Page 3 of Wrong Number, Right Soldier
“Make sure it’s FaceTime,” Stasia says.
Cleo gives her a look. “Why FaceTime?”
“To make sure she wasn’t just seeing him with ‘vodka goggles’”—she air quotes—“and that he is really as attractive as she remembers.”
“Okaaay, but you liked him, didn’t you?” Cleo asks me. “So, does it matter?”
“Oh, so virtuous, Cleo.” Stasia rolls her eyes, then her gaze shifts toward me, locking in. “Babes, you don’t even know him yet, so you can’tlike himyet, either. You get to be shallow.”
“I could just look him up on LinkedIn?” I suggest.
“He’ll know you looked,” Kim says, shaking her head. “And pics aren’t the same.”
“You all saw him.” My eyes rove over each of my three friends. “Was he…good looking?”
“It was kinda dark in there, honey.”
“I was pretty tipsy.”
“I was just trying to getthese twoaway.”
“You’re a saint, by the way.”
“I do try.”
“So we all agree, FaceTime?” Stasia picks the topic back up. The fact they are all so invested in this means I have three of the best (albeit quirky) friends, or my dating life has been in a sad, sad state.
It’s the former, and the latter, in almost equal measure.
And so that’s how I’ve ended up alone on my bed, cross-legged with my phone nestled in my lap like a baby bird, my brain fried from studying, my heart in my throat. About to call Derek like ‘hey, so, my name’s not actually Sailor, it’s Saylis.’
Or maybe open with something…that isn’t that.
I tap my phone for the millionth time to check the time as if it might be running laps around me. It’s getting late, almost nine p.m., but he did say ‘any’ time—with emphasis; I distinctly remember that part clearly. My headspace is tired from overthinking how much of this I’ve been overthinking.
“Fuck it.”
In all of my post-cram-session, red-eyed, hair-in-a-bun-on-my-head glory, I open up FaceTime and punch in the number exactly as it appears on the card, which admittedly, isn’t super clear, due to a teensy ink blotch over one of the numbers. It can only be either a nine or a four, so I take my chances: Four best friends since we were four in 2004. Ihaveto go with four.
It rings. And rings.
And rings.
Then on the lucky-numberfourthring, a face that is so mercilessly good looking it’s borderline obscene looks back at me.
Nowthat—is aMan!
…Just not the one I remember.
Two
Trey
Time moves painfully slowly out here in the desert. Slow, and boring. But we thank God for boring.
I’m up before dawn, a little more than an hour before it’s time to call our unit to formation. I set up in a small, dusty makeshift office to sign off inventory sheets for the supply officers, review new training procedure for the junior enlisted guys, and especially, to make some coffee. I envy the way the young grunts here canget up and go—like they’re made to do. At thirty-one, I need to start my brain to start my day.
I try to be a good NCO. I’m not even thirty, but these eighteen- and nineteen-year-old Privates, they are babies. They need more than structure and discipline, although they do need a lot of those things (some of them more than others). They need someone to look up to. Someone to really lead them, guide them, mentor them by setting an example and finding the right words. Not a friend, nor a father, but something almost like a brother.
