Dear B,
I have to make this email short. I’m in desperate need of some shut-eye. I’ve been waking earlier than the platoon to condition with Major Jameson. I’ve been falling behind in our physical fitness assessments. Some days I think I’ve made a huge mistake enlisting in the Marines. What was I thinking, B?
By the way, I saw your review of Kick-Ass. Perfectly written. #yourestillaloserthough
Private Bennett Brannon
“Are you sure you want to do this, B? I mean, I doubt he’ll even recognize you. It’s been four years since you’ve last seen him.”
I pause, dropping the yellow sundress into my suitcase. Actually, it’s been three years and eleven months, but I don’t want to argue with Jess and defend my actions, yet again, that moving from New York City to Georgia without a job, to check up on a man who may or may not remember me, is a good idea.
I will admit, it sounded better in my head a few days ago.
“What happened to all that nonsense about living like we’re twenty-two?” I smirk at Jess until I realize my mistake. “Wait, no,” I blurt out but Jess is already smiling like she’s got me exactly where she wants me. “T-Swift sings dancing like she’s twenty-two, not living, goober. Besides, you act like you’re in your fifties and did not just turn twenty-two, so technically that phrase doesn’t apply to you.”
“Oh, well. What’s done is done,” I admit with a shrug, wadding up my discarded dress and shoving it into my suitcase. The fact is, I made my decision and I’m sticking with it. Even if it is a terrible one. A stubborn bitch to a fault, I will fall on my sword before I admit to Jess that I might be questioning this decision a bit. She’ll “I told you so,” me for days.
With an exaggerated and highly dramatic sigh, I meet Jess’ pinched expression. “I need to do this,” I say with an air of confidence, my voice not nearly as shaky as when I chanted it last night into the bathroom mirror like I was doing some kind of Bloody Mary ritual. “He needs help, Jess. I can’t leave him out there all alone.” I shrug my shoulders like this is all the explanation she needs to understand my rationale. I may not be a psychologist or anything, but I think I can find this man—a hero in my eyes—a place to stay, even if I might not have one myself.
Jess doesn’t agree, and like gum underneath the disgusting desks at our old high school, she’s hardened and not letting go of the subject until I see her point. And right now, her point is simple: She thinks I’m being an idiot.
I’ll agree I’m being a bit irrational, but I’ve already decided.
I’m doing this shit.
Jess tries again, this time softening her normally sharp tone by reminding me, “He has a family, Breck. He doesn’t need you to come save him.”
Ugh.
“I know he does, Jess.” It’s like I’m talking to my grandma when I slow my words down so she can fully comprehend what I’m saying without having to repeat it a bazillion times. “But you didn’t see him,” I say, snatching the newspaper article from my bag—the only way I can think of to get her to understand the gravity of his situation. The paper’s edges are crumpled from pulling it out, crying for the man my brother used to rave about being so full of life but now only existing.
I’ll never forget his eyes. Haunting, yet sharp and aware. A jawline that is all straight lines and good bone structure from his Irish heritage.
No, I could never forget Major Cade Jameson as I blinked back tears and mourned the once strong and fearless leader my brother looked up to. There, in black and white, was a man in tattered rags, slumped in an alley, his head down as he ate something that looked like soup from a can.
My heart spasmed in a painful beat as I looked on, reading the article about not enough space or resources to get the homeless off the street. Tears spattered the thin paper as I cried for my brother’s hero. I cried for a man who gave everything for his country and was left hollow and empty inside.
I tried for a couple years after Bennett’s death to find Cade but never could track his whereabouts. His parents hadn’t seen him in years. It was like he disappeared until I found him by chance, in the Madison Times, a freak happening I can only describe as fate. I received an email, meant for my father, about the possibility of buying up property in the small town of Madison, Georgia.
I intended on forwarding it. I really did. But something about the headline stopped me. I had been searching for him and he was there the whole time.
He was homeless.
And that’s when I knew what I had to do.
I owed it to Bennett.
I owed it to Cade.
I would give up my life here in New York and help Cade find a chance at a new one.
Because Bennett would want me to.
Glancing down at the newspaper clipping in my hand, I read it one more time because I’m a straight-up masochist, and I feed on the hurt that looking at this image makes me feel.
