Page 108 of Fight Or Flight

Eric

Four days after I accused Brooklyn of cheating on me, my drill sergeant dumped a bunch of letters on my bunk that were postmarked from the day I arrived in Georgia to about a week ago. I recognized the handwriting on the envelopes and knew some letters were from my mom, but there were thirty-five letters from Brooklyn.

One for every day we were apart.

Holding those letters in my hand, seeing her handwriting and the little hearts she drew on every envelope brought my mind and my heart to the same page and I immediately felt like the biggest piece of shit to ever walk the face of the earth. I had done everything I swore I wouldn’t do, and there was no way of reversing the damage.

The greatest crime a soldier can commit is treason to his country.

But a worser criminal is the man who commits treason on a woman’s heart.

I didn’t deserve Brooklyn’s letters.

I didn’t deserve her.

And after that phone call, I certainly didn’t deserve her love.

Period.

End of story.

But I couldn’t bring myself to throw her letters away either. I might not deserve her, and I may have fucked everything up, but I made a promise to myself and to the man who made it possible for me to live. Near or far, together forever. I could earn those letters back. I could prove myself worthy of her heart, and this time, I wouldn’t thread on it.

If doubt filled my head, if the demons of the military tore through my soul—I wouldn’t let them win. You can knock me down, but I’m built to get back up. I cheated death before I drew my first breath, I’m fucking indestructible and it’s time I start acting that way.

No more pussy shit.

Your man Eric is back in the game.

In it to win it and all that jazz.

Fuck the noise in his head.

If Uncle Jack could survive five decades of torment, I surely could handle ten more weeks of it. I tucked Brooklyn’s letters under my bunk and made a pact with myself. For every day without incident, I’d get to read one of Brooklyn’s letters as a reward. That would keep me focused and then, when I could call her, I’d apologize. Instead of badgering her with questions and accusations, I’d tell her what drove me to the brink of insanity. I’d be totally honest because that’s what she deserves. It doesn’t make me weak; it makes me human and if we’re going to survive this lifestyle, honesty is key.

Trust and respect.

Love and loyalty.

They’re the creed to everything great.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I busted my ass, wore myself to the bone, and when Sunday rolled around, I didn’t call Brooklyn—I hadn’t proved my worth yet—I called my mom instead. With her help, I made sure my pretty little hurricane had a surprise waiting for her every day when she came home from school. Five bouquets of flowers, one for every week I fucked things up.

It was no apology, but that would come soon enough.

* * *

Every letterI opened was better than the one before and made me fall even deeper in love with Brooklyn. She started every letter with The Soldier’s Creed and ended every single one with a verse from a prayer she found on the internet for military girlfriends. In between the creed and the prayer, she shared a little bit of what was going on back home, and every letter had five questions she wanted me to answer. They varied from what’s one thing I liked about the Army, to one thing I hated. Some questions were harder to answer than others, but the one that came easiest was the one where she asked what I was looking forward to most.

Marrying you.

I don’t know if she’ll get the letter before I call and apologize, but it doesn’t matter. Come Hell or high water, I’m going to marry her. The military might try to break a man, but when you surpass all that, when you realize how strong you truly are, it also can put things into perspective too.

We might be young, and the odds may very well be stacked against us, but there’s always something beautiful waiting to be unveiled in the eye of every storm. Plus, our kids would be gorgeous. I’m all for serving my country, but I think it’s my duty to procreate and populate this great land with little hurricanes.

I wonder if Brooklyn will mind a marriage proposal before an apology—slow down, killer.

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