Halos and Heroes - 1. Chapter 1

“Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald

PEOPLE say you can never come home again, but the deep dark truth is that no matter how far you run, your past always patiently waits until it finds a way to bring you back to center where your cast-off shit lives and thrives, so it can rise up with the wrath of a fucking zombie army to tear your arms off, and beat you with them as they simultaneously chew off your dick.

Overdue homecomings, they are a bitch.

The long black skeleton of the Orlando International runway did an excellent job of hammering that point home once we were low enough for my narrowed eyes to navigate the outside gloom and make out the shapes of all the emergency vehicles lining the tarmac on both sides. The Army hadn’t been able to get me on an early enough flight from Afghanistan to make up for all the layovers that most international flights required, so our arrival time was set for 10:15pm, eastern standard time. Much later than I’d hoped, especially because someone was picking me up at the airport. I’d have preferred just taking an uber, but my ride wouldn’t hear of it, which was part of the reason there was a solid headache squatting between my temples right now.

The blue flash from police cars, overlapped the red of the fire trucks with strobe-like vividity to do double duty by both lighting up the night, and intensifying the pain in my head that was quickly migrating into migraine territory. During the almost 18-hour flight, a window seat and wireless earbuds had allowed me to block out the world as I listened to instrumental versions of my favorite hard rock and metal songs that wouldn’t be abrasive to anyone within earshot of any strains of sound that might escape the earbuds. Knowing every lyric by heart satisfied my need for a soundtrack appropriate to my mood, even without any words. A mood, which had been fluctuating from raw nerves, to rage, to nausea from the aforementioned nerves, then back to the, ‘WTF am I doing here????’ mantra of simmering anger that had been on repeat in my mind, whirling round and round like a hyper hamster in its wheel for hours. Even in an instrumental version, Last Resort had been an appropriate backdrop, the surprisingly hard edge of elegant violins contrasting with the fluffy clouds high in the sky when the Floridia coast had just been shadow. Now that we’d descended low enough to clearly see what was happening below, it was even more appropriate, but when the song ended and switched to Drowning, it felt like my motherfucking theme song. There was no escaping from reality now, no matter how many times Spotify randomly shuffled things up on me, somehow always perfectly nailing my mood with techy voodoo. The crackle of the plane's intercom system had made me remove my ear buds immediately out of a sense of propriety for authority, though that obedient respect toward the flight crew meant I was suddenly bombarded with the curious buzz of passenger voices which had begun the moment people started noticing the airport activity below us. The majority of the voices were lowered, but some comments were spoken in stage whispers meant to carry because some people couldn’t help taking advantage of a dramatic possibility. They were all asking variations of the same questions though; what could be happening down there? Was there an emergency that we didn’t know about? Why hadn’t the pilot told us if there was an emergency? Would we be able to land? My God, was this a terrorist thing?

The strained symphony of voices made my temples throb. There weren’t enough deep breathing activities in the world to help settle the rolling sensation low in my belly that was quickly escalating to a sense of nausea as bile built up in the back of my throat, but I forced out a slow breath anyway, falling back on years of training of keeping my shit together even when the world went sideways. I hadn’t spent my entire adult life putting myself in harm’s way to save others, just to crumble now because I was going to have to do some uncomfortable shit soon. That kind of bullshit was something the 75^th would’ve frowned on even before I’d been recruited to Delta, so it wasn’t going to happen. At least not publicly. The U.S. military might be done with me, but that didn’t mean that the uniform I was currently wearing didn’t mean something to other people who generally had confidence that they were safe around uniformed law enforcement and military, especially now that there were all those emergency vehicles outside that might give the impression otherwise.

The jerk of the plane when its wheels touched down on the dark length of the runway tarmac was relatively minimal, but there was none of the applause that usually followed a successful landing because the pilot’s voice had come over the speakers just before we’d actually landed to clarify the situation happening outside. Being told that your standard, happy civilian flight to the Sunshine State was doubling as a military escorted hearse, was an effective way to maintain the moment of silence the pilot requested to honor fallen Army hero, Specialist Connor Trammell and his brother, Master Sergeant, Samuel Trammell.

I’d been allowed to board the plane first out of respect for my uniform. The irony hadn’t been lost on me, because I’d spent most of the last five years in civilian clothes whether I was on leave or not. The average civilian equated the name, Delta Force, with images of a GI Joe motherfucker who took names, but no shit as he kicked serious ass in Rambo style bravado. The reality was that while handling yourself with smart, brutal efficiency was a given for any Special Forces unit, the D represented discretion to most Delta operators; letting someone see you coming from a mile away defeated the purpose of working under conditions requiring stealth. Unlike most soldiers, operators within The Unit, CAG, ACE, Task Force Green and whatever other official or unofficial name was used to refer to 1^st SFOD-D, had the latitude to dress however would help us blend in best to the areas we were deployed to, because completing the mission without getting ourselves killed in the process was always top priority. I’d worn my fatigues today because though my sister-in-law, Sofia, had known not to ask a lot of questions about my deployments when I was part of the 75^th Ranger Regiment, she didn’t know I’d been recruited to Delta, just that I’d gone to another Army post after healing from injuries sustained in combat almost 6 years ago. Showing up in my usual blend of civilian and military gear with a full beard were against regulation for regular enlisted personnel and might’ve raised questions I couldn’t answer easily. Max knew about the change and so had Connor, but he was dead and Max would take my secrets to the grave just like I would his. Aside from Max, my only real friends had been in the military with me, so wearing army fatigues today with my face clean shaven and hair freshly buzzed, kept up the same don’t-ask-don’t-tell pretense because it was based in reality; I had been an active member of the U.S. military, and now I was retired. Telling anyone that the retirement had been one chosen for me in the form of an honorable discharge was no one’s business but mine, and the select people who knew. On paper, I was here to bury my brother, check in on his family, then hopefully get the fuck out of dodge to only God knew where because I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.

My seat was in the first row of coach, on the right side of the plane by the window, but even though I was in fatigues and tall enough to make a statement even when seated, none of the other passengers had given me more than a passing glance when they’d initially boarded the plane and had to inch past my row. For those twenty or so minutes, I’d gotten to watch people from every possible walk of life settle in, getting ready to embark on adventures of business, pleasure, or just a reprieve from whatever their everyday life was. Without knowing any of their personal stories, I envied every single one of those civilians because I’d known exactly what was waiting for me when the plane landed; it wasn’t business, or pleasure. It was most definitely not a reprieve. The only reason I’d returned to Florida at all after my five-year long, fuck-my complicated-life, absence, was because I’d had no other choice. I’d been doing my military duty since I was barely 19 years old. Just 4 months shy of my 35^th birthday didn’t change that.

I felt a lot of interested eyes on me now though, as all the previously aloof passengers turned to look at me after the pilot’s announcement. No one had ever claimed the seats beside me, so that sea of curious faces had a clear view of my profile because I didn’t turn around, catching only glances of them in my peripheral vision, or in the small window that’d been darkened by the late hour. I heard more whispers but didn’t know which direction they were coming from because I refused to look. Instead, I focused on the organized commotion happening outside. When I didn’t give away anything in either my expression or demeanor to satiate the peanut gallery’s curiosity, passengers in window seats leaned back far enough to share the view with their seat companions when we passed under the graceful arc of water created by the fire trucks parked on either side of the runway. I doubted any of them had ever seen a water cannon salute; a tribute and acknowledgment from every class of service member—both military and civilian—that one of our lost had finally returned.

Water droplets peppered the metal body of the plane like raindrops. In my current turbulent headspace, it sounded like the sky was mourning, especially when the water from the trucks splattered my egg-shaped window and streamed down the pane like tears. I pulled down the window shade to block the view. They could go cry a river for someone else. I had just enough pride left in me—shoved in among the chaos in my head, and the healed bullet holes in my shoulder, abdomen and hip that still bothered me on rainy days like this—to finish the last mission I'd ever be on; after years of shunning his home and family for a military life, my brother Connor was coming home.

Connor and I'd enlisted together when we were just kids who didn’t know anything about anything, other than escaping our violent home life, not believing that whatever the military threw at us in basic training could possibly be any be worse than the paternal abuse we’d left behind. In a way it had been both harder and easier. Getting broken down by the military had served a purpose; to make us stronger, faster, and most importantly, give us something to fight for, not with like we had since we’d been too young to know that most people didn’t have a dad who broke your bones to break you of hope.

Connor and I had both survived and thrived, him in EOD and me, as part of the 75^th, before my transfer to Delta almost six years ago. Neither of our paths had been easy, but the military, the men we served with, became the family we’d never had outside of each other. We’d both planned to be career military and that’s how it should’ve been if life was fair. But life had never been fair to either of us, and now, we were now leaving the military the same way; both of us highly decorated soldiers who’d been honorably discharged after all our years of service. The only discernible difference between us, considering we were identical twins, was that I was walking out of the plane on my own, instead of being carried out in solemn parade via a flag covered casket.

If I was honest though, I felt more like a dead man walking than an Army hero; my feelings of dread over having to reconnect with the past, went deeper than any fear of execution because that would’ve been a one and done deal. But right here, right now, I was trying to forget some of the horrors I’d experienced throughout my military career that still haunted me, so that I could compartmentalize my new reality.

