“Going back so soon?” I asked, trying not to let the tone of my voice give away what I was thinking.

I wanted Laurel to be happy, and if working things out with her husband was what would make that happen, I was prepared to let her go. Not that she was mine to keep. But something about the way her body tensed whenever she talked about him made me worry.

She nodded. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

I tried not to let my disappointment show, but I’d always had a bad habit of wearing my heart on my sleeve. And right now, my heart was crushed. And the regretful look in her brown eyes told me this had not gone unnoticed.

My thoughts drifted back to two days ago, when Laurel helped me harvest the last cucumbers and eggplants of the season.

Laurel grabbed the hair tie around her wrist and used it to pull her long, blonde hair into a messy bun, then she looked at my hair and laughed. “Your hair is always falling out of those damn hair ties,” she said, sounding out of breath. “You should cut it. At this point, you’re just failing at the man-bun.”

I reached up and touched the bun on the crown of my head and it fell apart as the hair tie slipped out. “My hair is just too soft and silky to be contained,” I said, bending over to grab the hair tie. “Besides, I don’t like the sound of hair clippers, and I sure as fuck don’t feel like explaining that to a barber.”

The buzzing sound the clippers made as they skimmed over my scalp, reminded me of my first haircut in boot camp. But the thwacking noise the clippers made when they were turned on and off, reminded me of the crack of a bullet that just missed your ear by inches.

Due to the misinformation in TV and movies, most people didn’t know that bullets fired from fairly close range will make a crack or snapping sound — from the sonic boom — when they fly past you. And I didn’t feel like explaining that or my aversion to the sound to a random barber.

The uncomfortable look on Laurel’s face when I explained this to her made me wonder if I’d opened up too much. I’d been doing that a lot lately since Laurel and I began working in the garden together. Like the time we were feeding the chickens in the coop behind my garage and I shared the story of the chicken coop in Ghormach.

My unit had been providing ground support for airstrikes in the Ghormach District, one of the areas in Afghanistan most active with poppy cultivation. We were sweeping the area surrounding the strike zone. Trying to minimize casualties by making as many arrests and clearing as many civilians as possible prior to the strike. I, being a Marine scout sniper, was hanging back on a rooftop with my trigger-finger flexed and ready to go on my M40A5 rifle, when I caught some movement in a chicken coop.

The coop was no more than forty feet from where the corpsman attached to our unit was enjoying a drink from his canteen. I radioed to Helms, the commander on the ground, that I was fairly certain we had a stowaway in the chicken coop behind the house they’d just cleared. I requested permission to hit the sneaky little fucker.

The XO on the ground joined in the convo, confirming to Helms that the chicken coop had not been cleared. The XO radioed the spotter, and Helms told me to stand down until I received confirmation that the movement I saw was or was not a civilian.

Almost as soon as Helms finished telling me to cool my heels so the spotter could confirm the target, I saw the tip of a rifle slowly emerging through the chicken wire, pointed at the corpsman. Without hesitation, or permission, I fired, downing him on the first shot.

When I watched them drag the man’s lifeless body out of the coop, rifle still slung across his chest and part of his head blown off, I felt nothing but pride at my marksmanship. A few minutes later, the corpsman disappeared inside the coop then came out holding up a dead chicken by its bloody, broken wing. I felt sick to my stomach.

That was when I knew I had to get out of there before I became even more of a monster.

When I had finished telling this story, I realized Laurel was cradling one of my hens in her arms like a baby, silent tears sliding down her gaunt cheeks as she stroked its feathers. I’d volunteered too much information. I fully expected her to start avoiding me after that.

But I was wrong. That was the first time she opened up about her hospitalizations.

Still, admitting vulnerability was different than admitting guilt. Revealing my aversion to hair clippers felt, in a way, almost worse than admitting I had once killed another human being without remorse.

Jesus Christ, I was one sick fuck.

Laurel shook her head as she watched me attempt to fix my man-bun. “I’ll cut your hair,” she offered, grabbing the handle of the basket of cucumbers on the ground. “With scissors only. I’ve cut Jack’s hair plenty of times.”

Every time she said her husband’s name, I felt a twinge of unjustifiable jealousy. I stupidly wanted to pretend he didn’t exist. When she mentioned him, especially by name, it broke the illusion that we were the only people who mattered.

I needed to get laid. It was the best way to rid myself of these dangerous feelings.

