Page 2 of Indirect Attack
Her smile widened impossibly farther, her large, jade-green eyes warm. “Hi, Ben.”
“When did you get in?”
“Late last night. I would have come over earlier, but Mom insisted I go have breakfast with Grandma Jean, and then she wanted to go out shopping before they left.”
“Well, I guess we should go.” Clomping down the stairs came my two older brothers, who joined us by the door. Herman grabbed what he called his lucky leather jacket and flashed me a knowing wink. Triton, the consummate oldest, added a warning look and a friendly “hello” to Jasmine, and Sam rolled his eyes again and huffed as he followed the other two out the door.
“Aren’t you going with them?” Jasmine asked, thumb pointing over her shoulder at the disappearing forms of my brothers.
“No. Herman’s taking them to a club.”
Thankfully, I’d known Jasmine long enough I didn’t have to explain further. She giggled instead, mouth quirking up in a conspiratorial grin.
I heard the tires of Herman’s Jeep as he tore down the long gravel driveway, and then Jasmine and I were alone.
Except for my father, grumbling around the yard I could see through the open door. He looked up from his pile of smoldering leaves, saw me watching him, and his eyes narrowed.
“Ben.”
Long years of hearing my name said in that drill-sergeant tone meant I snapped to attention. “Sir?”
“I need to run over to Johnsons’ place. Watch this, and I’ll be back.” Even after all these years, his words still had a rough, guttural rounding that betrayed his Russian heritage.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hi, Mr. Rusev,” Jasmine said tentatively.
My father grunted in reply, lifting a hand that could have been a wave or could have been a dismissive gesture. It would have been rude to anyone else, but having grown up next door, Jasmine was used to my father’s rough ways.
Still, I felt responsible for an apology as my father got into his old truck and rumbled away toward our neighbor’s house down the road.
“Sorry,” I said, closing the door before we both took a seat on the porch stairs, the old, weathered, and warped wood creaking under our weight.
Jasmine shook her head, her thick, straight, jet-black hair slipping over her shoulder from the movement. Her hair had gotten even longer since I’d last seen her, and even pulled up into a ponytail, it reached her mid-back. “It’s fine.” She gave me a reassuring smile. “I know how he is. I think he was happy to see me this time—usually he just ignores me.” Her eyes crinkled with humor.
I had to laugh. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Silence settled between us, born of the awkwardness of being apart after spending most of our lives together. Jasmine and her family had moved into the house next door when I was six, which, in our neck of the woods, meant we’d had to cross a fieldand several crumbling stone and wooden fences to get to one another. But we’d become fast friends, and even when I’d had to drag myself through snowdrifts, we’d spent much of our time outside of school together.
It had taken me graduating and joining the Marines, spending time away from Jasmine, who was in her freshman year of college a four-hour train ride away for me, to realize our friendship had overtones. Overtones of interest, longing, and even desire. I’d never grasped the fact that my protectiveness of her had come from more than a brotherly place until she wasn’t with me anymore, and I hadn’t been able to get her off my mind since we’d said goodbye.
In school, I’d been too lost in our friendship to notice, my head in the clouds or my artwork or books. Herman, especially, had despaired of my lack of awareness when it came to women.
Staring at the picture of her I’d taken with me to my bunk at bootcamp, I’d realized Jasmine was so much more than my best friend. She was the person I called when I needed advice or support or someone to lean on. She had been one of my few friends in high school when everyone had just shaken their heads at the quiet Rusev brother who hadn’t played a sport, who wasn’t flashy, or prom king or quarterback of the football team. She hadn’t cared I was the black sheep of the family, the quiet one who would rather read books or paint than watch a game on TV.
Why hadn’t I realized it before?
But here she was, finally, sitting beside me, real in every sense of the word, and all the words I’d rehearsed to her picture flew out of my head. At least I had the presence of mind to put my arm around Jasmine’s shoulders, a comfortable ritual. She curled into me as she’d done so many times before. The feeling was warm and full of comfort.
“So,” I started, “how’s college?”
I felt her shrug. “It’s fine. I’m enjoying my classes, and it’s nice being on my own. My roommate is kind of weird, though.”
“Weird?” I asked, grasping at any subject that would take me away from saying what was truly on my mind because it was suddenly terrifying.
“She keeps to herself and comes in and out at odd hours. She mainly reads and draws.” Her shoulders jumped in a small laugh, and when she looked up, she was grinning. “Then again, maybe I should feel right at home with her.”
I chuckled, running a hand over my short hair, and Jasmine’s eyes flicked up at the movement as she pulled away from me. She was quiet for a moment, just looking, until I squirmed in discomfort.