I wanted to believe it was going to be ok. Needed to believe that. But the unavoidable reality was that no one came out of combat zones without scars, whether they were the obvious ones visible to public scrutiny, or the silent ones that cut deep and festered slowly until you either handled your shit or fell apart. After fifteen years in the service, I'd finally taken my place among all the other long-time soldiers who’d survived the atrocities of combat, only to get caught up in the hell of their own minds.

My anxiety attacks had started small at first. Minor sporadic moments, so easy to cover up that I’d refused to acknowledge them from what they were, because every single member of my team dealt with their own demons, and sometimes we all dealt with them together with cold beers and shots of Jack Daniels. Living off base together had its benefits, one of the many being that we knew how to keep one another’s secrets. What we’d seen, what we'd done in the name of God and country... we were the gatekeepers of each other’s pains and joys until whatever personally preferred deity came to deliver us home if shit went sideways. We protected on another as a team, because there wasn’t anyone else on the outside who’d understand that sometimes your dreams were taken over by nightmares so terrifying, your fucking nose hairs were still singed with the scent of blood when you woke up. Admitting that to anyone who hadn’t had to make, then live with some of the decisions we did, couldn’t ever truly understand those choices, even if they tried. The Army owned us, but working with whatever agency needed us, meant they didn’t always have complete control over our missions once our boots hit the ground. We’d all been plucked from other branches of the military, but we didn’t consider ourselves soldiers as much as people just trying to get important jobs done, because the rigid rules of military conduct and procedure often had to go to the wayside once you were told, Go.

As the leader of my unit, I hadn’t had the luxury of pity parties, or thinking about anything except completing the mission and keeping my people safe. Not after the tragedy that had gotten me recruited in the first place. Most people would assume that losing almost everyone under your command after being ambushed in the field by enemy combatants and almost being killed in the process would’ve stamped an expiration date on me that same day. Instead, after I’d recovered with physical exercise and mental fortitude that helped me compartmentalize like a son-of-a-bitch so I could shove my guilt over not being able to save my people down so deep, none of the shrinks had been able to find it when they’d cleared me for fully active duty, I’d been told that my ‘perseverance under unbeatable odds, had shown natural leadership skills that couldn’t be taught.’ AKA, I’d been able to keep my shit together out there when everything fucking fell apart, then faked it till I made it.

I’d done the powers that be proud for five years, but then I’d messed up with one careless confession to Abram Hennessy, on a night when one of the memory spurred nightmares had woken me up in the middle of the night, and a beer had replaced the classic glass of warm milk in an attempt to calm me back to sleep.

We all battled our own demons, and it wasn’t a secret to any of the other guys that I occasionally had well-earned nightmares, but it didn’t affect us as a team, so they didn’t judge me. I gave them the same courtesy and assumed Abram would fall in line and do the same. Unfortunately, everyone knew what happened to people who made assumptions.

Abram had joined our unit almost a year and a half ago. Young, still trying to prove himself, but he was a solid sharpshooter, smart, capable, and he got along with everyone on the team. I figured he’d grow out of the nerves posing as a brass pair of balls stage eventually and had given him the benefit of the doubt. For the fourteen months he’d been with us, I’d trusted him, assuming he’d have my back like the rest of my guys did, men who’d been with me for over four years by the time Abram had joined. When you fought for your life alongside someone, calendar-kept time stopped mattering. Attachments formed faster, and loyalties went deeper, even for someone like me, who’d trusted only three people—Max, my brother Connor, and his girlfriend, later turned wife, Sofia— before I’d joined the military. But I’d trusted every member of my team including Abram, to believe that I knew my limits and that if I ever felt I wasn’t up to the task of leadership, I’d voluntarily tap out without hesitation. After the massive loss I’d experienced while I was in the 75^th, I’d never jeopardize the lives of anyone under my command with compromised judgement.

All my people had known that, from Bubba and Shrimp, the boys from Alabama who’d been friends since they were in diapers, around the time that their fathers—also best friends since diapers according to them—had started a shrimping business together. Zipper, who had as much trouble keeping his up as Max did, his charm making up for his thick Brooklyn accent that made him seem more like a potential problem than the good time the emails and texts from all his hookups—which he shamelessly read to us aloud with improvised lustful sounds and unrepentently lewd mannerisms—proved. Red Star, a Texas sniper who’d come with me from the 75^th and did most of the cooking for the team because he refused to eat his steak, ‘dead,’ claiming, ‘for a bunch of cowboy military motherfuckers, y’all can’t cook for shit.’ Those men had trusted me with their lives. Backed me with their own. We had no reason not to take one another at face value. Abram, or “Four,” as he’d been dubbed after we realized how much he sucked at any board and card game except Connect Four, had been accepted in as part of the team and we’d had his back, but he’d brought us all down like a house of cards, starting at the top with me. Unlike Zipper, Red Star, Bubba, and Shrimp, Abram’s faith in me as a leader and friend, hadn’t been strong enough to make him believe I was still good. Or maybe he’d just been hoping that being a narc to the higher powers, just once, would make him be seen as a better soldier, not realizing that two things could be true at once. True, the upper brass might be grateful that in the short term, they might’ve been saved a possible PR nightmare with allegations of their elite forces suffering from varying levels of PTSD. Also true, none of us except for Abram truly considered ourselves soldiers anymore, because sometimes the shit we had to do, the ops we were sent on, meant we didn’t fit into the neat, orderly military boxes We never wanted it to come to any situation that compromised our moral judgement, but successful missions were always our primary directive and we needed to have one another’s back. Stabbing one of your own in theirs meant wondering day and night, if the others would have your six if you needed them too. Once you broke the trust of one, the domino effect went through the entire team and shattered that covenant of loyalty. As far as I knew, Abram was still part of the unit, but being surrounded by people who didn’t trust you, could get dicey. If Abram’s decision hadn’t snapped my life apart like a matchstick, I’d probably have stressed to the guys to move past it, that he was a kid who’d made a stupid mistake, and that the missions were still their main objective, but I hadn’t. I just trusted them to make the right call because it was how I’d always led. Sometimes when shit needed to get done, you just had to get it done by reminding yourself that not everything was black and white, all good, or all bad. Sometimes things were both because two things could be true at once.

In Greek mythology, Cerberus was the three-headed dog of Hades, sanctioned with keeping the inhabitants of the Underworld in, and all interlopers out. That was his assignment, and he carried it out fiercely, not because he was evil or a mindless underling, but because he was dedicated to his post. Cerberus was a working dog just like any German Shepard in law enforcement, or fucking sheep dog on a ranch. When I’d earned the call sign from a smartass on my old 75^th team, A.J. who said he’d pushed for the name Thor, but had been outvoted because the rest of the team said I didn’t smile enough, I’d returned that commentary by saying if I showed my teeth as often as he did, they should probably be afraid. I’d gotten the expected laugh and the name had stuck, though I knew as much about mythology as I did any established religion; practically nothing. Connor and I hadn’t been raised that way, and though in a combat zone there was always at least one time when every man converted because you were sure you’d be ending up somewhere other than the earthly plane of existence, I didn’t drop to my knees weekly in a church to ask for grace. I left that to Max’s mom, who routinely told me she prayed for me every time we spoke.

Her prayers hadn’t saved me from losing everything because I’d trusted the wrong person. Though, in hindsight, the denial of my reenlistment request was inevitable anyway, even without Abram fucking me over. Eventually everyone’s cracks became visible once their foundations got shaky. I’d managed to fly under the radar for as long as I had because I’d been a solid leader and a man tied to his duty. Being efficient, steady and methodical meant I always met our objective, and brought my people home.

Expect for the one time I hadn’t, which had been the catalyst for the first cracks in my foundation, even though I’d been able to ignore them for years until the memories began manifesting into nightmares. Those nightmares were what had gotten me temporarily benched when Abram went to the brass, and put into mandatory, twice weekly counseling with the shrink assigned to grill me about what was going on in my head. He’d said it was just protocol so he could clear me for active duty again, but I’d known it was bullshit lip service even then. No matter how spotless my record was, or how many commendations I’d received over my years of service been give over my years of service, someone with my skill set who was perceived as possibly having a few loose screws, was a gamble they’d never take because the slant most news media outlets put on military PTSD meant that optics could get hairy. But I’d gone anyway, hanging onto that last threadbare string of hope.

I’d been confident and calm at the first two meetings, having crafted my defense as carefully as I’d have planned any covert mission. By our third, I’d almost convinced myself I was ready for active duty again, and the shrink had been on board, pen in hand. But when my CO had stepped in during the last 10 minutes of the session, that plan had derailed hard.

I swallowed hard as I took a mental step back off that dangerously emotional ledge. A glance down showed that my knuckles were white from gripping the armrests of the plane’s chair, just like they had been in the shrink’s office after my CO had informed me that my twin, Connor, whom I hadn’t seen in years after he’d betrayed me in one of the worst ways possible and broken us, triggered an epic panic. None of the fancy metal on my dress uniform had been able to save me when I’d been thanked for my long years of service, then told I was being sent home with Connor on a one-way transport.

