I slept last night, which is always a good start to any morning. The sunlight streaks across my bed, warming my body beneath the LL Bean sheets I found at the Salvation Army for three dollars. They're damn good sheets, too.

And yes, I get how that makes me sound, but you know what? After sleeping in the red dirt at Fort Benning and the spiders and scorpions in the brush at Fort Hood and heaven only knows what in Iraq, I'm secure enough in my manhood to admit that I like comfortable sheets.

They feel smooth against my ass and I've discovered that I like smooth things against my skin. That's usually a woman but today, that role has not been filled, leaving me to enjoy the softness of cotton alone.

I grab my phone and scroll through the news, checking any Google alerts for The Pint. We all keep an eye out for things that could damage our social media presence. It's funny how we all—me, Eli, Parker, and Kelsey—take ownership of The Pint. No major scandals to start the day; always good.

I need to get up and get to the gym, then drag my ass to campus for a meeting with Professor Blake about my lack of a thesis. She's been amazing since the first day I met her.

I just wish it had been under different circumstances.

I still remember handing her the folded flag that we'd draped over her son Mike's casket. It had taken everything I had not to break down. I choked on the words on behalf of a grateful nation.

Funny how life takes the strangest turns. I wouldn't be here if not for that funeral and my friend Noah Warren telling me that he'd finally managed to get his ass cleaned up down here in North Carolina. If Noah can get sober, well, maybe there’s hope that any of us can unscrew our lives. It helps that he has Beth now, whipping his ass into shape.

I wasn't sure me and the South were going to get along. But I was pleasantly surprised.

I head to the coffee shop on campus, scrolling through the Internet and wasting time in general. Every so often, I get bored and read Craigslist personal ads. It's a terrible commentary on my hobbies or lack thereof, but they're a nice distraction from how mundane and boring my own life is these days.

A bunch of us started reading them downrange one night when we were bored in the ops center. My commander caught us nearly pissing ourselves laughing, demanded to know what the fuck was so funny at three in the morning. For the rest of the deployment, we had to start each commander's update brief with a new ad.

He made it an official policy, with a letter and everything.

That policy made the deployment go a little bit faster, always a good thing. One of my personal favorites was an ad down at Fort Bragg offering positive pregnancy tests. I still haven't figured out why anyone would need to buy a positive pregnancy test but then again, I'm not known for my imagination.

Part of me hopes I'll run into Kelsey in the bright light of day. I hate that I continue to worry about a woman who is doing her damnedest to keep the barriers between us now that we’re both civilians. That doesn't stop me from worrying about her, though, especially on days like this where my own memories are circling.

Unlike Kelsey, I try not to pretend that my past never happened and… Wow, was that statement sanctimonious.

It's hard not to judge her, though. I've got half a mind to steal her cell phone and turn on Find My Friends so I can figure out where the fuck she's living.

I'm probably going to just ask her straight up. And if she refuses to tell me, I'll just follow her home like any good stalker would do.

It's not stalking if you're worried about someone, right?

I continue scrolling through the personal ads while I walk, more out of habit than anything else. Looking for what, I'm not really sure. One reads like a lonely housewife advertising for a pool boy. I'm not exactly sure she's really looking for someone to clean her pool but she definitely sounds like she wants to have something checked out.

It's just not as funny without the guys in the TOC to laugh at the shit with. And Noah doesn't come by The Pint as much anymore, especially now that he's working hard at staying clean. I can't blame him but fuck, I wish life hadn't gotten so fucking boring without him hanging around.

But I keep checking the personal ads anyway because it feels familiar. And the familiar these days is in short supply.

The word “weirdos” catches my eye and I stop scrolling and read the whole listing. Woman seeking man to share a bed. Literally, I just want you to hold me while I sleep. No weirdos.

What kind of person puts a personal ad in Craigslist for…cuddling? Shaking my head at the strange and brave people in the world, I lock my phone and order my coffee.

