Page 62 of No Sweet Goodbyes

Not until I’m in the steaming hot water of the shower, curled into a ball on the tile, pretending that everything will be okay.

That I hadn’t let Dom leave without telling him that I’m in love with him.

I sit in the shower and cry, like I do every single night.

I cry where no one can hear me, and I pray that he will come home.

Even if I’ll never forgive him for lying to me, I don’t want him to die.

I want him to be home.

Where I can hate him and curse him and make sure that he’s safe.

Curled in that ball, with the scalding hot water streaming down on my body, I can almost forget that my heart is overseas. I can almost erase the image of letters that arrived in the last week, the first of which was postmarked the day after he left.

When the water runs cold, like it always does, I crawl out and dry off, making sure to braid my hair so that it won’t break regulations if there is a midnight wake-up call again. Almost like clockwork, every week we have a midnight run and quiz. The purpose? To make sure that we’ll be awake and alert, prepared for the midnight callouts that come with being a police officer. That doesn’t mean I have to like them, though.

Taking the time to make sure that everything is perfect, even if my heart isn’t in it, at least I can be proud of everything I’m accomplishing.

All the years of my work coming together to make my dreams come true. At least, that’s what I tell myself to keep the darker thoughts at bay.

But when I close my eyes under the blankets of my bunk, where my face is swollen and red and miserable, I see everything.

I see the letters, with my name scrawled in his writing.

I see the way he stared at me on his parents’ lawn.

I see the future we could have had.

I see everything, and I watch it melt away into the very real nightmare of what I have left behind.

21

DOM

The wind screeches outside, and sand hits the walls of my makeshift barracks, sounding like rain that isn’t hitting the roof. Only the windows and sides of the buildings are pelted with it. Just like everything else in Satan’s asshole.

Instead of sleeping, like I should be, I pull out the latest in a long line of letters that I’m sending home to Emma.

Dear Emma,

I don’t know why I keep writing. It might be the look on your face when you said goodbye. Or the betrayal I saw flash when you saw me in the BDUs and knew I was leaving you. But I like to think it’s because you’re not actually reading these. I can say anything, and I don’t have to worry about you opening them and seeing my darkest secrets.

Bonita, you are everything.

You’re the sun and the stars and the black hole that devours everything in its path. From the first kiss, or even before, I was yours. When you picked up your dress, revealing the flasks of liquor you brought to Remy’s wedding, I knew I wanted to kiss you, even though I knew absolutely nothing about you.

When you refused to shed a tear at your brother’s funeral, but offered your mother a shoulder to cry on, I knew that you were the strongest woman I’d ever meet, and I didn’t even know you.

When you danced with me under the stars and spoke up for a little girl who didn’t have anyone else, I knew I wanted to put my ring on your finger.

When I held you in my arms while you slept and you told me that you were falling in love with me, I loved you more.

I couldn’t tell you because I knew what would happen. I knew I’d lose you, and I wanted to save my heart that pain, for just a little while.

It was selfish. I know that.

You’re everything.

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