When the seatbelt light went off, indicating we could remove ours, that was my cue. After almost a decade and a half of surviving years of harsh desert sun, worldwide covert operations, and multiple enemy insurgent plans for my destruction, I was back on home soil deciding how to unfold my six-foot-two frame from the seat that felt like it was meant for a Lilliputian.

"Sergeant Trammell?"

I glanced over at the brunette flight attendant whose tentative smile was aimed at me. I didn’t bother correcting her about my rank, even though she’d unintentionally demoted years of work and sacrifice. On civilian soil, the nuances of military ranks weren’t widely known, so mistakes happened. Or maybe she just didn’t like the word ‘master,’ the same way some people didn’t like the word ‘moist.’ Living life vicariously through Max and his open minded sexual wonderworld, I’d learned people had all sorts of kinks. Either way it didn’t matter, because once I got off this plane, rank didn’t matter anymore anyway.

"Yes, Ma'am?" I said, after I’d stood and discreetly shaken out the pins and needles in my right leg from sitting too long. She moved ack a step to let me out of my seat, then opened the overhead apartment for me so I could grab my duffel bag. It was all that I’d brought with me aside from the clothes I was wearing, so I was travelling physically light to counteract the fact my soul felt like it was weighed down with lead.

"I'm very sorry for your loss. Your brother was a hero," she said softly. "So are you. My father’s a veteran so I know about… the sacrifices you all go through and I… well I just wanted to thank you for your service."

The combined time of multiple flights that had taken me halfway around the world to deposit me in Florida had given me plenty of time to compress years of emotions into a manageable stone face. But anything past a forced smile would crack me apart, so that was all I could spare her.

"Thank you, Ma'am. Will you please excuse me? They're waiting."

"Of course, Sergent Tramell. God bless you."

God stopped listening to me a long time ago.

I kept that thought to myself as the flight attendant quickly stepped aside to allow me to disembark down the metal the staircase that had been put up against the door of the plane to let me off onto the tarmac with the waiting military personnel, before it continued its journey to the normal arrival bay. As soon as my boots touched the ground, I stared firmly at the glossy sheen of the wet tarmac, counting Mississippi’s in my head until I knew my expression would give nothing away when I looked up. I needed to be composed and stoic, like all military members were supposed to appear when representing our branches among civilians, especially when we were mourning one of our fallen.

Anyone who loved men and women who swore to fight for, and protect their country, understood that a time might come when they'd be the ones standing on the tarmac in tragic expectation. But even long-time military families expected the people they loved to return one day to make new memories with them. Watching the solemn procession of a uniformed honor guard making its way toward the plane's cargo bay was a painful confirmation that a welcome home party wasn't in the works for Connor. What little remained of him after the bomb blast had taken his life, was just ash in an ornamental container inside the flag-wrapped casket being lowered slowly into the protection of solemn soldiers waiting to welcome their brother home.

I exhaled slowly as I watched the soldiers in dress uniform moving the casket along the tarmac. There was the standard number of them, though it was unnecessary because the casket weighed only as much as the wood itself. Insurgent bombs didn't leave much behind in the way of mementos, but the military was big on honor, formality and dignity even when it was pointless.

My hand came up in perfectly timed salute to mirror those of the other service members standing by out of a sense of propriety. This was a time of remembrance about Connor's faithfulness to his country, not the lack of it to his family or to me toward the end. Whatever else he'd been, in the eyes of the public, Connor was an American hero.

Even with all the lights, it was late enough to affect the deep shades of the sky and make everyone wearing a dark color blend together like one unified mass of fabric, but there was no mistaking Connor's widow when she stepped forward into the lights like an absconding shadow; a slim figure in a simple black dress with short sleeves in deference to both the heat that had slapped me in the face in humid welcome the moment I’d gotten off the plane. I’d been in hotter places while in the military where the temps sailed smoothly into the triple digits before noon, but Floridian heat was a special kind of hell that was ironically appropriate today.

I watched as she walked slowly toward the waiting honor guard, slim arms hugging her own waist. Every soldier there felt the loss of one of their own, but the sag of Sofia's body was distinctive; someone whose heart was shattered with a grief she didn’t know how to handle. A part of me was right there with her, though my burden was probably heavier because my grief was threaded through with a sense of betrayal and resentment that still hurt as much now, as it had five years ago.

I swallowed hard as the honor guard paused in front of my sister-in-law long enough for Sofia to get close. She made the sign of the cross in front of her body, then briefly kissed the tips of her fingers and touched the top of the flag covered casket before stepping back to let the soldiers continue their slow journey across the tarmac. Only after Connor's casket had been safely secured in the transport vehicle that would take his remains to the funeral home, did I make my way toward her. Even in my boots, I was light-footed from years of necessity in the field, but she still turned when I was halfway there as if she sensed me coming. The people around her instantly moved away with murmured words of sympathy.

Sofia held out her hand and I slid mine into in, holding onto those slim, cold fingers when they squeezed mine tightly.

"Sam..."

Sofia's voice was exactly the same as it'd been the last time I'd seen her, but that gentle tone was the only thing I recognized about the woman in front of me. We’d grown up together; her, Connor, Max and me, so I knew her face as well as I did my own, but the five years we’d been apart seemed to have taken as much of a toll on her as they had on me. In every past memory that I had of her, from pretty teenager to beautiful woman, Sofia was a petite, graceful brunette with a Colgate bright smile and an easy laugh. Her favorite color had been pink because she’d once said it brightened her skin and made her cheeks seem naturally flushed. The woman currently clutching at me like a lifeline, was pale under her deep olive complexion despite the tropical climate. There were bright, silvery strands woven through her long, dark hair, and her smile was thin and tight, lips visibly chapped. She wasn’t wearing any makeup to distract attention away from either her pallid cheeks, or the pronounced bags beneath her dull brown eyes. No toothpaste company in the world would've chosen her as their poster child now.

"Thank you for coming," she said softly, breaking my stream of thought. "I know it's not easy after all this time… but… I...” She paused, obviously deciding not to continue with whatever her original thought was. Instead, she glanced around us quickly, scanning the area. "Where's Max?"

"He couldn't get the leave, Sofia. But he sends his love."

"Okay."

Sofia nodded then glanced back toward me, her gaze having to sweep up almost a foot because she was only 5’4 to my 6’2. I’d been considered almost too tall for the Special Forces because with the average male heigh being around 5’9, it was harder to blend in when you had larger visibility. Right now, even those ten inches didn’t seem like enough distance between Sofia and I as her gaze swept over me in a brief onceover. Her smile tightened around the edges as her brown eyes met mine with visible mixed emotion.

As a kid, there'd been plenty of upsides to Connor and me being identical twins, but not today and I immediately regretted not thinking of some excuse that would’ve let me come home not looking like I still had to comply with regulation military standards. The minor deviation of my normally heavy scruff a few inches below an actual beard, along with the black BDU’s and a gray t-shirt that had been my original choice before I’d opted to keep up appearances instead, would’ve been enough to make me look a little less like the man she'd be burying soon.

I’d never laughed as easily as Connor had, always having to be the more stable, level-headed one when we were growing up, but these days, my mouth was always set so hard I looked lipless, more so when I was clean shaven like I was now. The touch of premature silver at the temples of the sun-lightened bit of newly cut, military-short, brown fuzz I called hair was just as bright as the strands in Sofia’s hair, though it blended more in mine because the strands were lightened by the sun. Deeply etched lines bracketed my blue eyes; eyes that would probably have sent people screaming if they’d truly been windows to my soul and revealed everything I’d seen and done in my past. Everything I’d been ordered to do had been for the right reasons—justified and valid on paper—but that didn’t mean the reality of doing them didn’t take a toll on my body, or occasionally, on my conscience. Time stood still for no one, and my steady stream of deployments over the course of almost sixteen years had tagged me up like a commemorative wall of graffiti.

For an awkward moment, Sofia and I stood together in that strained silence of shared grief. But before I could figure out what the hell etiquette dictated I say to my estranged sister-in-law, slim arms wrapped around my neck as Sofia dragged me down with surprising strength to her level, so close that I could smell the hint of a subtly sweet perfume. I was sure it looked warm and cozy as hell to anyone watching. Only I could feel the dampness of her tears against my cheek. I exhaled slowly, one arm circling her delicate frame with a hand splayed wide on her back because I didn’t know what else to do.

"I'm so happy you're home, Sam," she murmured softly against my ear,

I didn't know what to say to that, but I wasn't expected to answer. Sofia released me abruptly, her frail shoulders set with purpose as she tucked her hair behind both ears at the same time with her hands. "The girls are waiting in the baggage claim area. I thought it'd be easier on them than being out here with…all of this…"

I nodded, then picked up my duffel again to carry it. Once we were inside, I looked around the busy airport, squinting against the blinding fluorescence of the indoor lights, trying not to feel overwhelmed by all of the people walking back and forth in what seemed like a continuous bustle of movement between those arriving, those getting ready to depart, and the uniformed hustle of flight attendants and security; so much unstructured chaos that I had to inhale deeply as discreetly as I could, before releasing it slowly.