But something about that ad keeps tempting me to read it again.

That can't be real, can it?

"What's so interesting?" Nalini falls into step next to me. It's hard not to like her. She's infectious in her warmth, her joy for life.

I don't know if there's a god or a higher power or what. Meeting someone like Nalini…I don't share her faith but it's nice meeting someone with such a strength of purpose and belief.

I envy her in some ways.

"Nothing. Just a weird Craigslist ad."

She offers a puzzled scowl. "Why are you reading Craigslist?"

"Long story."

She grins. "I bet. Where are you off to?"

"Meeting with my thesis advisor. About my nonexistent thesis."

"Where are you stuck on it?"

"Let's put it this way. It has to be substantive original research and…I've got my name on the top of the first page."

Nalini laughs and shakes her head. "You'll figure it out."

"I hope so."

"What's your area of focus again?"

"Public administration."

She tips her chin. "Write up something on the VA. Lord knows they need all the help they can get."

"I wouldn't even know where to start with that fucking train wreck."

She holds up both palms. "Just offering suggestions. I know a bunch of us have had a hell of a time getting appointments. Might be worthwhile to take a look at the struggles of young veterans."

She heads toward central campus, leaving me with a hell of an idea to chew on.

I spot Deacon striding toward me across the library before I can hide. I’m trying to do better these days and not avoid him. They’re my issues, not his, and I’m not being fair to him.

I’m working on being less of an asshole these days. At least in theory. That doesn’t mean my belly doesn’t tighten as I watch him walk over. God but the man moves with such a surety of purpose. I love watching him move.

It’s an easy thing to pretend he’s moving toward me. That he’ll take me into the stacks like they’re a secret bunker we used to rendezvous in for a few moments of illicit connection.

The pure, unadulterated need in his touch. The erotic power of knowing he was aroused by touching me. The fierce meeting of our bodies in forbidden moments of pure pleasure.

"So much for my homework," I mutter as he sits. But I relax my expression, taking the sting from my words as much as possible. I lower my feet from the low table between us and sit up a little, at least trying to demonstrate that I’m not opposed to his company. Because I’m not.

But old habits die hard.

"I have a question for you."

The direct approach is a bit unusual for him, and causes me to lower my laptop lid. It's not that he's not usually direct. It's that, well, academic life teaches you to be a bit less direct. "You have my attention.”

"Have you been seen by the VA?"

I'm not expecting this one. Not by a long shot. I can feel the ache in my bones beating in time with my heartbeat as his question bounces around my brain, trying to find a place to land.

"Now why on earth would I want to suffer through that shit show?"

His lips part, like he's trying to come up with something to say. His glance slides over my body, at the scars he can't see that I've covered in ink. A shield of ink to protect the hurt I'd love to forget. "Because…you haven't?"

He knows I was hurt downrange after the attack on our base.

I’ve never told him how badly. He redeployed six months after me and I was already well on my way to falling apart before our month-long bender.

I lift both eyebrows. "Have you?"

It's his turn to frown. "No."

"Then why would you expect me to?"

"Because…you got hurt."

The scars are tiny, so small I could forget about them if I wanted to. I told the tattoo artist they were from an emergency C-section. He didn't ask about the nonexistent child and I didn't tell him.

But suddenly they're aching now, burning across my abdomen and up the side of my ribs. I look away. This is the closest we've come to talking about the war since I've been back. And yeah, it's unnerving to even think about unpacking that box right now. On several levels.

"Yeah, well, there's nothing they can do for me." I don't want to talk about the VA. Or the way my service in the Army came to an inglorious end.

"Why not?"

I lift one brow. "Long waits for referrals that take an act of Congress to get? Lack of a penis? I have other things I'd rather use my time for." I slouch back in my seat. "Why is this suddenly so important to you?"

"Because I just ran into Nalini and she suggested I do something on the VA for my thesis."

I smile, shaking my head. "How long does it need to be?"

