Page 24 of Warrior's Walk

My chest pulls tight and I swallow. The questions are getting a little deeper now. “I’m hoping it’s this one,” I admit. I’m nervous as hell that something is gonna go wrong and blow my fresh start out of the water. Liza covers my hand with hers.

“It’s gonna be fine, Marshmallow. Just trust in me.”

With a deep sigh, I blow out my reservations. “My best day was the day I joined the 82nd.”

She smiles softly. “And your worst?”

I hesitate, thinking back over the years filled with both good and bad memories, all of them unforgettable. “The same day.” I can’t look at her. I don’t want to see sorrow or pity on her face, soI look out the window instead, counting the pine trees whizzing by.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even have asked. Obviously, your worst day was… Anyway, I’m done with this game. Let’s sing.” She turns up the radio loud and absolutely desecrates ‘Party In The USA’by Miley Cyrus.

I’m not in a singing, playful mood, but I join in just to try to force the bad thoughts from my mind. They’re like bad juju, putting a hex on my good day, and I won’t allow anything to jinx me today.

I don’t knowwhat I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. This place is…nice. Countless towering pines camouflage the two-story brick façade. A colorful garden of flowers compliments a courtyard with benches and a birdbath. My favorite feature is the walking trail that loops the building, or at least, it would have been my favorite feature before I broke both of my legs.

We follow Liza’s best friend into the condo, which I’m grateful is on the first floor. It would be a bitch to navigate those stairs every day, especially with groceries in my arms. Right away, the smell of cinnamon assaults my nose, but it’s pleasant, homey; like fresh baked pies have been baking in the oven.

“I didn’t realize the place came furnished. Will I have to pay extra for that?”

Marcy laughs. “This isn’t my stuff, hon. It’s yours.”

“Mine? You must be mistaken. I don’t have stuff.”

Liza squeezes my shoulder and smiles. “Come on, let’s take a look around.”

The front door opens into the living room with the kitchen off to the right. The two rooms are separated by a breakfast bar. I follow the girls down the long hallway, passing a coat closet and a linen closet before we come up to the bedroom. It’s spaciousand bright, with a big window and a walk-in closet. There’s a connected bathroom with a walk-in shower, and another bathroom with a bathtub down the hall for guests.

“So, what do you think?” Marcy asks.

“It’s nice. Real nice.” The hallways are wide enough to not squash my shoulders and bump my elbows as I clumsily make my way on my crutches, and the shower stall is big enough for my plastic chair.

But it doesn’t feel like home. I’m not sure it ever will.

I remind myself that everything is temporary, and this is just another phase of my life I have to squeeze through. All this stuff, it’s not me. It’s too fancy to be me. Growing up in my mama’s house, I was surrounded by antiques and mismatched furniture. Even still to this day, my childhood bedroom remains untouched, exactly as I left it with my old twin bed with cartoon sheets and second-hand furniture. Then I moved into the barracks where everything smelled like mildew and sweaty socks. Nothing issued by the Army can be described as high-quality. I had a twin bed with a squeaky metal frame, a desk made of pressboard that was as sturdy as cardboard, and a thin mattress that I’m pretty sure at least fifty other guys had slept on before me. And now, this…

Whoever decorated this place has a hard-on for IKEA. Everything looks new, every piece matches, and everything smells and looks modern and clean. I feel like a fish out of water, swimming in someone else’s pond.

Marcy slaps a packet of lease papers on the breakfast bar and offers me a pen. “All you have to do is sign on the dotted line and it’s yours for the next six months.”

I’m out of options, and I would be a fool to pass this place up. It’s in my budget, but nicer than I can afford, so I eagerly sign my name.

“Welcome home. I’ll make a copy and mail it to you,” she tells me on her way to the door. “Am I giving you a ride back, Liza?”

I was hoping she’d stick around and help me settle in, but she drove me here in my car, so I understand she can’t stay.

Liza squeezes me in a perfumed hug. “Take care, Marshmallow. Don’t think I won’t be checking in,” she warns with a smile.

I hold the door open as the girls leave, and just as I’m about to shut it, I jump, startled at Liza’s squeal. It’s one of those high-pitched girly sounds akin to nails scraping a chalkboard.

“Mandy! I was hoping to run into you,” she gushes excitedly.

I don’t know whether to slam the door shut on them or grab her by the arm and haul her back inside. This guy Mandy looks like a hulking beast of a man, whose only job is to kick ass and take names. Half his face is burned, the angry puckered skin crawling down his neck into his collar. He has white scars crisscrossing his forearms and hands that are mostly covered by tattoos, and even scars on his other cheek, the one that’s not burned. The guy looks like he could deadlift aMacktruck without breaking a sweat.

“Come meet Marshmallow,” Liza squeals.

Fucking wonderful. Compare me to a goddamn mushy sweet treat in the presence of this badass alpha male who’s probably related to a pro wrestler, from the looks of him. That doesn’t fuck with my masculinity at all.

He ambles into my living room, his wide shoulders effectively blocking my exit. “Hey, I’m Mandy. Are you Rhett?”

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