Years spent in hostile combat zones meant being used to being aware of my surroundings at all times and being more attentive of the people I had with me. But considering that Sofia and I were practically strangers right now despite having known each other since we were ten years old, I didn’t think she’d understand my military ingrained urge to stash her somewhere objectively safer while I grabbed the girls. Especially since I hadn’t seen them in 5 years either.

"They're old enough to be left alone?"

Sofia’s lips twisted into a small smile. "Emma just finished first grade and Addie turned seventeen two six weeks ago..." she paused with a little smile. "We're getting old."

I tried to force a smile back, but it was easier to just hug her lightly against my side for a moment instead of trying to respond because frankly, I didn’t have the slightest fucking clue what I should do or say right now. The only sureties in my life were A.) I was back in Florida after icing out Connor’s family for five years, B.) I had missed yet another birthday, and C.) both those realities made me nauseous. I’d been a shitty uncle for the past half decade.

Sofia had gotten pregnant when she was sixteen and given birth when she was seventeen. Addie being newly seventeen now, brought up complicated, protective emotions that I planned to keep under wraps because I had no right to go there. Not anymore. I wasn’t a part of their lives and that was all on me, which was why I’d originally intended to cut and run after the funeral. But as much as I silently fought it, in my mind, I suddenly got a brief glimpse of a future where I cleaned my gun on the front porch, waiting for whatever too cool for themselves miscreant Adelyn was dating to show up. I’d probably do the same for Sofia considering I didn’t trust her taste in men. She had married my brother after all.

“We’re not getting old. They’re just getting older,” I said, derailing that previous line of thought before it could go kaboom.

My really bad attempt at flippancy drew out an appropriate, albeit small tight smile from Sofia after I gently squeezed her shoulder before letting her go.

"They grew up fast,” she agreed, as we moved toward the baggage claim on one of those motorized walkways that seemed to defeat the purpose when people on foot were passing us. Pointless, but I was good with that. All the time spent traveling had wrung me out both physically, and emotionally. I didn't know how to deal with Connor's family. My family, I silently corrected myself. And all of that fault fell on me, because the shameful fact was that all the things I knew about my nieces during the past five years came mostly from the emails with embedded pictures that I'd received from Sofia when I was stationed both overseas and stateside. I'd never emailed her back, thinking I’d never have to explain why, yet here we were, trying to navigate this strange new world as I waited for those afore mentioned zombie armies to launch their stealth attack.

My thumb and forefinger rubbed together, suddenly hit hard with the craving for a cigarette like it was mother’s milk. Being accountable for the men in my unit was easy; all well-trained soldiers, they understood exactly how much they were risking every time they stepped into a combat zone. Only one member on my team had ever looked at me with the same desperate hope to be saved that I saw in Sofia's eyes, and he'd died in my arms years ago, to a lullaby of gun fire.

I swallowed that old pain back down, then patted Sofia's arm again to reassure her I was alright when she glanced worriedly at me. Since the loss of her parents in a hit and run car accident years ago, all she'd had were Connor and me. Now he was gone, so she and the girls were my responsibility. I didn’t know which of those facts was the bigger tragedy.

"Sorry about the late flight."

"It's all right. I have the week off and I switched my shifts at the hospital for next week with one of the other nurses so I can be home a little more for a while. None of us were sleeping anyway. Emma was helping me set up your room. Don't be surprised if you find a Beanie Baby tucked into your pillow tonight."

It was the perfect segue into telling her about my intention to leave Florida after the funeral, even though I wasn't sure where I'd go from here yet. But I couldn't make myself wipe away Sofia's tentative smile with that plan. Bad enough Connor had already broken her heart. If she could handle this massive cluster-fuck with decency, a few nights in civilized suburbia wouldn't kill me.

I reconsidered that thought when we broke through the crowds and I came face-to-face with a slim, bored-looking teenage girl with long, inky black hair so shaggily cut, the odds were good that it was an act of teenage defiance carried out with nail scissors, not a salon job. Especially because I distinctly remembered that hair being the same medium shade of brown as mine five years ago when it’d been longer and one length with blunt cut bangs. When the kid’s big, deep blue eyes met mine and widened slowly, Adelyn was a dead ringer for Connor and I at that age, though we’d never gone the external artifice route like his daughter who’d embraced harsh black eye liner, wielding it like war paint. It matched the cropped, black t-shirt that she’d paired with stylishly ripped blue jeans slung so low, I could see both her hipbones, and the silver belly chain looped around her flat midsection. The outfit screamed using inappropriate sex appeal as another level of teenage insubordination, though her plain black and white Vans missed the Lolita mark.

As if she’d been able to somehow read my silent assessment, Adelyn’s upper teeth were slightly crooked when she showed every single one of them to me, not in a smile, but with savage determination to still the subtle tremble of her heavily glossed lower lip.

She wasn't the one who said, "Daddy?" in breathy, high-pitched uncertainty, and I slowly squatted in front of the little girl clutching Adelyn's leg when I glanced down and noticed her.

Emma's thick dark hair framed her cheeks in two shiny braids tied off with bright pink elastic bands that matched the equally vivid pink floral framed glasses perched on the edge of her snub nose. Skinny arms and legs in blue denim shorts with a ruffle at the hem that stopped just above a neon green band-aid on her left knee, and a pink and purple, sparkle-studded t-shirt with a smiling panda on it, replaced the chubby, toothless toddler of most of my memories.

Before I could get a word out, Adelyn yanked her little sister back. "He's not Dad," she snapped. "Dad's dead, Emma. That's his twin brother, Sam. You don't remember him because you were just a baby when he and Dad both dumped us."

Sofia's eyes widened in immediate distress. "Adelyn Marie! Sam, I'm so sorry. Adelyn, usted se disculpa a su tío immediatamente!"

"Why?" Adelyn said. "Is he going to get mad and leave again if I don't apologize? Let him. He's not changing anything by being here now. Dad's still dead and we're all happy about it even if you won’t admit it."

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

We were drawing attention from people walking past the luggage carousel, though thankfully no one seemed close enough to actually hear my niece’s words because their steps didn’t slow, and I didn’t see anyone trying to flag down security yet. Nothing to see here folks. Just your average family spat with a teenager who looked like she’d happily tear me apart with her teeth, suck out the marrow, then spit it out contemptuously afterward.

Adelyn’s face was beginning to flush with bright spots of color right smack in the center of each cheek. “We don’t need you here. We’re good.”

I wanted to scrub my hand over my own face like I could rub away my worsening headache. ‘We’re good.’ How many times had I used that exact same phrase when things went sideways and chaos was imminent?

Fuck.

“Adelyn, stop it. Please,” Sofia pleaded again. Emma looked between her sister and mother, her own eyes magnified like fucking saucers behind her eyeglasses. When her lower lips quivered and she pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her preciously petite nose with an equally small finger, yeah, that was enough of this as far as I was concerned.

Despite her bravado, Adelyn immediately took a step back when I got to my feet. I wasn’t sure what words of parental type wisdom I was going to impart on the situation because being a once responsible, beloved adult to a toddler and middle schooler with knobby knees who thought I’d walked on water, wasn’t a skill that was going to translate right now. But I didn’t have to ponder my next plan too long.

Adelyn flinched and shoved Emma behind her as I towered over her slim form that probably wasn’t even 5’5, her left arm coming up fast to protect her bare midsection while simultaneously turning her delicate, heavily made-up face away from me. Those were instinctive, harshly ingrained moves, and words no longer mattered as my teeth ground together hard enough to threaten a few thousand dollars-worth of dental work. I'd learned how to protect those soft spots from my old man by the time I was eight, long after he’d broken my arm the first time after I’d gone at him for breaking Connor’s wrist when we were six.

The abuse had to be recent. Sofia's father would never have allowed his family to be used as punching bags, so I'd have known if Connor had started hitting them when Sofia's parents, who’d been almost in their fifties when they’d had her, and died in a car crash in our twenties, were still alive. They’d have told me if they’d known and until now, I hadn’t, because my brother had never raised a hand against Sofia or the girls in front of me. I might’ve made a lot excuses for Connor most of his life, but I'd never have allowed him to hurt his family.

Only problem with that self-righteous bit, hoss, is ya did.

I shifted my weight, keeping my hands loosely in Adelyn's line of sight just like I would’ve in front of any squirrely potential threat. To my right, I could see Sofia in my peripheral vision, clutching her hands together just below her mouth, as if she was physically trying to hold herself together. She'd caught her daughter's reaction just as I had, and I could feel the shame rolling off her in waves.

I forced my voice to remain calm though I couldn’t hide the gruff, emotional note in it as I said, "Hey, if you want to be mad at your dad or at me, that's fine, Adelyn. Have at it. I've spent years living in places where some people would be happy to take me out with a bomb they rigged from an XBOX controller. But your mom doesn't deserve this, and neither does Emma. You want to have it out with me somewhere quiet, we can do that. I’ll even get you a set of boxing gloves and let you have at me, no holds barred. But this isn’t the place. So go walk it off and meet us by the car."

"Or what?" she shot back. "You can't tell me what to do."

