, and Bacon tried not to come empty-handed when he visited the rehab unit. Last time, he’d brought him a new card game to play with his kids, and Donaldson’s wife had sent him a handwritten thank-you card.
“Hey, man,” he said at the door to the room. As usual, Donaldson was slumped in the bed. “Heading out with the guys later, and I wanted to bring you a six-pack of your own, but regs said no alcohol. Brought you some of my mom’s cookies instead.”
“Rather have the beer.” Donaldson’s voice was flat. “But thanks. Kids are coming later. They’ll like them. Don’t know why Monica keeps bringing them around. Gotta be boring as fuck for them here.”
“Uh, because they love you?” Bacon was ill-equipped to deal with his own bad mood let alone someone else’s. “And you’ve got to be close to going home, right?”
“Wrong.” Donaldson almost spat the words. “They’re transferring me back to the surgical floor later today. Got an infection in what’s left of my leg. A-fucking-gain. Surgery in the morning.”
“I’m sorry. You need help with the kids tomorrow so Monica can be here with you? I’m not the best with kids, but I’ve babysat for Wizard a couple of times and everyone lived.”
“Don’t know.” Donaldson shrugged, which must have caused him some pain because he winced.
Bacon pulled out his phone. “I’m gonna text Monica, make the offer.”
“Why are you so damn nice to me?” Donaldson’s voice went ragged. “We both know we were never besties.”
“You’re my brother,” Bacon said without hesitation. “About five years ago, maybe six, we were over in the sandbox, long deployment. We were outside the wire, and you’re the driver as usual, and you see something in the road. You swerve hard, throw me against the door. You always did have the best reaction time of anyone on the teams, but I curse you out because it fucked up my shoulder. We stop to investigate and it’s an IED. You saved us, man. Wouldn’t even let us buy you a beer when we were back Stateside.”
Donaldson grunted like maybe he remembered too.
“Didn’t matter that you lived to beat my ass at cards. Didn’t matter that you never really liked me or whatever. Didn’t matter that I hated your politics. You saved me. Countless times like that over the years. We’re brothers.”
“Yeah, but I’m worthless now. Never gonna save anyone again. Fuck my reaction time. It’s not gonna do me any good out here collecting disability checks.”
“You’re worth something to Monica. To those kids. To everyone who calls you friend. Monica said you guys have a church—I’m sure you’re worth something to them. And I heard about another SEAL, friend of a friend of a friend, he lost both legs and now he teaches school. Got himself a whole different career now.”
“I don’t know who I am if I’m not a SEAL.” Donaldson’s voice broke. “This was all I ever wanted. I was never like the guys all full of plans for retirement or after the teams. And no offense to the other dude, but no way am I teaching.” He shuddered.
“So you’ll find something else. You’re still a SEAL. We don’t give up.”
Donaldson was quiet a long time. “Maybe some of us do,” he said in a voice that chilled Bacon to the bone.
“How fucking selfish are you?” Bacon knew that anger probably wasn’t the best reaction, but he couldn’t help it. “Monica and those kids are counting on you. To be a husband. To be a dad. Rest of us are counting on you too. To not give up. To take the help you need—the help we need to give you.”
Donaldson stayed silent, but he blinked rapidly.
“I had a friend who gave up. Years ago, man, but it still guts me every damn time I think about them. And that’s daily. You never get over it. So you don’t get to talk like this. Ever. Because Monica and those kids deserve better from you. You need help, like from the doctors, meds maybe to get back on track, you take them, you hear?”
“They want me to take an antidepressant.”
“Good.” Bacon was stopping at the nursing station on his way out too, telling them what Donaldson had said, not taking any chances. “You take it. Because that’s a SEAL. You take the hand outstretched for you. You don’t give up. You fight.” Two tears rolled down Donaldson’s face, and Bacon grabbed his hand before Donaldson could speak. “And we’re here for you. All of us. Brothers.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“I’m going to keep telling you that you do until you believe it,” Bacon countered. He thought of the guy Spencer had known. The one who had committed suicide. Had he had enough support? Had he had enough people telling him he mattered? Would it have made a difference even if he had that? Maybe not, and that was the sucky thing.
He got why the loss had affected Spencer so much. Even now, he still replayed Jamie’s final months, knowing there was nothing he could have done differently, and still he struggled not to blame himself, probably always would. He’d bet money Spencer probably still had that final text, had it memorized, tattooed on his heart. Bacon got it. He still had Jamie’s last sketchbook. Some things you just never got over.
