Page 18 of Operator
“Tell me, Gwen.”
She bites her lips as though to stem the flow of words, but finally says, “I don’t think Ian committed suicide.”
I swallow hard and look to the gravel beneath my feet, unable to keep my eyes on hers as I process her words. They’re aimed straight for my heart, like armor-piercing bullets. It had been easier when I’d been able to stay away, but now there aren’t any more deployments to dive into to make myself forget.
“Gwen, what are you talking about?”
She shakes her head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please let me go.”
Emotion has her face drawn tight. She’s too damn pale, and I don’t have to be touching her to see her trembling. Maybe Bunny was right. I should give her some space. “You’re stressed. You shouldn't be running all around town with everything going on. Let's get you home.”
I should have noticed the dark circles under her eyes. The hollows under her cheeks. Maybe it’s not pregnancy related, but there's no denying something is haunting her. I pushed away thoughts of her and Ian together as much as possible. But she must have loved him to have married him and made a family with him. It hurt like hell to lose a brother. It still does. But she lost her husband and the father of her baby. It’s been a year, but wounds like that don’t heal overnight.
She pushes at me. “Don't you dare say this is because I'm pregnant. I'm having a baby, I'm not sick. Ian never would have killed himself. If you were here, you’d know that.”
It's a sad fact that I've seen this before. Ryan's wife said the same thing when he died. Not that it wasn't suicide, because clearly it wasn't. But she didn't accept that he was dead at all. She wanted to see the body to confirm it for herself. Not that any of us allowed that. That doesn't even cover the number of Marines that take their own lives every single day because of things they've done or things they've seen or things they just can't live with anymore. The thought of it has my throat biting down. That I couldn't save my own brother. Even from himself.
“That’s not what I'm saying. All I want is to make sure you're okay.”
“I don't know how many times I have to say it, but I’m fine. I’m not going to break. I knew I shouldn't have said anything. Why would you believe me?”
“You called sneaking out here fine?”
She merely lifts the brow. “I wouldn't have to sneak out here if you were stalking me.”
“I'm not stalking you. I was worried about you.”
“I'm not your problem anymore, Callum. You don't need to worry about me. In fact, I would prefer it if you didn't think about me at all.”
I prefer that too, honestly. I'd love to stop thinking about her, dreaming about her, wishing I'd done things differently with her. They only haunt me almost as much as my nightmares.
“Too bad,” is all I say. Because fuck it, I've tried for years to get her out of my memory and not one damn thing has worked. Maybe it's time I stopped trying.
She jerks back, her cheeks flushing. “Too bad? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I'm done trying to stay away. Especially if you’ve got it in your head that Ian didn't commit suicide.”
Her lavender eyes darken. “Got it in my head? What kind of patronizing bullshit is that? This is why I didn't say anything to you without proof. Now get out of my face.” She emphasizes her words with a shove full of surprising force that has me doubling back a step.
It gives her enough room to whirl around get in her car. She rolls down the window, the color back in her face. “You’re his brother. Of all people, shouldn’t you know him best? Shouldn't you know he never would have killed himself?” With one furious look back at me, she peels out of the parking lot, gravel spitting beneath her wheels.
I let her go because she's too riled up to talk to me. And I want to think. Not because I believe her. There's no way Ian didn’t commit suicide. I've seen the reports on this case, and I read his suicide note. He was in a locked room by himself. There is no other explanation. Gwen just doesn’t want to accept it. Who would?
I don't want to say she’s emotional or overwrought, but she has a lot on her plate and that's the only logical explanation I can come to. I'm sure me being home doesn't help at all. I follow her home at a distance until I know she’s safe and then I leave her in my rearview.
Like I had so many times before.
“Promise me you’ll come back,” she whispers.
Gwen’s words are like a knife to the heart. I turn away so she can’t see how much it hurts. “What makes you think I won’t come back?” I say instead. Promises and deployments don’t mesh well together. They always seem to end up broken.
Promise me you’ll call…when calls are always few and far between.
Promise me you’ll write…who has time to write?
Promise me you’ll be the same guy when you come back…impossible.
I could promise that I’ll come back—I seem to have a sick talent for making it through shit no one should, but I already know it’ll be different. It always is. She deserves the kind of man who will be there for her all the time—not just the few days or weeks in between assignments. And even when I’m with her, I’m not really with her. Part of me will always be tied to those deserts, bonded by blood and misery. She deserves someone whole.