"I'm not your dad, Adelyn. He and I don't operate the same way. I won't ever lift a finger toward any of you. Ever,” I repeated, refusing to back down under Adelyn’s ferocious glare. “That’s not how I do shit. Like I said, more appropriate time and place, and you’ll be the only one wearing gloves.”

We maintained our standoff for a few seconds until the subtle tremble at the corner of Adelyn’s mouth intensified and she immediately turned away, refusing to let me see even a flicker of any emotion that wasn’t part of her deliberately donned, brass balls uniform.

"Come on, Emma. We’ll wait by the car."

"Uncle Sam?" Emma's little face turned to me, expectant of direction. Her eyes still looked huge and though she was holding onto Adelyn’s hand, she also looked torn about leaving. I hesitated, but then smoothed my hand over her silky head lightly. I was surprised when Emma immediately leaned into the touch with a soft whoosh of sound. I brushed my thumb lightly over the downy soft skin of her temple.

“Go with Addie, honey. Your mom and I will be there soon."

Emma's eyes met mine for a moment, relief flickering through the same rich, chocolatey color that Sofia’s were when she wasn’t defeated. "You promise?"

Right then, I heard the door slamming on any likelihood of staying in a hotel and I nodded. "I promise, Emma. "We're going home."

I got a smile just as brief as the one-armed hug she gave my legs, before Emma allowed her sister to drag her toward the sliding glass doors of the airport exit. The bright lights allowed me to clearly make out the movement of Adelyn's lips when she looked back over her shoulder.

I hate you.

Yeah kid, take a number.

***

“We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey”
― Kenji Miyazawa

IT was amazing how much things could change while remaining exactly the same. By the time we'd driven for what seemed like forever on the highway, then merged into smaller backroads to arrive at the tree-lined street in my old neighborhood in West Palm Beach where Sofia's house was located, I felt like we'd gone through a time warp. The old theater was still there off Jackson Avenue, though there was a new drugstore to the right where the bike shop used to be. Caffeinated mornings wouldn't be an issue around here since I'd counted at least five coffee shops within walking distance, plus two new bakeries. Cookie cutter gated complexes filled the empty lots Connor and I'd played in as kids, and I’d spotted at least one real playground with equipment that was lightyears ahead of the rickety wooden ones that had always sent us home with at least a solid half dozen splinters between us each time we’d tried to snatch brief moments of normal childhood fun away from the hell our house was on an almost daily basis.

At this time of night, there was almost no traffic, and the longest lines of cars were just empty ones parked on either side of the street. Aside from the soft, distant howling of someone's dog, the roads were quiet; the better to enjoy the awkward silence that'd descended between my sister-in-law and me after we'd left the airport.

It started to rain as soon as Sofia killed the engine in her driveway. The droplets splattered sporadically in quick succession on the roof and across the windshield, unfazed by the frantic sweep of the wipers that Sofia switched off once the downpour abruptly stopped; one of those brief Florida summer storms that was already passing, leaving streaks of clear dark sky peeking out from behind the gray haze on a moonless night. After it stopped, I glanced up into the review mirror. Both Adelyn and Emma were soundly asleep— Emma in her state mandated booster seat, and Adelyn’s dark head just slumped against the window. Her full lips were slightly parted, lax in sleep, and what looked like the wires to the dayglo yellow earbuds hidden beneath her dark hair, coiled up against the front of her t-shirt. Her being asleep explained the lull in hostility for the past half hour. Emma's hair blended into the slightly darker material of the booster seat. The smooth, delicate lines of her face, more genetically inclined toward Sofia than to Connor and me, were briefly illuminated by the headlights of a passing car, making those soft features behind her glasses almost angelic. Pure innocence, unaware of all of the ugly things in the world that could alter that drastically, which was both a blessing and a curse to people like Sofia and me who had to try and keep it that way.

I sighed before I turned around, leaning back in the passenger seat again as I looked out through the water dappled windshield. Give me an enemy target and I could react with steady hands in less than 5 seconds. Put me in a sedate silver CR-V in the middle of a sea of nice houses in a safe suburban neighborhood with meticulously manicured lawns and two kids in the backseat, and I broke into a sweat that had nothing to do with the ridiculous Floridian humidity outside. In my defense though, even in the fall and what was considered winter down here, the balmy air always threatened hairstyles and the strength of your deodorant. Considering that we were only in April, hot as balls was an appropriate description for the temperature, and an even more applicable depiction of my private little circle of hell while I tried to get though the funeral and then decide what the fuck I was going to do next.

Sofia's fingers, her nails bitten down to the quick, tapped in restless rhythm against the steering wheel before she exhaled deeply like she’d been holding that breath in since we’d left the airport. When she turned toward me she said, "I'm so sorry about what Adelyn said to you, Sam. She’d been having a hard time lately, but that doesn’t make it right. I’ll talk to her and make her apolo—"

"Sofia, don't. It’s ok. She’s a kid who’s pissed because her father was a bigger fuckup than I realized, and I wasn’t here to stop it. I get it, so don’t apologize to me. I’m the one who needs to apologize to you. To all of you."

She flinched at the unintentionally harsh note in my voice when I interrupted her and I sighed. So far nothing had gone according to the carefully crafted plans that I’d put together in my head when I was still in Afghanistan and had made the decision to come home to Florida.

Home. More like the place where I’d been born and raised until I was 18, because it lacked enough fond and happy memories to inspire the kind of sentimental musings that made a place a real home.

"Sofia…” I started again, then paused, exhaling slowly. “Look, there’s a lot I need to say, but so much I can’t. I want to, but… I just can’t tell you everything. Not yet. Maybe not ever,” I said truthfully, meeting her brown eyes in time to see them cloud over as she took my words as a rejection. I reached for her right hand, immediately covering it between both of mine to hold it. It felt as fragile as a bird’s and I sighed. “What I can say, is that I’m sorry it took me so long to come home. Sorry that I had to bring Connor back this way, and sorrier still that I didn't get him the fuck away from you and the girls before he lost his mind and followed in our dad’s footsteps. As much as I loved my brother, I need you to know that I’d have handled it if I’d known he was laying hands on any of you."

Before my niece looked at me like the monster that lives under her bed.

Sofia just looked at me with chocolate brown eyes as big as Emma’s before she slowly nodded ever so slightly. “I was… afraid to tell you…”

This time I must’ve been the one who was broadcasting my emotions, because a small smile pulled at the corner of her mouth though her eyes were suspiciously shiny.

“I was never afraid of you, Sam.”

I swallowed and scrubbed my right hand over my face after she gently pulled away from my hold, feeling lines of stress etched into my skin like a topographic map. The skin all over my body felt too tight, like it was trying to restrain the angry heat flooding every muscle and nerve ending. I’d meant every word I’d just said to her, but my feelings toward Connor even before he’d been killed were so complicated, that my emotions were bouncing around my brain like a champion ping pong match. Sofia looked like she wanted to say something else, but thought better of it when Adelyn's sleepy voice drifted up to us.

"Are we home?"

Adelyn and Sofia watched me, waiting for me to make my move. I got out of the car silently, then moved to the back right passenger set to free a still sleeping Emma from her booster seat and tuck her up into my arms. Tonight, I was home.

* * *

The olive branch Adelyn had extended in the car had remained in place only until she’d stormed up to her room. Slamming the bedroom door was a satisfying win for a teenager, but the harsh sound had startled a still drowsy, overtired Emma into an exhausted crying jag. That had lasted long enough for me to hand her off to Sofia, then make my way to the guestroom Sofia pointed out so that I could unpack my duffel bag. I’d finished emptying it and organizing my meager belongings within ten minutes, then had returned downstairs to get a glass of water and accept Sofia’s five cent tour of the kitchen. I’d gently shushed away her new wave of apologies before she’d finally accepted my white flag and had instead quietly gotten a glass of water for Emma so she could finish putting her youngest daughter to bed. Forty-five minutes later, the house was quiet, which probably meant that Emma was asleep, Addie was sulking in her room, and Sofia was drinking the cup of chamomile tea that I’d brewed for her and left on the kitchen counter.

I was just trying to keep it together, so I’d allowed myself to give in to the lure of a shower—a long one. The plumbing in the house was new, and the hot water blasted from the showerhead to rain down in a satisfying, hard pummel across the coiled muscles of my neck and shoulders. I had the water hot enough to make the glass shower doors steam up, and probably leave an angry blush all over my skin, though not quite hot enough to truly scald. Most people might still have found it too balmy, but it was what I needed right now. I wasn’t into sadistic punishment, but a little self-motivated mea culpa against my own body was something I liked when the world was spinning out around me and I needed an easy way to ground myself.

Water streamed down the planes of my back in rivulets as my eyes closed and I braced both hands up against surprisingly cool tiles to support my weight when my head dipped and my forehead touched the tiles. The hot water felt amazing as it battered at my tense muscles, and even though I wanted to get into bed, needed to get into bed after the length of my day, I couldn’t make myself get out. If I hadn’t worried about the hot water running out eventually and incurring the wrath of a household of women, I might’ve accepted turning into a prune and staying in here indefinitely as my personal quiet space on a daily basis.

