Page 51 of Sacrifice
"Why the military?"
"Seemed better than jail." At my look, he elaborates. "I was eighteen, angry, getting into fights. Judge gave me a choice—prison or service. Best thing that could have happened to me. Hell, if I didn’t go into the service, my Dad might’ve killed me."
"And after?"
"Did three tours. Would have done more but..." He touches his side, where I noticed a particularly nasty scar. "IED changed those plans. Came home to the club, figured I could transfer my life, the brotherhood I found in the army was always at home. I just had to be older and wiser to understand that."
"Do you miss it? The military?"
"Sometimes. Miss the clarity of it. Good guys, bad guys, clear objectives." He accepts the beer Mrs. Suwannarat brings without being asked. "Civilian life is messier."
"Is that what I am? Messy?"
"You're complicated," he corrects. "But I've never backed down from a challenge."
The conversation flows easier than I expected.
He tells me about his time overseas, careful to keep it light.
Stories about Suwannarat's terrible jokes, the stray dog their unit adopted, the time they had to explain American football to their Afghan counterparts.
I find myself relaxing, laughing at his stories, sharing my own.
How I got into vintage fashion after finding my grandmother's 1950s dresses in the attic.
The disaster of my first day at the boutique when I accidentally sold a $5,000 jacket for $50.
The customer who tried to trade his motorcycle for a leather vest.
"Did you take the deal?" Emil asks.
"I was tempted. It was a nice bike." I steal the last spring roll. "Andrew said no. Something about needing actual money to pay rent."
"Capitalist."
"Right? No appreciation for the barter system."
"So that's why you always look so put together," he says. "Lifetime of studying fashion."
"I don't always?—"
"You do. Even that night at your apartment, scared and shaking, you still looked beautiful."
The reminder of that night settles between us, heavy with everything that's happened since.
The daily texts, the prospects following me, the way I've caught myself looking for him even when I pretend I'm not.
"They figure out who did it?" I ask.
"Not yet. But we will." His jaw tightens. "Someone wants to send a message, they better be prepared for the response."
"Maybe it was random?—"
"It wasn't." He reaches across the table, fingers brushing mine. "But you're safe. I promise you that."
"You can't promise that. You don't control everything."
"I control enough." His thumb strokes over my knuckles. "And what I can't control, I prepare for."