Poverty on the rise in Madison. Many investors turning away from restoring the historic downtown due to a high volume of break-ins. Are the homeless to blame?
The headline judges me, night after night, as I lay awake with a roof over my head and clean clothes on my back. Not that I live lavishly or anything. Jess and I share a squatty two-bedroom apartment in New York City, no thanks to any of my family. My father, fuck his soul, is a greedy piece of shit and keeps his money for himself and my mother. Ever since Bennett and I moved out, Bennett going into the military, and me going to college for culinary arts, they abandoned us like the trash they thought we had become. “Brannon’s don’t join the military. Brannon’s go to Georgetown like their ancestors and become wealthy businessmen and fuck people over at every opportunity.” Okay, he didn’t say the last part, but that still doesn’t make it any less true. Even after Bennett’s death, my parents still ignored me like both of their children died from that bomb.
Jess’ sigh pulls my head up from the article. Her tortured expression breaks my heart. I don’t want to leave her. She’s the only family I have left. I’ve worked so hard here at the Culinary Institute of America to make something of myself. Top of my class, I scored the coveted internship at À Votre Goût after I graduated, working with head chef Philipe Christianson. It’s my dream come true and I’m giving it up. I know Jess thinks I’m crazy, and maybe I am, but I feel it deep in my heart that this is what I am being called to do.
“Can you just wish me safe travels?” I beg her, as tears clog my throat. My best friend sniffles, folding my Batman socks and placing them silently in my suitcase. Reaching across the mound of clothes, I pull her hand into my lap. “And call me every day? I can’t do this without you.”
Jess’ chest heaves and silent teardrops trail down her face, taking the mascara she applied perfectly this morning with them. “I love you, dumbass,” she sobs, pulling us together atop the mound of clothes. We lay there, crying in each other’s arms until the tears dry and Jess says, “Come on, let’s go look in my closet for something for you to wear that doesn’t look like you came from Comic Con.”
Laughing, I lift off her chest, noticing the remnants of our cry-fest on her silk shirt. “My clothes are fine,” I argue, but she waves me off, already up and headed to her room across the hall.
“B, if you want to score a piece of ass like Jameson, you’re gonna have to up your game.”
I don’t tell her I’m not going to fuck him. I want to help him. But it makes no difference to Jess. Help him or fuck him, either way, you dress with the intent of seduction. Wiping the last of my tears, I tuck the newspaper clipping in my pocket and follow her to her bedroom where we inevitably cry again while promising to grow our small movie blog. Along with our online friend Milos, our blog, The Three Musketeers, has been with us through everything. It’s important that we keep it going.
It’s not long after our cry-fest that Jess drives me to the bus station and refuses to tell me goodbye. I kiss her on the cheek anyway and wave at her from the window of the bus.
She flips me off.
Text me back, bitch!
Breck!
I swear, I will come find your ass!
I’m getting really scared, B. Please call me.
My phone buzzes with hateful love messages from Jess, but I can’t bear to answer her right now. All I can do is watch them. He’s healthy and vibrant, laughing at something she says from across the table.
I’m too late.
I should feel grateful that someone found Cade and got him off the street, but I don’t. Something like jealousy burns in my throat and tastes bitter as I swallow it back down. I know I said I came out here for Bennett, but the damn romantic in me dreamed up all these scenarios on the twenty-hour bus ride here of Cade and me living together and helping each other cope with our losses.
But’s that’s not what I found when I finally made it to Madison, Georgia.
What I found was a small town buzzing about a local physician named Anniston McCallister taking in six homeless veterans. The locals at the diner I stopped in were all in agreement that her boyfriend, a pro baseball player, was not happy about her recent life change, and they were all placing bets on when he would lose his shit publicly and bring the media to their small, quiet town.
I knew it was Cade when the older lady swooned, talking about the handsome fella with the enchanting green eyes. You don’t forget eyes like his. Or an ass like his—not that granny mentioned his ass, but she had to be thinking it. I listened to their tales of Anniston and her defiant nature until they changed topics and started arguing over politics. That’s when I paid my tab and bummed a ride from a friendly guy—okay, he was a little sketchy, but they don’t have cabs in Madison. I was desperate to get out of there and find Cade.