"That's the real problem, isn't it? Professor Blake said it needs to be ‘sufficient.’"

He sounds so disgruntled. I barely resist the urge to laugh at him. I would, except that when it comes to my own research I'm very much in a similar boat. I don't even have the slightest idea where to start.

"I was just sitting here, trying to do the reading that we gave the cadets for class and thinking about how easy our lives are now," I say quietly.

His eyes darken, and he seems to be studying me intently. I remember that intensity from Iraq. How fucking sexy he was in full kit, back from patrol. "First world problems and all that."

"Yeah." I'm captured in the moment, lost in his eyes as the desert sand rises up around us, drawing me back to the not-so-distant past when things were simpler. When I still believed that what we did over there mattered.

I'm not sure anymore. I'm not sure that anything we did mattered. But I won't tell him that. I learned a long time ago that even if I doubted, others around me were entitled to their fiction.

Beliefs, it turns out, are really important. Bad things happen when people's beliefs fail them.

"Things were so simple over there," I say after a moment.

"They really were." He blinks and looks down, rubbing the edge of the table with his thumb. "I think I'd rather be pulling gate guard than trying to research and write this paper."

I make a noise. "I'm not sure what it says about either of us, that neither one of us is too thrilled with our academic futures."

"Or what it says about grad school that I'd rather be back in Iraq."

I tip the lid of my laptop closed. "Speaking of which, what do we do about Ryan? He seems…like he’s looking for an argument every single time we sit down with him.”

“He’s definitely a challenge, isn’t he?” Deacon rubs his hand over his mouth. "Man, he's hardheaded."

"Imagine what First Sarn't would do to him if he was one of the lieutenants?"

He laughs and sinks back into his chair. "Oh god. I think he'd strangle him."

"Right? Remember that time LT Woodbridge told him he was in charge at the range?"

He chuckles. "Yeah. The commander had to threaten to court-martial First Sarn't after he choke-slammed his ass."

The memory is something that links us together, the kind of thing that only other soldiers understand. A shared language based on common suffering that only those who have gone through it can understand.

"Well, honestly, Woodbridge needed a beating. Something to take the edge off his arrogance." See what I mean about people not understanding our sense of humor? Here we are, discussing the casual violence against one of our own like it’s a joke. And it is. But I can understand why bystanders would be horrified.

"Daddy was a drill sergeant," Deacon says, as though that explains why Woodbridge was such an entitled douchebag.

It's so easy to sit here and pretend that everything is normal. That there's not a thousand bad memories and a nightmare that stands between us, keeping us forever apart. I wish things were different. I wish I could crawl across the table that separates us and slide onto his lap. Bite his lip while his fingers dig into my hips, like they used to when we were sneaking into the bunkers for quickies before he or I headed out on patrols.

It's so easy to remember the things that weren't absolute shit.

When I come out of my thoughts, it looks like he’s noticed my thousand-yard stare. His gaze locks with mine, intense and demanding. "What are you thinking about?"

"Just remembering." I don't want to fight with him. But I can't go down that path. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But the more time I spend with him, the more I start to wish what if I did? Would I survive it? Would I stay whole and not break?

Could I touch him and not shatter?

There's not much on Google Scholar regarding the Veterans Administration. There's been a lot of ink spilled in Op-Eds and talking head think pieces: Privatize the VA. Don't privatize. The illegal wait lists.

Reading through the literature pushes my blood pressure to an unhealthy level. I listen to a TED Talk about how the VA uses metrics to lead organizational change and I'm damn near ready to start drinking.

Those metrics don't mean jack shit when people are dying. "Your mission isn't to change fucking approval ratings, asshole," I mumble.

"Do you always talk to yourself?"

I frown at a voice I haven't heard in a couple of weeks. Caleb Hollis slides into the chair that Kelsey retreated from a while ago.

"Where've you been? The Pint has been blissfully free of bar fights since you decided to fall off the face of the earth."