No matter how many times Laurel laughed at my jokes or cried during my stories, I knew deep down in my inky-black soul, her laughter and tears didn’t belong to me. They were merely on loan, and I was pretty sure they were about to be repossessed.

I agreed to let Laurel cut my hair, my first haircut in almost two years. We washed and dried the cucumbers to get them ready for pickling the next day, then she sat me down in a dining chair on my small covered patio. I closed my eyes and listened to the distant sounds of traffic as she brushed the tangles out of my hair.

I hoped she didn’t notice how every time she touched me, chills spread over my skin. Maybe the tattoos did a good job of disguising the goose bumps. Suddenly, I had an idea for a new tattoo: a laurel tree.

I shook my head at this stupid thought.

Laurel laughed. “Don’t shake your head!” she said. “I almost stabbed you in the neck with the scissors.”

I smiled on the outside, but inside I was thinking about the day I got the dagger tattoo on my neck.

I had been back from Afghanistan for three days, staying at my parents’ house in Stillwater, Minnesota. I hadn’t seen my brother Dane or my fiancée Nicole since I landed. Nicole told me she was at her aunt’s house in Minneapolis and would be home soon. Dane, who was living in Minneapolis at the time, said he would pick up Nicole on his way out.

Boy, did I feel like an idiot when I found out they had been living together for five months and Nicole was two months pregnant. Everyone, even my parents, knew. Everyone except me.

I wasn’t supposed to have access to the trust fund my parents set up for me until I turned thirty. I was twenty-six years old when I got back from that third tour. But after what happened with Dane and Nicole, my parents took pity on me and removed the age stipulation from the trust agreement. The education stipulation had already been met when I graduated from infantry officer training.

I was free to spend my $2.7 million as I saw fit. So of course, the first thing I did was went out and got a tattoo right over my carotid artery of a dagger with the word “blood” carved into the blade. It seemed appropriate since I had been stabbed in the back by my fucking twin brother. The tattoo would serve as a reminder to never let my guard down again.

And yet here I was, on the brink of falling in love with a married woman.

When Laurel was finished cutting my hair, she brushed away as much of the loose hairs off my neck as she could. I wondered if she could see how tightly wound my muscles were as I tried to push aside thoughts of pulling her into my lap and burying myself inside her.

“Are you okay? You look tense,” she said, walking around the chair to examine the front of my hair, tilting her head to see the various angles. “I promise it’s not as bad as you probably imagine. It actually looks kind of…” She flashed me an uncomfortable smile. “It looks good.”

“So are you still gonna work on your mom’s garden?” I asked Laurel.

She was silent for a moment. “Of course. Bonnie — our marriage counselor — thinks it will be easier for us to work on the communication exercises if we’re not so far apart. But I’ll still come back every couple of weeks to prune and primp. That snazzy timer you installed for the sprinklers should do a good job of keeping everything watered when it doesn’t rain.”

I couldn’t even force a fake smile. My instinct was to offer to maintain her mom’s garden in her absence, but then I might never see her again. It was selfish of me not to offer, but it would be pretty stupid of me to offer free services to a married woman whom I clearly had feelings for.

“Well, I hope it works out for the best,” I replied.

I sure as hell didn’t know if her marriage counselor’s advice was sound. I’d never been married. And I didn’t exactly have the best track record with relationships, which was why I steered clear of them.

The awful truth about what happened with Dane and Nicole was that I was partially to blame. I had told Nicole we’d get married after my second tour. But when I got home, I started drinking a lot and ended up having only a vague recollection of kissing a random girl I’d met while out with Dane.

I probably should have kept it to myself, but I’d never hid anything from Nicole before. I confessed to her the very next day and, by the time she forgave me, I had already received my orders for the next deployment. We decided to put off the wedding until I got back.

Nicole’s sudden lack of interest in planning the wedding should have been a clear sign. But I thought she was just being considerate, letting me focus on my work. I never thought I’d come home from Afghanistan in one piece only to find my entire life had blown up.

We both turned toward the street as we heard a creaking noise. Edna had her cane and she was coming out of her front gate. Probably coming over for a chat.

As we waited for Edna in silence, I thought of the voicemail message I listened to this morning from the girl who called herself Emily. I didn’t know her, but she’d been leaving me multiple voicemails every week for the last couple of years. Apparently, when I moved to Oregon and changed my phone number, she had been assigned my old number.

Her voicemails started off full of uncertainty.