This was a bigger shit show than I’d anticipated. I’d known it’d be bad, just not how bad. I’d accepted that I’d have to pay the piper for my sins of abandoning my family, but I hadn’t expected that I’d also be paying for Connor’s who’d betrayed them in the worst way possible. Fathers were supposed to protect, not hurt.

I exhaled slowly. It’d been raw and it’d been ugly, but whether I liked it or not, Adelyn had been justified in her intense reaction at the airport. Although my deployments sent me all over the world, the convenience of modern technology created plenty of ways to remain in touch with my family when we were between missions, even if I hadn't physically come to Florida. Skype, texts, and emails all provided ways to keep us connected. And while getting leave could be difficult, it wasn't impossible. Sofia had been a military wife long enough to know that, and I’d always found ways to come home before Connor and I had broken ties. With the emphasis Sofia had always put on the importance of family, I knew my detachment had to have hurt her. But until tonight, I'd never thought about how cutting ties had affected his daughters, especially Adelyn, who I’d been close to from the moment she was born. I’d been the first person to hold her after Sofia, because Connor had been on a bender somewhere when Sofia had gone into labor. I hadn’t let her go until Sofia’s parents had needed to meet their granddaughter. Even when I’d been away, I’d made sure I never missed a birthday or Christmas even if it was only through emails, face time call and gifts sent via the magic of online shopping. I’d always been there for Addie and for Emma.

Until I hadn’t.

Tonight, I’d gotten to see the aftermath of my level of selfish stupidity. Addie’s level of rage had built up over time. Since I couldn't tell Connor's family the real story behind what had broken the once strong bond between us, I didn't see Adelyn forgiving me anytime soon. I also wasn’t sure I’d ever deserve that forgiveness.

Turning off the water, I grabbed a towel and dried off quickly, then wrapped the plush terrycloth around my hips before I rubbed a clear spot into the steamed mirror with my palm. A slightly crooked nose that'd been broken twice and not reset properly the first time, still sat beneath my dark blue eyes, but stress had added a new gauntness to emphasize the sharp cut of my cheekbones. My strong jawline with the subtle cleft in my chin was hard even when I wasn’t clenching my teeth, and my lips were thin. It was a face Connor and I had shared our entire lives, and we’d both been told at different times, and by various people, that our rugged good looks fell into the ‘hot category,’ though the stress lines around my eyes and across my forehead, didn’t generally invite the kind of flirtation from women at bars that Connor’s did. Zipper had once said that my issue wasn’t with my ‘wrinkles,’ but with my overall bearing which screamed, ‘narc,’ and made people nervous. Shrimp had corrected him by saying that it screamed, ‘cranky badass who’ll fuck you up for stealing his cereal’s marshmallows.’ We’d all laughed that day, but right now, my features just read as tired, lost and entirely over all of this.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, then met my eyes in the mirror again. The set to my broad shoulders was tight, emphasizing the raised scar on the left side from a sniper's bullet. I'd also taken two other bullets to scar my right side; both below my rib cage. All three were from the same day. Numerous other physical badges from an active military life adorned my heavily muscled torso that was religiously maintained for practicality and safety, more than from any sense of vanity. All active Special Forces members, regardless of branch, were expected to always be in peak physical condition, no matter how many scars we developed along the way. Max had once said that the ‘boo-boos,’ kept my landscape interesting.

That thought focused me for a minute, reminding me I hadn't called Max when my flight had landed like he’d asked me to. My phone was resting on the side of the sink, so after I’d dried my hands, I typed out a quick message to my best friend, telling him I'd arrived. The ping of his response was immediate.

Glad to hear it. Good luck tomorrow. Call if you need me.

I hit the power button to shut off the phone in case Max called to check on me later. Trapped halfway around the world with Connor’s family by a sense of love and honor, I felt like I was drowning. It would’ve been easy to lean on my best friend, but I knew how things always went down between us when I got stuck in my own head, and tonight, sex was the last thing on my mind. Especially phone sex with the guy I’d been in love with since I was sixteen. I was too tired right now to keep up the level of careful inhibition that’d made our casual, on-and-off friends-with-benefits arrangement work for almost two decades, since that night he’d kissed me on the roof of his parent’s house.

Max didn’t do monogamy. He’d always been upfront about it, but sometimes knowing and understanding were two very different skillsets. I knew that Max cared about me. Knew that he loved me more than anyone he wasn’t related to, and that he’d take a bullet for me without hesitation the way I would for him if, in some fucked up, Upside Down world it ever came to that. But what I didn’t know, because Max had never been able to explain his thought process, was why he didn’t think that just us, without any stand-ins, would be enough. Maybe he didn’t even know. His parents had been childhood sweethearts, married for years, and though the Colonel was a serious man of few words who rode Max’s ass about most of his life choices, he was a good husband and a dad who actually loved his kid, unlike my own father. Max’s mom was the quintessential Savannah bred debutante turned PTA mom no matter what country the Colonel was stationed in, so Max had living, breathing proof that relationships could work. Unfortunately, for reasons known only to Max, none of that was enough to change his romantic worldview, so he’d never be everything that I needed when the walls closed in. I needed more than just a band-aid tonight, which was why the phone was being powered down for some much-needed radio silence. If I could’ve gotten out of the house without possibly waking Sofia and the girls, I’d have gone for a run to clear my head, but for now, trying to get some sleep was my only option.

I shut off the lights in the bathroom, then tossed my cell onto the bed when I moved back into the guest bedroom. The woman's touch previously lacking in my life was apparent in the soothing, neutral blue-gray walls with white crown molding, and hardwood floors that gleamed wherever they weren't covered by an attractive, abstract area rug. The bedding was some tan suede material that complimented the subtle blue and brown striped pattern in the throw pillows. Lush green plants sat in terracotta holders in the deep bay window, and beautiful, modern expressionistic paintings adorned the walls. When I got closer, I saw Sofia's elegant signature in the corners of each one. I remembered when she’d started painting years ago at the YMCA, but the vibrant colors and magazine-worthy room were at odds with the broken woman I'd left downstairs. I wondered if Sofia saw a stranger in the mirror now, too.

Too tired to process anything that deep right now, I popped six aspirin. I chewed them dry to make the effects kick in faster, washing down the acrid, chalky flavor with a slug of whiskey from the silver flask in my carry-on. The new three-ounce rule for all liquids was a hassle, but it was just enough to sate the urge for a drink without planting me flat on my ass.

I pulled a clean white undershirt from the dresser Sofia had cleared for me, and the faint scent of cedar drifted up to me from the little sachet she'd put in the corner. It was a leap above sand, sweat and a barrack bunk, but even with the alcohol in my system, I couldn't sink into the comfort of the pillow-top mattress. Instead, I laid back and curled one arm behind my head, the other reaching for the faded photograph on the nightstand where I'd propped it up against the sleek wooden alarm clock on the nightstand when I‘d walked in. For years I’d done that in any bedroom that had a nightstand, whether it was at a hotel room, or the guest room Max’s parents always had set up for me at their place. I’d stopped doing that years ago once Connor and I broke ties, because looking at the photo stirred up all kinds of shit. But I’d left it out tonight, because I intended to give it to the funeral home for Connor’s service.

The photo was heavily creased from being folded and unfolded dozens of times over the years, smudged in the corners with desert grime since on more than a few occasions, I’d had it tucked inside my helmet.

Taken during our leave time after our second deployment, there were four of us in the photograph. Wearing fatigue pants and plain black t-shirts, we were standing in front of a black SUV, squinting at the camera against the sun, a backdrop of dusty desert plains behind us. Connor and I were easy to point out. Young and pumped, both of us with buzzed hair and clean-shaven faces, his right arm slung over my shoulders. Max was on Connor's left, leaning against the SUV with his arms crossed over his chest, the deliberate position revealing a hint of the caduceus tattoo on the underside of his left forearm that had been a new addition a week before the photo was taken. Sandy brown hair fell at a cavalier angle over the upper edge of his aviator sunglasses as he grinned unrepentantly at the camera, enjoying the fact that entering the military on the medical track meant he was afforded the slight level of leniency enlisted officers had in regards to following military grooming protocol. The scruff along his cheeks was pushing it a bit, but Max's mantra had always been to ask for forgiveness not permission.

At my right, my then-lover, Devlin Rhodes, wasn't smiling, but it didn't detract from the fact that he was a good-looking man. Thin lips and high cheekbones were set into a strong, angular face built around sepia-colored eyes. All that lean, sinewy muscle was as golden brown as the sands surrounding us on all sides, and I felt a familiar bite of jealous anger as I gazed at the photo that was worth a thousand words and a reality I'd missed until almost six years ago.

I tossed the photo unceremoniously onto the nightstand and turned off the lamp before closing my eyes to let fatigue finally take me. The last image in my mind as I fell asleep was of Devlin's face as he’d glanced slightly over my shoulder just as the picture had been taken, capturing that moment when he’d looked right at Connor. The truth had been right in front of me and I'd never seen it. Or maybe I just didn't want to know. Sometimes ignorance is bliss and other times we realize just how far down the fucking rabbit hole we've fallen.

