The cadets are quiet today. Veer and Jovi are sitting next to each other again. They're cute in the way they think they're being professional in class but their bodies telling on them. I don’t know what the deal is with their relationship—whether it’s merely a close friendship or something more—but it’s compelling the way their bodies reach for each other even if they’re not aware of it.

Kind of like mine toward the brooding, grumpy man at the other end of the conference room table.

I release a deep breath, focusing on an intention of releasing the frustration around my heart.

I left our talk the other day at Espresso and Fizz rather quickly. I was quiet at work that night and I haven’t had much energy to really engage in much chit chat, about the cadets or otherwise. I know he must think I’m fucking crazy.

I feel like I’m playing games. I’m not; I swear I’m not. But everything…being around him pushes me so off-kilter. It’s already a struggle every day to get up, to get going. To pretend like today will be a little bit better than yesterday.

Opening up, even a little means I have to pull back again. To draw into myself. To re-center and balance.

I hope maybe someday I can tell him that without sounding like some psycho new age chic who likes mind fucking the men in her life.

But right now, he’s silent and brooding and dark, a pool of energy at the end of the table that’s practically vibrating.

I clear my throat, needing to break the silence and get this started. "Let's talk about the news from Syria. The readings for today's class discuss all the arguments why women shouldn't be in ground combat units but the situation in Syria suggests something else entirely. Does anyone want to recap the article for us?"

Jovi raises her hand. “The article is from al Jazeera, which I never realized was a legitimate news source and it’s talking about the fight to retake Raqqa from the Islamic State. It’s really interesting how the parliament in the semi-autonomous Kurdish region has requirements for an equal number of men and women to serve in their government. And that the women are just as big a part of the fight as the men.”

I nod, loving the passion in her response. “Go further with that. Why is that something that caught your eye?”

She leans forward, bracing her elbows on the table. She’s calm and passionate and confident as she speaks. Dear lord, I wish I’d had my shit together like she does when I was her age. “Because it means that all this ‘women can’t’ bullshit is just that…it’s bullshit. It’s culturally shaped and it limits us. These women are fighting for their freedom. They have the same obligation to defend their freedom and their lives as the men. That is such a powerful narrative for little girls and little boys to look up to.”

Ryan is clicking the cap on his pen violently. Iosefe looks like he might stab him with it if he doesn't stop but Ryan is oblivious.

"I don't understand what we're supposed to take from these readings,” Ryan says. “The Kurds have been fighting for their own territory since the breakup of the Ottoman Empire. Why do we suddenly care about them now?"

Deacon leans back in his chair. "You don't think a people fighting for their freedom from religious oppression is worthy of academic discussion?"

Ryan shakes his head, the pen still clicking. "I'm sorry, but aren't we supposed to be members of the global community now? I mean, the American Century wasn't really all that great. Millions died in our proxy wars with the Soviet Union."

Deacon studies him quietly. "Those proxy wars were part of a global strategy of containment. Similar to what we're doing now with ISIS."

“I get that.” Ryan lifts his chin, war in his eyes. "But like, how does this end? The US is funding fighters to fight the fighters we created when we invaded Iraq. We made this mess when we screwed up Iraq. And now you want us to read these articles and cheer for these Kurdish women taking up arms in support of their own liberation because we don't want to put boots on the ground again and get our hands dirty fighting the enemy we helped create? Is that how this works?"

I frown because as much as I want his argument to annoy me, he's got a damn good point. But as with anything, it’s far more complicated than can be distilled down to a talking point.

I feel for him. For his righteous anger and indignation.

I was him, once upon a time, wishing our leaders would have a moral backbone and just lead us instead of invoking platitudes shaped by focus groups.

"I guess I'm wondering how else it should work," I ask. "ISIS isn’t an easily targeted enemy. They have very strict, un-Islamic views on how to treat women. Why wouldn’t we support these women and men fighting for their freedom from this? It’s practically our own national narrative all over again, except instead of the fight against unjust taxes, they’re fighting against slavery and rape."

I can feel the stress in my voice. Deacon looks up at me as I finish. My skin is tight, stretched to the breaking point over my bones.

