Page 12 of Deep Gap

“Tell me, Greer.”

Byron’s expression is genuine and sympathetic, encouraging me to be honest. Despite how self-centered the emotion is, putting him in an awkward position where Byron has had to rescue me from the shop and then watch me come unhinged warrants nothing less.

“That somebody knew what it was like to kill someone you hadn’t intended to.”

My attention snaps to Byron’s face when he replies, “I do.”

He frowns. “I won’t pretend it’s the same, but I served and I did what my superiors trained me to do and… I know what it’s like, Greer. And at the same time, I don’t because for me it wasn’t an accident the first time or the second… And, since I’d never want you to think less of me, I don’t have the heart to tell you how high the body count is. Because… Well, it doesn’t matter the circumstance or what anyone else says, taking someone’s life isn’t anything you get over. Not if you’re a good person deep down, anyhow.”

More fat tears tumble down my cheeks. My lips twist trying to form a thank you without my voice cracking.

He raises his arm and just as his palm is about to encase my fist which is laying on my lap, Byron stops. “If you ever want to talk about it or Ellis, I’m here to listen. No pressure. I understand being cautious about opening up. I’m the same way; The counselor at the VA when they can fit me in. Trig in a pinch when I feel myself sinking. Everyone needs a friend they can count on now and then.”

I turn my hand face up and let Byron’s fingers lace into mine. He squeezes and a rush of warmth flows up my arm.

The moments are few when I’m not overwhelmed by the feeling like my heart will forever be as hollowed out as a paper hive hanging outside in the winter. That the flimsy chambers will be crushed and torn down by some well-meaning person before the bees return, seeking a place to stay and renew the garden they helped blossom the previous spring. I feel that for a fleeting second at Byron’s compassion.

And then it’s gone. Replaced by the trilling buzz of my phone and my parole officer’s voice on the other end of the line.

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6

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“Soliciting!” Greer lets out a high-pitched yell.

Behind the frosted glass, I see her jump up and begin to pace.

We drove directly back to Brighton after receiving the call from Phil, her parole officer. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Do not revel in the merciful moment when both of us were one infinitesimal step closer to closure from wounds that haunt us. Or the flicker that anyone, let alone either of us, deserved more from humanity than we oftentimes are given.

Silent and stoic, ready to accept the guilt laid upon her—for who knows what since Phil refused to say over the phone—are the best words to describe Greer along the miles we traveled back through the Piedmonts. She’s been in his office for less than three minutes.

I meant what I said to her. I have a solid concept of what it’s like to take a life you hadn’t meant to. I didn’t enlist seeking a gun and carte blanche to mow down my enemies. My not quite twenty-year-old conscience hadn’t fully absorbed what I’d done until the body that I’d shot at slumped to the barren ground. Charged with doing my duty for my country, each instance was the hollowest of victories. And then there were the kids that never got to grow up. Oftentimes, I wonder if anyone remembers them. If their families are still around to mourn the way Mac and Karen do their son. And the one thing that gives me solace is that, though their faces are patchy for timeworn memories, I remember them. I still grieve their lost innocence as I lament over what was my own.

People insist what I did in comparison to Greer’s accident was different. And I can concede they have the right to their opinions. I fought in a raging war. It was survival and supporting the mission at all costs. She was a stupid kid that made a stupid mistake. I was a stupid kid doing what an adult I held in esteem told me to do, not understanding the consequences of my actions would haunt me in a similar way. The world rages on around her, and Greer—a woman now—is stuck in the same place she was at eighteen. Meanwhile, I earned a get out of jail free card in the wild west that is the Middle East.

So yes. It’s completely different. But for Christ’s sake, don’t mention it to the piece of my soul that remains. It tends to become a little ornery when you do.

I see the fuzzy outline of her hand draw closer to the knob.

“Sit down.” Her middle-aged parole officer’s voice commands before she can escape the tiny room.

I rise from the molded seat I thought offices stopped decorating their waiting rooms with during the eighties. Marching over to knock, I don’t bother waiting to turn the knob and enter.

“Mind if I—”

“Are you her lawyer?” Phil has an unrestrained smirk. He doesn’t need to base his assumption on my brand of casual weekend attire, her parole officer knows I’m not.

“No.”

“It’s up to Greer.” Phil sighs, putting his hands behind his head and leaning his weight back. On its last legs, the stained office chair creaks with age.

Relief apparent, she nods to the spot next to her.

“Waylon filed a complaint. He says I’ve been luring men to my apartment to have sex with them. The only person besides him and my mom whom I’ve invited inside is you.” Her nose scrunches. The reality is her landlord doesn’t need an engraved invitation or stand on formality. Greer affirmed to me that Waylon comes and goes as he pleases.

“Are you Greer’s boyfriend?”

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