***

Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry. Mother's gonna make all your nightmares come true. Mother's gonna put all her fears into you.

—Pink Floyd

I WAS standing alone in the sandy bones of a deserted bazaar. Everyone had been evacuated except for the soldiers who watched the lone man in the center of the public square. Wearing the heavy suit and equipment the EOD teams required for the containment and defusing of all explosives, there was no way to recognize Connor, but I still knew it was him. Taking the riskiest assignments had been his MO since we enlisted, but even before that, Connor had always lived his life like he might not see tomorrow.

My brother was a tiny figure, blurred by the sun. He was kneeling on the ground, half hunched over what had to be an explosive device of some kind, though I couldn’t see it from here. What I did know, was that if he was trying to neutralize it, it was taking too long. Defusing bombs was an art form like magic. Connor was a master, but even Houdini had encountered the impossible once. When Connor yanked off his helmet and gloves, breaking protocol, inevitably roared through my mind with a panic that felt like ice around my heart as I ran toward my brother.

Shouts of warning preceded someone slamming into me from behind, knocking my legs out from under me. I went sprawling into the dirt. Breathing wasn't an option as my body was crushed under the weight of the men holding me back. I was strong, but no matter how hard I fought, arms and feet flailing, I couldn’t get up or land even one solid punch. All the years I’d spent training to build the muscle that helped me bench more weight at the gym than anyone on my team, was absolutely useless right now. But I kept struggling even when I saw a blur of movement from the corner of my eye; lean brown muscle and camo fatigues.

Devlin.

My former lover, heading straight into the arms of death to be with my brother, the same man who’d scorned my homosexuality for years. I tried to shout, but my voice was gone. The thumping of my heart was in my ears as time slowed down. I still couldn’t move, but I also couldn’t fight anymore and when Connor looked right at me, I saw every emotion on his face as clearly as if I were looking through a sniper scope. He smiled at me; that easy smile that said, I don't give a shit.

Devlin grabbed Connor's arm and held out his other hand to me.

Wham.

It was like I'd been launched forward at supersonic speed, so close that I could almost touch Devlin. All I had to do was reach out. I didn't, my anger and resentment creating a barrier even in a dream, and the world went to shit.

The explosion obliterated Devlin, but it slowed down for Connor, stripping off his face by degrees until only a grinning skeleton head remained.

The bomb that had killed Devlin and Connor, and critically injured several other members of their unit, had detonated far from my own post. I hadn't been there when Connor was killed. I'd never seen my brother smile at me as he died. I didn't even have all the details of his death, just that it'd happened in a bomb defusal gone sideways, and that Devlin had broken rank to try and get him out. But my mind didn't care about reality. It just wanted to rock my entire world on its axis, then keep tumbling it on the roughest possible spin cycle.

Around me, the blaze from the explosion started to spread, engulfing everything in its path. Fireballs bracketed me as I continued to fall. One grew bigger and brighter as it neared me. Heat burnt my skin black, but I didn't scream. Didn't fight it. I just watched as my brother died, and took my lover with him...

My gasp dragged me out of sleep, and I launched to a seated position. The central air and the lazy sweep of the wooden blades on the bedroom’s ceiling fan combined to put an icy edge to the sweat drenching my body. The bedsheets were soaked and tangled around my legs like I’d been thrashing about, restraining me even now that I was awake. I put off fighting them for the moment, because my nausea suddenly built up and threatened to spill over. I gagged as I leaned over the edge of the bed, but nothing came up to empty me of the choking feeling that finally dissolved into a few minutes of dry heaves before I pushed up to a seated position on shaky arms, grateful that I wouldn’t have to try and clean chunks of sick out of the area rug. Small miracles.

I raked my fingers over the damp fuzz of my hair and when I laced my hands behind my head, their subtle tremble created a river of vibrations against my scalp. Forgetting everything I’d learned in the past about taking deep breaths with measured inhalations and exhalations, I desperately tried to gulp in as much air as I could while I tried to find something to use as a focal point. My gaze finally landed on the beaded the ends of the strings on the ceiling fan lights, colored to match the room décor. As they clicked together gently, led by the slow rotation of the fan blades, I focused on that slow, rhythmic sound until, little by little, my pulse began to match it.

After I finally stopped shaking, I stripped off my sodden t-shirt, then the wet bed sheets which I unceremoniously dumped on the floor. Then I grabbed a towel from the bathroom, laying it across the bare mattress to give me something to sleep on. I didn’t know where Sofia kept the spare sheets, and I didn’t want to soil her mattress while I tried to fall back to sleep.

After close to an hour of staring sleeplessly at the ceiling, according to the numbers on the face of the alarm clock on the nightstand, I gave up on the idea of counting sheep and visiting the Sandman since he seemed to be sending me a very clear, fuck you.

My cell phone hit the floor twice before I dialed Max with success. I immediately exhaled when I heard his deep, slow, southern baritone roll over the line. It never failed to amaze me that his rich voice, reminiscent of James Earl Jones, came out of an East Coast-born white boy. Max had once joked once that he'd picked up his accent after the Navy deployed his father to Louisiana from Jersey when he was still a toddler. They'd eventually left to come to Florida when Max was in his teens, but the accent had survived the trip. I’d always secretly suspected that having a mother who’d been born and raised in Savannah, Georgia didn’t help him lose his natural inclination to channel Matthew McConaughey by swallowing his syllables. After spending so much time in their house growing up, I occasionally dropped some of my word endings too, especially when I was tired.

"Hey," I said quietly. "It's me. Did I wake you up?" Time zones were always tricky with Max because he kept odd hours at the hospital in Afghanistan.

"Nah, we’re good. I was just tryin’ to read this fascinatin’ medical journal with my eyes closed. It's been a long fuckin’ day, baby, so I’m glad you called." A wave of static crackled over the line like he was moving around. "But it's gotta be late there, so what's goin’ on? ‘Nother nightmare?"

"A bad one," I admitted, too wiped out to be macho. Max knew all the good, bad and ugly that there was to know about me anyway. We’d been best friends since we were 14, so he’d have called me out on my bullshit if I’d tried to lie to him. I cleared my throat to try and soothe some of the rasp in my voice. "Dev was in this one."

Max sighed heavily. I knew what he was thinking. It was no secret to him that I'd been broadsided when Devlin stepped out on me with Connor. A man of few words, Devlin "Devil" Rhodes, had been a dedicated soldier and trusted member of my team when I’d been part of the 75^th. I’d willingly put my life in his hands dozens of times because he’d always been dependable, reliable and loyal. A man who'd had my back.

Until he hadn't.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, Max's voice cutting through my hyper-exhausted headspace as if he could hear the gears grinding in my head. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

The soft rumble of Max’s laughter crackled over the line. He didn't point out the hypocrisy in me calling him to talk, only to shut him down.

"Asshole," he said with casual affection. "I tried callin’ you twice earlier, but after the second time I got your voicemail, I doubted I'd hear from you tonight."

Because I turned the phone off and if I was stronger, I wouldn’t be calling you right now.

"Sorry,” was all I said aloud. “I've just been trying to take everything in."

"It's alright, Sam. Shit’s heavy right now. I get it. How are you holdin’ up?"

"I’m glad I have two legs."

"That good, huh?" Regret filled his voice and Max sighed again. "I'm sorry I can't be there with you for the funeral. I tried, man. You know that. They’re just short staffed and said I wasn’t eligible for family leave. Fuckers. I’m more your family than that genetically-bound, ball of fucking ash that’s bein’ buried with full honors like he wasn’t killed because he was fuckin’ stupid."

I couldn’t disagree with any of that, so I just shrugged even though Max couldn’t see it since we were on a regular call, not a facetime one. "I'm not even thinking that far ahead yet." I swiped a hand through my hair, allowing my eyes adjust to the dark. "Just trying to get through tomorrow."

"I hear you. You're stayin’ away from the booze though, right?"

My dog tags rattled gently on their ball link chain as I twisted them around, a nervous tell that Max picked up on even through the phone. This time the sound he made was more frustrated than sympathetic.

"Sam, you know you shouldn't be drinkin’ with the meds your doctor prescribed you."

I counted to five silently in my head since the next bomb wouldn't go over any better than the first. "I'm… not taking the meds anymore."

"What? Sam..." Max managed to cram a commendable amount of exasperation into my name. He’d learned that from his mother. "Takin’ antidepressants doesn't mean you're crazy."

"I took them when I didn't have a choice. But despite all the shit they shoveled into my system, I still didn't make the grade. So, fuck the meds, and fuck them and their quack opinions."

Max sighed and I could imagine him pacing around whatever room he was it. Max had always been the type of person who needed to be in almost constant active motion. I’d run out of fingers and toes years ago from counting the times that his mom had reminded him to keep the front legs of his chair on the floor when he was sitting in it, by whacking the back of his head gently with her hand when her genteel, ‘please,’ hadn’t cut it.

"Sam, I'm a doctor and you trust me, so just give the meds another chance. They’ll help."

"I don't need them. I know my limits. I'm not going to freak out and hurt my family, Max."