Ryan glances over at me, his eyes flashing. "We're just not willing to use the kinds of bombs necessary to end it," he says, then adds tightly, "the Russians don't have a Chechnya problem anymore."

Deacon scribbles something on his notebook that he's resting on his bent knee. "So, the solution is to just kill everyone we don't agree with?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying." Ryan’s voice takes on a defensive tone. "This article is about the role of women in war, right? Well, maybe ISIS would be already dealt with if the Kurds weren't bogged down with women fighters. Maybe they can't keep up, you know?"

I tip my chin and look over at him. Across the way, Jovi looks ready to jump across the table and strangle Ryan.

"Why do you want to join the Army?" I finally ask Ryan. There's a selection bias in college that few people ever really talk about. College is supposed to make you challenge your assumptions, make you learn and grow. But the vast majority of students take classes they want, leaving them with greater cognitive bubbles by letting them skip the classes they need.

Maybe this is why Professor Blake has started working with the ROTC program. To challenge people’s assumptions before they become officers.

"I want to talk about this stuff before I go out to the Army, I want you to prove to me this isn’t just PC bullshit." His voice rings with a spark of passion that's mildly off-putting. As if he knows all about the world already and this class is merely a check-the-block exercise to confirm his brilliance.

Deacon says nothing, doodling on his notepad. I'm mildly irritated with him but then again, I forget where I am. He's not the commander. Neither am I.

"Prove what isn’t just PC bullshit?" Deacon asks softly.

I know that tone in his voice. That dangerous edge to his words. He won't yell. I've never heard him yell. At least not recently. But when he gets that tone in his voice, it's a thing to behold. He can rip someone to shreds with that tone and have them begging for forgiveness.

"That women can do this whole war thing. I've been reading the reports about the women Rangers down at Fort Benning. My uncle says this is just social engineering and that we're setting our boys up to get slaughtered in the name of political correctness."

It takes everything that I am not to get out of my chair and strangle his little ass. But this isn't a fight I can win. Because guys like Ryan never listen to someone who's been there. At least not someone who he thinks lacks the proper anatomy—and by that, I mean penis.

"You weren't too hot last year at training when I had to carry your weapon because you were getting ready to fall out from heat exhaustion," Jovi says coolly.

Ryan at least has the decency to flush. "Yeah, well, so sue me if I wasn't ready for a hundred-degree heat with just as much humidity. That's different."

Jovi shakes her head. "No, it's really not."

I finally dare to look up at Deacon. He's watching me, his eyes dark and burning as he tries to explain to Ryan why he’s wrong. Why every life on the battlefield must be prepared to fight and do what’s necessary to bring their brothers and sisters home.

His eyes are filled with a thousand memories of another life.

But my story—our story—is just an anecdote. Not data. People like Ryan don't want to hear stories like mine. He doesn't want to hear that women are even stronger than we believe. That we can fight.

That we should fight.

Because it's our duty.

I can't look away from Deacon. From the memories rising up from the desert sands, circling me like mist. Drawing me back to the dark, terrible joy that exists when civilization ends and war begins.

"Why didn't you say something?"

I follow Kelsey from class. She went silent a few minutes after Ryan’s rant and said nothing else the rest of the time.

She’s practically vibrating with energy as she heads out of the old Wilson building and crosses the quad. The undergrads get out of her way, clearly recognizing that now might not be the right time to bump into her.

I try not to focus on how fucking arousing it is seeing her walking like this. Stalking, filled with her own power and energy. It’s like she’s fully back to being the Kelsey I knew downrange. That Kelsey was living wide open, unscripted, uncontained. The Kelsey I know now is more tightly controlled. More tense.

More reserved.

I'm not letting her run. Not today. Jovi and Ryan got into a heated debate about political correctness that basically took up the rest of the class, and Kelsey remained silent, never once putting that little smartass in his place by telling him her story.

She is the living embodiment of everything Ryan was arguing against and she said nothing.

"It wouldn't have changed anything," she says, shifting her bag to her outside shoulder.

"It might have." I resist the urge to grab her shoulder when she keeps walking. I learned that lesson well the other day and I won’t repeat it. "Will you stop for a second?"

"I have another thing to get to before shift tonight." There's an edge to her voice. Something jagged and sharp.