He shrugs and props his feet up on the low table. A blond sorority girl glances at him and rolls her eyes, a clear sign that the human female wants to mate.

I'm sorry. I don't even know where that came from. I have got to stop watching the SciFi channel in my insomnia hours.

Caleb pulls a piece of gum out of his pocket and unwraps it slowly. "Here and there. Trying to get my shit together."

I lift both eyebrows. "Really? Did you finally hit rock bottom or something?" God that was a really dickhead way to ask that question. It’s like I’m deliberately trying to goad him on.

In case it's not glaringly obvious, I'm not a fan of Captain Dipshit. He's annoying as fuck and the only reason I haven't knocked a few teeth out of his head is because Eli usually runs interference between us at The Pint.

Caleb thinks we're friends. I have never met a less self-aware person in my life.

Caleb is a former officer and a West Pointer. It's so fucking difficult to believe that Caleb and Eli come from the same esteemed institution. Or that any of us have trod the same dirt.

"Something about waking up in the hospital a couple of times makes you rethink your life choices."

There's more he's not saying but for now, I'm letting it slide. I'm hoping he'll leave soon and I'll be able to get back to research.

I look up at him suddenly, ignoring his comment about life choices. He doesn't seem to notice. "Hey, have you been seen at the VA?"

He tips his chin toward me like I just asked him about life on Mars or something. "Tried. Couldn't get an appointment. Got a notice in the mail a few weeks ago that I'd missed three of them and I was going to have to personally come in and schedule any future ones."

"Did you? Miss them?"

"Unless there's someone else making appointments for me, no; I neither scheduled nor missed any. It would have been nice to be able to use them, too, because paying for your own medical crap is expensive as fuck. I've seriously considered blowing dudes for cash to pay for rehab."

I choke on a breath that’s gone down the wrong pipe. "Jesus, dude."

"What?"

"Never mind."

He narrows his eyes at me, then grins. "Sure. Whatever." Like he's getting ready to start some shit in the middle of the damn library. "Why are you asking about the VA?"

"Thinking about trying to do some research about it for my thesis." I find myself wondering if Caleb has even bothered to go to classes. How the hell is he even paying for grad school?

But that's none of my business.

"Yeah? What about?"

"I don't know, to be honest. A friend of mine suggested it. I need to bounce the idea off my advisor to see what she thinks before I go too deep into it. But it might be a really good topic for my paper. If I can stop wanting to drink every time I start researching it. It's a fucking crime what's happening there."

"Yeah, it really is fucked up. Support the troops and all that, right?"

I make a disgruntled noise. "No kidding." I look up at him, suddenly curious as to why I no longer feel the urge to get as far away from him as I can. "What happened? With the whole rethinking-life-choices thing?"

He shrugs and picks at his thumbnail. "A bunch of shit. Decided I should probably start going to classes and try to actually do something with my life, you know?"

"Yeah, but people don't just wake up one morning and go ‘Hey, you know, my life is on the wrong track. Let's go out and make a difference!’" I offer my best Deadpool impression.

It obviously falls short: he doesn't get the reference. See, I told you he was untrustworthy.

"Never mind," I mumble.

He scowls and stands. "I just stopped by to say hi. I got a thing."

I watch him walk off, then shoot a text to Eli. Something is definitely up with his boy.

He doesn't respond right away and that's okay. Caleb is not my problem; he's Eli's.

But as I watch him walk away, I can't shake the feeling that despite how much I can't stand that fucking guy, his life is connected to mine in the strange way that all of us in the veteran community here are connected together.

And no matter how much I try to pretend I can disconnect, I really can't. It doesn't work that way. I wouldn't have made it through the first year of grad school without Nalini and Eli kicking my ass and keeping me from being eaten alive by self-doubt.

I turn my attention back to the screen in front of me, trying to figure out what-the-everlasting-hell I'm going to research for my thesis.