Page 79 of From Rivals to I Do

I push open the door to my room and throw my bags on my bed. The bed is still the way I left it in the morning—scattered, clothes strewn over, books laid around.

The picture frame on the wall over my bed hangs in an unbalanced tilt. I reach out to put it in place. It is a frame with a white border. The picture in it captures Mount Fuji, in its snowy, white glory. The photographer must have done a good job, capturing the volcanic mount, a Minka, and palmate maple in one photo.

This one photo frame holds hope of some sort for me. Soon, I’d be seeing the same mount regularly, with my own eyes. And not through a frame, maybe except lens frames.

I pull my shoes off my feet, and I slide into flip-flops. I step out of my room and walk to my mother’s room to see if she’s around. Maybe I should have knocked, but I don’t. I open the door as soon as I’m in front of it.

My mother is there. In bed. With a man. I haven’t seen this one before, and I’m sure of that. The man jerks and seems ashamed. But Lisa is not at all perturbed. She probably thinks that because I’ve seen her this way countless times, one more wouldn’t change a thing. She blows a bubble from the gum she chews and bursts it.

“Oh, Amber. You’re back,” she says.

I don’t respond. I give her a burning stare. The sides of her lips drop, and she raises her hands in the air, spreading them as to ask what I am still doing at the door.

“So, this is why you couldn’t pick up Alex,” I say, almost slamming the door after, definitely not wanting to get any answers.

Chapter two

Chapter Two

Ikeep running. Everyone with me has been taken down. The gunshots increase. Suddenly, I’m on the ground. I feel a sharp pain in my left leg, and I turn to look at it. A bullet has dug into my femur. It bleeds profusely. I groan as the bandits close in, their machetes gleaming in the dappled sunlight. It’s the same dream, the same nightmare that has haunted my nights for years.

I wake up, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. The nightmares always leave me breathless and disoriented. It takes a few seconds for reality to settle in, for me to remember where I am. I’m in Japan, in a small, sparsely furnished apartment that I’ve rented for a few months. It’s a far cry from the war-torn countries I used to navigate as a Navy SEAL.

I sit up on the edge of the bed, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. My room is plain, almost sterile, with white walls and minimal furniture. There’s a small window that lets in a feeble ray of morning light. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos of my dreams.

As I stand up, I feel the stiffness in my body, a constant reminder of the injuries I sustained during my time in the military. My left leg, where the bullet struck in my dream, still aches sometimes, even though the wound has long since healed.

I walk to the bathroom, the cool tiles underfoot a welcome sensation. Splashing cold water on my face, I look at my reflection in the mirror. The face that stares back at me is weathered, marked by the experiences of a lifetime. Once a man with a green face, always a man with a green face. There are scars, both physical and emotional, that I carry with me.

I run a hand through my shortly cropped hair, attempting to regain my composure. These nightmares are a part of my reality now, a side effect of the things I’ve seen and done. I can’t escape them, no matter how far I travel.

As I get dressed, I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s early, and the city outside is still waking up. I have no particular plans for the day, no job to rush to, no mission to complete. It’s a strange feeling, this freedom. I left the military to find a new purpose, but sometimes, the emptiness of civilian life is overwhelming. Like I had learned during training, the only easy day was yesterday.

I make my way to the small kitchenette and prepare a simple breakfast—eggs and toast. It’s a routine I’ve established for myself, a way to give structure to my days. But even as I eat, my mind drifts back to the nightmare.

I wonder if I’ll ever truly escape the past, if I’ll ever find peace. The scars run deep, both seen and unseen. But for now, I have this quiet apartment in Nakano-ku, Tokyo, a temporary respite from the chaos of my former life.

I finish my meal and clean up the dishes, then head back to my room. There’s a sense of restlessness in me, a need to do something, anything, to distract myself from the memories that linger.

I reach for my phone and start scrolling through the news, a habit I’ve developed to stay connected to the world. But today, the headlines are filled with stories of conflict and turmoil, reminders of the life I left behind.

I push the memories away. They’re the ghosts of my past, ones I can never escape. I don’t want to see the news again. The world outside these walls is filled with chaos, a constant reminder of the darkness that still lurks.

Instead, I decide to focus on something more grounding. Gardening has always been my escape, my sanctuary. I slip on a worn pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt before heading back downstairs to grab some gardening tools.

As I step into the backyard, the familiar scent of earth and fresh blooms fill my nostrils. The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a warm glow over the neatly arranged rows of flowers and vegetables. The act of tending to these plants, nurturing them, brings me a sense of peace I can’t find anywhere else.

I start with the roses, carefully pruning away dead branches and inspecting for signs of disease. The thorns don’t bother me; I’ve faced much worse in my past. Each snip of the pruning shears feels like a release, a small victory over the chaos that still lingers in my mind.

From the corner of my eye, I notice movement in the neighboring yard. The neighbors on the other side are busy moving things into a moving truck. They’re a friendly couple, both foreigners like me, drawn to this neighborhood by its mix of English-speaking Japanese and other expats.

I put down my pruning shears and walk over to the fence that separates our yards. “Hey,” I call out.

The woman, a tall, blonde woman in her thirties, turns to look at me, wiping sweat from her brow. “Oh, hi there, Derrick,” she says, smiling. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

I nod, returning the smile. “It sure is. What’s going on? Are you guys moving out?”

She sighs, her smile fading slightly. “Yeah, we are. It’s a tough decision, but we’ve been offered a great job opportunity back in the States, so we’re packing up and leaving.”

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