"Are you going to actually show up tonight? Or leave us worrying that tonight's the night you decide to off yourself?"

She wheels on me, finally pissed off. Good, goddamn it.

"That's the second time you've slapped at me for missing work. Don't do it again." There is an ice-cold warning in her words.

“Why?” I shrug, putting everything I have into pretending I'm out of fucks to give when the opposite is true. I give far too many fucks about this woman. "Don’t you think it's inappropriate to disappear for a few days and not tell anyone whether you're okay or not?"

"Since when have I not been?"

I take a step into her space. "I don't know if you’ve noticed, but people around here tend to worry about each other. It's kind of what we do. And when people drop off the earth, we fucking worry."

She looks away, shaking her head. "What, are you and your dick the royal ‘we’ or something?"

My laugh surprises me. It is unexpected and bright, shattering the intensity of the moment to something manageable. I pinch my eyes beneath my sunglasses, wiping away the tears. "Jesus, Kelsey, where do you come up with this shit?"

"Dark corners of the Internet," she says mildly.

And just like that, things are defused. Again.

For now.

I'll let them be. Because I don't actually like fighting with her. "I fucking worry about you." My voice is quiet, so much so that I'm actually surprised I’ve spoken the words out loud.

I can't see her eyes behind her sunglasses. Can't see if my words have hit home or piss her off. She swallows and looks away, her dark hair brushing her neck with the movement.

I'm still getting used to seeing her with her hair down. Even after the months she's been back in my life.

I like it. I like the way it slips over her shoulders, merging with the black and red and blue ink on her shoulders.

Turns out, I have a thing for women with tattoos. Okay, maybe one specific woman. The lotus flowers and roses that twist up her biceps and over her shoulders are a perfect description of the woman who wears them. A beauty who will fucking stab you if you grab her wrong.

"I'm not yours to worry about anymore, Deac," she says softly.

I take a single step closer. Close enough that I can smell the scent of the beach from her skin. Sweet baby Jesus, my body tightens remembering how she always smelled like Coppertone sunscreen in the desert.

"It doesn't work like that."

She tips her chin and looks up at me. She's not that much shorter than me. Her mouth is there, just there, close enough that I’d barely have to dip down if I wanted to kiss her.

That would get me laid out across the quad holding a broken nose before I could blink. I know better than to attempt that.

No matter how badly I want to taste her again, I won't push. Her boundaries are hers.

Maybe what’s between us would be different if I didn't know why she had them. If I hadn't been there the night everything broke.

But I know. And I can only push her so hard.

But I'm tired of waiting. And I'm so fucking tired of being afraid for her every time she drops off the net for a few days at a time.

"You're going to have to accept that we're your tribe," I say quietly. "That means we worry about you."

"There you go with the royal ‘we’ again. Does your dick have his own credit card, too? His own twitter account?"

I fight the urge to laugh. "That would be a gross violation of their terms of service, I think." I curl my fists, fighting the urge to brush her hair out of her face. Reminding myself that I'm not allowed to touch. "Me. Eli. Parker. We're family. We worry."

She sighs heavily but doesn't back up. Doesn't retreat. Her sheer stubbornness and refusal to back down from a fight are two of the things I love most about her.

It's caused more than a few problems over the years.

"I'm not in the Army anymore. I don't have to sign out on pass and request permission to miss work."

God, but she's working my last nerve right now. "It's called not being an asshole. It's not like we don't have a history of folks ending up in the hospital around here."

Our local community of vets has had its share of problems. And no matter how much we might wish for normal lives, we'll never blend in on campus like we want to.

I've spent too many nights at the ER with Eli, waiting on one of our own. Wishing that we’d been taught healthier stress management techniques than we all apparently were.

She shakes her head and starts walking, leaving me standing there on the grass.

She's right. She doesn't have to tell us where she is. But I can see the dark circles she’s trying to conceal beneath her eyes. I know what it feels like when the walls are closing in and you can’t sleep.

I hope it’s something simple, like not being able to sleep.

I hope it’s not something worse. I can't shake the worry. The fear that she's treading dangerously close to the edge.

That she's playing tough, too tough to need anyone.

I know that role. I've played it, too. Far too many times.

And I know how it ends.