Uh… hi. This is Emily. You don’t know me, but I think my new phone number might be your old phone number. At least, I hope this is the right person and I hope you don’t mind me calling. I googled Isaac Evans near Portland and you’re the only one that seemed to be the right age. I just wanted to let you know that someone named Harold Erickson from the VA office in Portland left you a few voicemails on my phone. He said that if you still want to pursue your claim, you need to call him back within forty-five days. His number is…

But the more voicemail messages she relayed to me, the more certain she was that I was just listening to them and ignoring them. Over time, her tone became less uncertain and more like a person speaking to an old friend. At first, I ignored the messages because I wanted nothing to do with my old life. But lately, I ignored them just so I could remind myself that there were still people out there who cared what happened to me, even if this one was a total stranger.

The message Emily left this morning turned my stomach to twisted steel.

Hi. It’s Emily again. Your mom called today. She asked me to tell you she misses you and hopes you’ll call her to say happy birthday when she turns sixty-two next week. She said if she doesn’t hear from you, she’s going to try texting me some pictures of your nephew, Ethan, who she said is starting to look just like you. Should I forward those to you? As usual, if it’s okay to give them your new number, just let me know and I’ll pass it on. Your mom is apparently as stubborn as you. She still won’t accept the number unless you say it’s okay to give it to her. Anyway, I guess you’ll hear from me again soon.

Emily and I had been having a one-sided conversation for two years. Lord knew what my mom had told her about me since they became phone pals. But I had to respect them both for their persistence, and their insistence that I should be able to resume communication with my family on my own terms.

I just wished I knew what to say to my mom. There was nothing I could say that would make Dane’s suicide okay. And there was no one who could convince me that I wasn’t partially responsible for Dane’s death.

“Who butchered your hair?” Edna asked as Laurel and I joined her on the sidewalk.

I smiled, pointing my thumb in Laurel’s direction. “Officer, this is the butcher you’re looking for.”

Laurel gasped. “Geez, no hesitation fingering me, huh?” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she realized the double entendre and clapped her hand over her mouth.

Damn fucking right, I would not hesitate at all.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” she asked Edna, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to the haircut.

Edna flashed me a sweet smile as she insisted my hair didn’t look so bad, though I didn’t know if she was smiling at my bad hair or at Laurel’s slip of the tongue.

I used the opportunity to distract myself from thoughts of Laurel, and the many things I’d say — and do — to her if she weren’t married. I’d have to settle for doing those things with a complete stranger after Laurel left.

“Did you finish up the repairs on that vehicle, sweetie?” Edna asked me, changing the subject. “My grandson is looking for a car and I think he likes those old muscle cars.”

I shook my head. “Almost. She’ll be ready in a couple of weeks, I expect. Give me your grandson’s phone number and I’ll get in touch with him. Send him some pics.”

Edna’s eyes glazed over a bit, as if I might be speaking too fast for her. “Okay. Come on over. I have his number in my pocketbook.”

As Edna headed back toward her house, I shrugged at Laurel. “You need me to come by and help with that mesh?”

She flashed me a beautiful smile. “I’m fine. I think I can handle it alone. Thanks… for everything.”

I tried not to let the pain register on my face at the revelation that she was really leaving. “It was nothing,” I replied with a smile, then I turned around and headed toward Edna’s without another glance in Laurel’s direction.

As Edna stood aside for me to enter her house, she wore a knowing grin. “You’ve sure helped Laurel out a lot. Her garden is looking stupendous.”

I shook my head. “It’s nothing more than what Beth did for me.”

She nodded as she led me toward the kitchen with the faded oak cabinets and orange Formica countertops. “Of course. You and Beth were thick as thieves. It’s terrible what happened to her, but I’ll bet she’d be very proud of you two.” She opened up a drawer in her kitchen and pulled out a pink pocketbook. “Have you thought any more about getting in touch with your VA worker.”

Every time I spoke to Edna, she asked me if I’d spoken with my worker. Her son Benjamin was an army captain and one of the first to be deployed to Fallujah in 2003. He committed suicide in 2008, three years after his second tour ended.

“I think I’ll call him this week,” I replied, but this time I wasn’t trying to placate Edna. This time I meant it.

The warm smile on her plump face solidified my resolve. I would schedule a meeting with my VA worker as soon as I left Edna’s house. Then, I would text Emily, giving her permission to pass along my new phone number to my mom.