I told Frank, the sketchy guy, about Anniston, and he knew exactly who I was talking about. After several uncomfortable minutes of him talking about how hot she is, he agreed to drop me off in the square, at the Farmers’ Market, claiming Anniston frequented it almost daily. Which is where I currently sit, hiding in the trees like a total stalker watching her lightly punch Major Jameson in the arm as they dine outside at a rickety picnic table.
I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying but it’s obvious Cade is listening intently as his eyes focus on nothing but her. My stomach roils as I realize he’s found a home and he looks … happy. Something tight squeezes my chest but I refuse to cry over this. My mission was simple: find Cade and help him get back on his feet.
Anniston beat me to it.
And, unlike me, she’s incredibly beautiful. Jess was right; I am crazy for doing this. Now I’ve lost my internship and probably the only opportunity I would have had to establish my name in the culinary industry. I’ll have to start over, probably at a fast-food joint. It won’t be with Philipe, but whatever, as long as I’m in the kitchen, I’ll be happy.
I think.
After a few more seconds of spying, I pull out my phone and brace for the I told you so and type out a text to Jess.
Cade’s fine. He’s with some doctor who found him. She’s beautiful.
I’m just about to type I’m coming home when I hear Anniston’s voice much closer than it was before.
“Yes, Theo, we’re on our way home. We stopped for lunch.” She pauses and then huffs out, “Don’t be an ass. I said I would pick you up. How was I supposed to know your flight would be early?”
Anniston paces around the grassy area, rolling her eyes and smiling into the phone when she says, “Keep talking like that, Von Bremen, and I’ll make sure that’s the last time you speak for the day.” She laughs hard, holding the phone away from her ear while Theo yells through the speaker. “I’ll tell you what, Theo. If you can refrain from being a total asshole in the car, I’ll give you a blowie when we get home.”
I don’t know if he agrees or what because she winks at Cade who looks as though he could vomit any second. She hangs up the phone and asks, “Want me to drop you off at the house, Gorgeous?” Cade quickly nods his head in relief.
I watch as Cade holds the door open to the SUV parked along the street, and helps Anniston in. As she passes, she strokes his face with her fingertips, and I tense up with … I don’t know what. Cade isn’t mine. Just because I’ve sacrificed my potential career for him and left behind everything I have ever known doesn’t make him belong to me. My stomach is just upset from the move and all.
That has to be it.
Cade and I share something special, something no one will ever understand but the two of us. Without even knowing each other, Cade and I are bonded.
We both loved and cared for Bennett Brannon.
And his death broke both of our hearts.
I realize two things in that moment. One: My stomach really is revolting against the greasy diner food. Two: Cade isn’t homeless anymore and doesn’t need me to intervene and save him like I thought. Bennett’s letter flashes in my mind.
You don’t leave the brotherhood.
Call it insanity.
Call it fate.
Call it curiosity.
Call it me being a stubborn ass, but the promise I made to my brother roots me to the ground. I delete my previous text message to Jess and go with, Found him! He’s even more gorgeous than I remember. He’s living with a local doctor. I want to be sure he’s okay before I come home. I miss your face. I’ll call you when I check into a hotel, and we’ll work on the Avengers review. I end the text with a string of heart emojis and hit send.
Two minutes later I get, You better, whore. Sneak a pic of him and send it to me. I want to know what the face of your demise looks like. She also sends emojis after her text but they vary between hearts and the middle finger. It makes me smile.
With a renewed outlook, I take a deep breath and look up at the heavens.
I’m doing this.
One way or another, I’m going to get to know Bennett’s mentor; the person who held his hand as he took his last breath.
I don’t respond to Jess but instead wander over to the Farmers’ Market. I need a job and a place to stay, but other than that, I have nothing better to do than browse all the fresh grown produce and handmade trinkets. If I didn’t have to conserve my money, I would buy a ton of this stuff. All the homemade jellies and sauces intrigue me.
“Can I show you anything?”
I’m shaking my head when I look up and meet the eyes of a woman who has the sweetest expression, reminding me of home. Reminding me of Jess.
“I’m sorry,” I start, eyeing the jam, considering splurging on one jar when I see a handwritten sign propped against the table of jams.
Help Wanted.