And he was going to do everything he could for Donaldson, talk to Monica and the nurses, make sure they took his depression seriously. But it still might not be enough. And that really sucked. Donaldson was as good an operator as there was out in the field. He deserved all the support. All the resources. His story matters. It needs telling. He could hear Spencer’s voice in his head, hear his anguish. He’d see the story in Donaldson, see the guy who needed saving and protecting. Spencer’s work mattered too. Bacon just wished...
What?
That Spencer wasn’t a reporter? That he wasn’t so damn good at his job? That he wasn’t dedicated to seeing things through, silent promises fulfilled? Wasn’t that like Spencer wishing he wasn’t a SEAL? He couldn’t take away who Spencer was any more than Spencer could do the same for him. Fuck. Fresh grief washed over him. He wanted to rage at the universe, wanted things to be different. But they weren’t. Couldn’t be.
* * *
Spencer slammed his laptop shut for the third time that morning. He had writer’s block. He’d been stumped before, but this was the first time in his life that words were actually painful. He sat at his computer hour after hour and each word felt like a chore, like squeezing water from a rock. Trying changes of scenery, he journeyed to coffeehouses and parks, but nothing helped. He could make marginal progress on his other projects, the articles he had due, but the book was like someone had erected a brick wall around that part of his brain.
At least right now he had an excuse for shutting down early. His old boss, Oscar, was expecting him for lunch. Time to try to be social, not let on how bruised and battered he was inside. The last thing Oscar needed was to hear about Spencer’s love life and his existential crisis. He found a nice Grand Cru Alsace in his wine cooler that Oscar would appreciate and headed to his condo just south of the Sunset Strip.
The brick apartment building Oscar called home was almost as familiar to Spencer as his own—he’d been visiting Oscar here for twenty years now, parties and late-night story brainstorming and quiet dinners. But never in their friendship had Oscar not been the one to answer the door. Spencer almost dropped the wine when Julio, Oscar’s young home health aide, answered the door.
“He’s resting now, but I bet he wakes up for you. He’s been looking forward to your visit.” Julio led him into the living room, where another shock awaited—a hospital bed in the middle of the room where Oscar was sleeping under a pile of colorful quilts.
“What...”
“He’s moved up a few levels in care since you saw him last,” Julio said in soft tones.
“I see.” Guilt flooded Spencer. It had only been a couple of weeks, but weeks were precious for Oscar. He should have been calling daily. Should have known he was going downhill.
“He didn’t want to tell you.” Julio touched his arm. “It’s been hard for him to admit he needs more help.”
“Yeah. He’s always been so independent.”
“Stop talking about me.” Oscar rolled over in the bed, struggling to sit. Both Julio and Spencer rushed to help him achieve a sitting position with the help of the adjustable bed. “It was just a little snooze. And Spencer, is that a white wine? I had Julio order you chicken salad and fruit from the deli down the street. I want to live vicariously through you, so please open it—you know where the glasses are.”
“I don’t want to drink if you can’t,” Spencer protested.
“Nonsense. I’d join you, but morphine has taken both my appetite and my ability to imbibe. But I’ll enjoy your lunch, so indulge an old man and go fix yourself a plate and a glass and come sit with me.”
“I’m going to make you a protein drink,” Julio said to Oscar. “So you won’t be rude to your guest and just watch him eat. We need to get some calories in you too.”
On the way to the kitchen, Julio added to Spencer, “I’m not above using your visit to get him to drink this, so keep him talking. The distraction will help him keep it down.”
After giving Spencer his food, Julio retrieved a can of protein drink from the fridge, but when he went to stick a straw in the opening, Spencer stopped him.
“Here. I have an idea.” He grabbed a wineglass for himself and one of Oscar’s crystal ice tea glasses for him. He emptied the protein shake into the glass and garnished it with a strawberry from his lunch plate. “There. He always was one for details.”
He let Julio carry Oscar’s drink while he balanced his lunch and a small glass of wine. Pulling one of Oscar’s black Swedish-design chairs close to the bed, he took a seat.
“Now, if I’m going to eat, you are too.” He gestured at Oscar’s glass. “Bottoms up.”
“Do you like the salad? It’s the one with grapes and nuts—just divine.” Oscar gave a nostalgic smile.
“I do,” Spencer lied. All food tasted like cardboard to him lately, today especially. “And I’m sorry I haven’t visited more often. You should have told me about all this.” He gestured at the hospital bed and table full of medications.
“Don’t be silly. You’re busy with the new book. And I want to hear all about it.”
Spencer made a noncommittal noise, and typical Oscar, he immediately pounced on that.
“It’s not going well?” Oscar’s bony face narrowed. “Or you’ve set it aside because of your young man? I had a feeling...”