"You know damn well that's not what I'm afraid of." The words were hostile, but the solemn, quiet note in Max’s voice was tired. He wouldn’t voice his fears to clarify what he meant, but he didn’t have to. Being both my best friend and a physician, gave him two good reasons to worry that under intense stress, I'd eat my gun. Considering the number of recent late nights that I'd spent with my service weapon against my temple before my CO had confiscated it, I didn't blame him.

"Nothing can help the situation here, Max. It's bad."

"You knew that goin’ in. It's why the doctor wrote the prescriptions in the first place."

"Not what I meant," I said, my hand going to my dog tags again, rolling the tiny balls back and forth between my thumb and curved pointed finger. "I found out that Connor was smacking Sofia and Adelyn around."

"What? Are you fuckin’ serious? When? You got proof?"

I answered each heated question as it came. "Yeah, I am, yeah, I do. Sofia admitted it tonight after Adelyn accidentally let the cat out of the bag when she flinched after she’d flipped her shit on me at the airport, like she thought I was going to retaliate with a backhand. She’s got that look. "

A look I knew well from growing up with a father who believed broken bones were a sign you were raising your kids right.

The silence was long enough that I thought the connection had faded out until Max's voice broke it.

"Good thing he's dead then... I’d have killed that fucker myself with gusto, then gone back home to NOLA to hire a voodoo priestess to raise him from the dead so you could kill him again. Then we’d just keep takin’ turns until the money in my bank account ran out." Static crackled over the line again as he snorted softly. "So… things in sunny Florida must be nice and cozy for everyone right now with you walkin’ around with Connor's face. Jesus fucking hell, Sam."

I rubbed my hand hard over my own face as I exhaled noisily. "I know. Sofia wants me here. I know she does, but she still jumps out of her skin if she doesn’t know I’m in a room before she walks into it. And you have to see the way Adelyn looks at me, Max. That kid used to worship the ground I walked on. Now she’s like Death Head Barbie. The clothes, her hair…" I wasn’t going to even mention the ‘tude.

“Sounds like she’s become the female version of teenage you, which means she gets a few more choices than just jeans and t-shirts to accessorize the angst. As long as it’s just the hair and clothes, count your lucky stars.”

“If it becomes more than clothes and hair, I’ll end up in prison. But fuck… how do I even have the right to think shit like that? After all this time, I don't have the right to tell her what to do or ask Sofia why the hell she didn’t leave Connor, or why she didn’t just fucking tell me. I know I iced them out, Max, but fucking Christ… If I’d known that Connor was hurting them…”

“You’d have ended up dishonorably discharged and court martialed for endin’ the waste of space known as Connor Trammel,” he said calmly. “Which is probably exactly why she didn’t tell you. She was protectin’ you. Now you get to protect them because they're your family, Sam. Their business is your business, which means you get to reassure Sofia that things are ok and make damn sure that any horny little fucker who gets funny ideas about Addie-Cat, knows you’re the mother-fuckin’-spooky-boogeyman who knows how to make the bodies disappear.”

My lips twitched, but I put the phone on speaker mode, then laid on my back again with it on my chest so both my hands were free to fold behind my head. "I walked out of their lives because I let Connor get into my head, let him convince me they'd be better off with me never coming back to Florida."

"You were in combat zones and then God knows where for a good part of those five years," Max reminded me.

"I still should've made the time."

Max's sigh wafted static over the line. "Sam, don't do this to yourself. Yeah, you fucked up by shuttin’ them out. We agree there. But what set you off tonight had zilch to do with Sofia or the girls You're feelin’ guilty over what happened to Connor and Devlin."

“They’re dead.”

“Yeah, they are. They're dead because Connor was an adrenaline-seekin’ narcissist who royally fucked up and broke protocol. Devlin was just stupid. None of that had anythin’ to do with you."

"Connor was my responsibility, Max. He’s always been my responsibility. Our mom made me promise to look after him, and I let petty personal shit get in the way of that."

"Sam, you know I loved your mama as much as I love mine, but she should never have put that burden on you. It wasn’t fair. You’ve spent most of your life cleanin’ up Connor’s messes instead of enjoyin’ your own life, and this right now, is a lot of fuckin’ bullshit to put on yourself. You took a bullet while rescuin’ Connor in a fuckin’ combat zone, and he repaid you by cheatin’ with Devlin behind your back. That's not petty personal shit, Sam. It's fucked up." Static crackled across the line again as Max exhaled noisily. After a brief pause, his voice was gentler when he spoke again. "You need to let it go, baby."

“Don’t call me that.”

“Keep jumpin’ down the rabbit hole and I’m gonna break out my entire dictionary of too-precious-for-words southern endearments, courtesy of my mama’s old bridge buddies. Pumpkin’s the first one that pops into my mind, but they were all born and properly bred little southern biddies, so there’s a lot more where that came from.”

My lips twitched, but I was too damn tired to smile. "I’m trying, Max, but maybe Connor was right. Too much is different now to get back to what things were."

“Fuck Connor. You belong there with your family. Frankly, so do I, but until I can be, you need to hold down the fort. That means takin’ a breath and remindin’ yourself of how much you’ve loved those little girls since the moment they were born. You’d kill for both of them, and for Sofia. Unfortunately, Connor’s dead, so you have to make do with huggin’ ‘em as tight as you can to keep the rest of the big-bad world away. Period. The end."

Max was quiet for a moment and we just lay on either side of the call, listening to one another breathe. Logically, I knew Connor's death wasn't my fault. There were no magic powers that could put me in two places at one time. I'd been in another town when that bomb went off, but misplaced guilt was the fuel that ignited most of my nightmares, and wanting to kill my brother for abusing his family didn’t mean that I also didn’t want him not to be dead.

"Still with me, Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Promise me you'll try the meds. They'll make the transition back home easier on you."

Home. I didn't have a home anymore. I'd been born in Florida, but the Army was the home I'd built with walls of shared experiences and a thick mortar of loyalty. Being forced to come back to Florida because I'd been deemed by my military family to be no longer fit for duty, blew my house apart like a goddamned IED.

"Stop hovering, Max. I'm fine."

"If you were fine, you wouldn’t have called, so don’t waste a macho man bullshit card with me. Even when you wore the uniform and looked like a GI Joe action figure, you were my best friend and I know you better than anyone else does. I know you’ll throw up those walls tomorrow to keep everyone out, but we don’t do that shit to one another.”

“Yeah… I know,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Don’t be sorry. You just need to get some sleep to get your head straight because I’m sure you didn’t sleep on any of the flights."

He wasn’t wrong, but in my defense, having a nightmare mid-flight might’ve been an issue considering those flights always had an Air Marshall on board.

"I'm not tired."

"I know, sweetness, but you need to try anyway, so let me help. One sec.”

Max stopped talking for a few moments, but I could hear static and soft echoes until there was complete silence like he'd moved away from all and any background noise. His drawl was thick enough to walk on, pitched low and sexy when he started telling me where he wanted me to put my hands once I’d free myself from my boxer briefs so that it was easier to wrap my hand around my own cock, just like I’d know would happen if I called Max, because it's what always happened.

It wasn't the first time Max had consoled me like this after a nightmare, but usually we were in bed together, and it was his hands and lips that were doing all the things he was promising would feel so good if he was here with me right now. I wasn't in the mood, but Max was persistent and knew me well enough to push the exact mental buttons needed to temporarily kick my mind to the curb so I could get lost in the fantasy while I stroked myself off hard and fast. Max murmured encouragement and praises, his already low baritone dropping another sensual octave when I tweaked my own nipples with my free hand to simulate what he always did with his teeth, and relayed that information. He’d be walking around with blue balls until his shift at the hospital ended, but I was under no delusion that he wouldn’t easily find someone to help him with that. Tomcats would have killed to get lucky as often as Max did.

In less than five minutes, the heady combination of Max’s explicit words and my own touch, made me spill over my hand. I was still breathing heavily, spunk dripping through my fingers when Max murmured, “Sleep well, baby. I’m here if you need me,” before he disconnected his end of the call since my hands were literally full.

Despite the recent uprising in Congress for equality and tolerance, it was still wise to err on the side of caution, so I’d consider this a one-and-done until Max could figure out a way to make it down to Florida. I didn’t doubt that he’d keep trying, especially now that he knew about what Connor had done to his family. Max had always been as close to Sofia and the girls as I was, an honorary uncle since the moment Adelyn had been born. He’d get here somehow, come hell or high water, because his loyalty and love were something I never had to doubt would always go hand in hand. Not like I’d been forced to doubt Connor and Devlin after they’d thrown both those things back in my face with their betrayal.

Just like that, all the tension Max had wrung out of me was back full force.

I wiped my hand clean on an edge of the towel draped over the mattress, then got out of bed and grabbed a new t-shirt. A quick trip into the bathroom got my hands washed so I could grab the bottle of aspirin from the medicine cabinet again. I popped three more though I took these with water after filling the cup on the edge of the sink. When I went back into the bedroom, a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand displayed an ungodly hour. Plenty of time for a run before the girls woke up. But as I pulled on a new pair of boxers and sweats to head out the door, I couldn’t be sure if I was trying to get away from the dead, or from the living.