Page 68 of Mariposa
She frowns, losing the flirtatious curve of her lips abruptly.
I lock the door with the key fob, pressing the button twice until it beeps. She stays by my truck as though waiting for me to change my mind.
I don’t.
Eventually, she gets the hint and jogs back over to her place. From my peripheral vision, a group of women surrounds her in her front yard, studying me. They hide their smirks and continue to watch me.
“I tried.” Tillie sighs louder than she should over the loud, blaring, shitty music.
“He’s…so fucking hot!” one of the girls says.
“Single dad is my type,” another one adds.
My muscles pull taut as I walk faster.
Me? A man nearing his forties isn’t interested in being invited to what seems like a party for young college students in their twenties. What the hell am I supposed to do at a party? The first thing I do when it’s nine at night and I’m home is rack the fuck out. That’s what I do.
I shake my head as I reach the front door, pissed off that she thought I would ever say yes to that. I know she didn’t mean any harm by it,but still.
There’s a sense of peace as soon as I unlock the keys to my new place. But it never lasts too long. A wave of loneliness crashes straight into my mind and soul, cracking my hope that I’ll hear their voices again, welcoming me home as they did before. It’s been years since my divorce, but when you thought you had a wife and son to come home to, that warm feeling never entirely slipped away for me. It left a permanent false hope in my heart.
I toss my car keys onto the entryway table, hearing the metal clink against the wood. I lock the door and take my top off, followed by my camo shirt. I undress as I head into my bedroom. I push open the door and pull the shirt over my head, leaving only my dog tags hanging over my chest and neck, lingering just above the massive scar I carry on my chest from a bullet that almost took my life when I was deployed to Africa.
My stomach growls as I sit at the end of my perfectly made bed. I start untying my boots. My feet feel like they can’t breathe when I wear them. There’s always a level of relief when I pull them off. I’m fucking hungry, but I can’t seem to work up the energy to cook something.
Same shit, different fucking day. I do this little routine before I leave for work at five in the morning. I make my bed, put on a pot of coffee, and drive into the darkness with my Thermos in my truck because I’m awake before sunrise. That’s how work always starts.
My appetite has been shit these past few months. I’ve been forcing myself to eat to maintain performance. I’ve always been this way. Keeping my body trained, sharp, and ready for missions. But lately, for the first time in my life, the thought of not caring anymore about anything bangs into my head like demons wrecking my once positive outlook on life. Death hovers over me like a damn shadow when I’m alone and not working.
But I’m too hesitant to talk about it. No one talks about it. It’s taboo to let anyone in on what it feels like to come back home after the shit we’ve seen: war, death, torture, the survivor’s guilt. Sometimes, we come back with physical scars to prove it.
After freeing my feet, I take off my socks and toss them in the hamper in my room.
This life isn’t for everyone.
This life is hard.
This life is lonely sometimes.
But I wouldn’t change a thing.
I’m a special forces soldier. I worked hard and sacrificed. My job is to protect and serve alongside my brothers—something bigger than myself. This is what I was meant to do…but it’s not easy, and it certainly isn’t fair.
I turn on the news and undress until I’m in my boxers. I unhook my watch, tuck my knife into my nightstand drawer, and close it. Sitting on the right side of the bed, I palm my face, staring at the new piece of wood I bought that sits on my nightstand.
What should I carve next?
A smile pulls at my lips, and a warm,goodfeeling slithers inside my gut as a pair of honey-brown eyes flash in my head—a free, confident, and strong human who tastes the same as her sweet heart. I still can’t believe I kissed her. I broke my rule without even a second thought, and it felt like a breath of fresh air.
The fact that she feels like she has no family concerns me.
Penny mentioned something about how her mother and sister place blame on her shoulders for her father’s death. What kind of person does that? Cuts their daughter out of their life because of something that I’m assuming was out of her control? I want to know everything about her. I want to know why she and Adam broke up. I want to know what makes her laugh and if she thinks carving wood is a hobby she’d enjoy. Would she think it’s stupid? Penny and Adam never cared to keep the things I carved for them, but I still try. I want to know what her favorite color is. Is it red? I’ve been trying to catch my breath ever since I saw her dance in that dress. I want to know what her favorite food is. I want to know all the little details that no one else knows.
But it’s not my place to get to know her.
I promised I’d stay away from her. I don’t need to fuck up her life with my demons and betray Adam more than I already have. It turns out, I wasn’t the only one betraying somebody. After Violet left, a young woman showed up. I recognized her voice and tracked it immediately. She was the girl he was in bed with when he called me to ask me to keep an eye on Violet. He brought over the girl he’d been cheating on Violet with to the house after she announced they were done. Penny knows he’s been sleeping around behind her back but played fake in front of her face. I couldn’t do it. I left as soon as the other woman showed up.
The smooth thoughts are ripped away when a breaking news alert flashes across the screen.