“What?” Spencer almost choked on his next bite of salad. He’d told Oscar about Del, of course, in broad strokes mainly, but enough that Oscar understood the conflict of interest and ethics at stake. “Why would I give up on the book? And we broke up. Better this way.”
“Ah. Well, you made your choice, then.” Oscar gave a rattly sigh. “Shouldn’t have expected any different, I suppose.”
“You really thought I’d give up on the book for him? Oscar, this story needs writing.”
“Yes, they all do, don’t they?” Oscar’s smile was more of a grimace. “You always were a tenacious one. Could always count on you...” He trailed off into a coughing fit.
“Here.” Spencer handed him a water glass, setting the shake back on the side table. “Don’t exert yourself.”
“Tell me something.” Oscar’s voice was weaker now.
Spencer thought fast, trying to find something that was neither about Del nor the book. “I’ll be on NPR in the next few days. My article about the teen business owners was a surprising success—two of them achieved venture-capital funding after the article ran. So we talked on the segment about the role the media can play in crowd-funding as well as attracting heavy hitters and where the businesses will go from here.”
“That’s splendid.” Oscar set the water aside. “Be a dear and grab the laptop over on the table, will you?”
Spencer did as requested. Oscar’s machine wasn’t as new as his and he’d long ago put a sticker on the lid advertising his favorite brand of whiskey. He started to hand Oscar the machine but held up a hand.
“I need you to read something for me. Tell me if there’s a story there.”
“You finished the memoir?” Spencer smiled for the first time in what felt like days.
“No. Think that ship has sailed, if you’ll forgive a terrible cliché.” Oscar tried to laugh at himself and ended up coughing again. “But read this, see if there’s anything worth keeping.”
“You never let anyone read a partial,” Spencer protested. He wasn’t ready for this moment, wasn’t at all able to cope with what Oscar was saying, and his hands shook. He had to sit back down to avoid dropping the laptop. And knowing Oscar, this was the only copy. No cloud storage for him.
“I trust you.” Oscar gave a firm nod. “You’ll know what to do with it.”
“You’ll want your machine for when you feel better. Let me see if I can email a copy to myself—”
“Spencer.” Oscar’s voice was firm. “It’s yours now. I insist. We both knew a year ago or so where this was headed.”
“I don’t want you here alone,” Spencer said, voice way more unsteady than Oscar’s. “Let me talk to Julio, move you into my place—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Oscar waved the suggestion away. “Julio is very comfortable in my spare room, and the rest of the hospice team is top notch. My sister’s boys and their families have been visiting regularly. I have lived in this building since 1975 when they opened their doors. This is where I belong.”
“Fine. Then I’m going—”
“To read my chapters. At your own place. Don’t hover, Spencer. That’s Flor’s specialty, not yours.” He punctuated his words with another coughing fit. “My lawyer has everything you’ll need if you decide there’s something usable there. She’ll be in touch regardless.”
“Oscar—”
“Oh, I’m not dismissing you. Julio would be sad if you don’t finish your lunch. And you’ll come again. Give him an excuse to order from the deli again—I think he’s sweet on the counter boy, but of course he won’t tell me.”
“Of course not.” Spencer’s throat was thick. “He knows you’re a hopeless old gossip.”
In fact the opposite was true—Oscar was someone he’d trust with any secret, and he’d held countless people’s confidences over the years. But teasing him was about all Spencer had left. They chatted a while longer, but then Oscar drifted off mid-remembrance about the good old days of typewriters and smoking at the office.
“It may not be much longer,” Julio said as he showed Spencer out. Spencer cradled the laptop with more care than he’d shown Oscar’s crystal. “I’ll keep you posted, okay?”
“Okay.” Spencer didn’t trust himself to say anything else. In the car, he reached for his cell phone and had started typing before he remembered that he couldn’t reach out to Del. Couldn’t tell him about Oscar. He’d been so focused on taking care of Del that he hadn’t noticed all the ways that Del took care of him—listening to him about his worries for Oscar or his troubles with a story, being a warm bulk to lean on, both figuratively and literally. And now that was gone, and he felt that loss acutely, a blanket for the chaos that was his life that he was never getting back.
Oscar hadn’t pushed him on why he’d broken up with Del, had seemed resigned to it, in fact. This was just who Spencer was, what he did. Trusted journalist. And Oscar was entrusting him with his legacy. He should be proud of that. Feel validated as a friend and a journalist. But it wasn’t the journalist who missed Del with every fiber of his being. And as he drove away, it wasn’t the journalist who cried, wasn’t the journalist who grieved for what he couldn’t have, wasn’t the journalist who tried to bargain with the universe for a different outcome for all of them.