Behind Kaisall’s email was a message from Gustavo Granovsky. We’d started out in BUD/S together, and he quickly earned the distinction of funniest motherfucker to walk the earth. He found humor in everything, even the dive exercises where the instructors would swim up, put you in a strangle hold, and then tie knots in the oxygen tubing. It left you drowning while fighting off an attacker.
I’ll never forget Gus crawling out of the pool wearing full gear, coughing and gagging on the hardtop, and then—with all the seriousness in the world—turning to the instructor and saying, “Sir, if you’d like to grab my dick again, please take me to dinner first. My mother didn’t raise me to give it away.”
We did two tours together before he was assigned to a different platoon. We never managed to be on the same continent at the same time anymore, but that didn’t stop him from sending regular (hilarious) emails to our entire BUD/S class. He was big on staying in touch with people, and that was a quality worth having.
Gus was getting married later this month, finally making it legal with his long-time girlfriend, Aviva. They’d bought a ranch near Poway about seven or eight years ago, where they kept a couple of horses and dogs. A kid, too.
I didn’t feel like typing any more emails with one hand, and scrolled through my contacts to find his number.
“How’s it hangin’, Captain?” Gus asked, his voice loud and tinged with laughter.
“Low and to the left,” I said.
“As God intended,” he said. “Where the hell are you? And when are you dragging your ass back to San Diego?”
I glanced around Shannon’s dining room. It looked like the scene of a swanky dinner party. Light gray wallpaper with a raised velvet pattern covered the walls. There were heavy candelabras running down the middle of the table, and a glass bowl filled with cranberries and limes.Fucking limes. The table was long—easily fitting her entire family—and functioned nicely as a staging area for getting my life in line.
“Boston,” I said, quickly continuing, “but I’m not advertising that. Just…dealing with some issues.”
“Is that why you haven’t responded to our goddamn wedding invitation yet? The nuptial event is only two weeks away and my bride is freaking the fuck out over these RSVPs, man.”
“I’m monitoring a situation,” I said. “I’ll have to report back.”
“Yeah, my bride’s gonna love that,” Gus said. “Do you have a timeframe for this situation report? Knowing that the long-term well-being of my testicles hangs in the balance? Literallyhanging.”
Flying to San Diego in two weeks meant leaving Shannon, and I didn’t like that idea. “Not really.”
Then it dawned on me: I wouldn’t have to leave Shannon if she came to California with me. We could spend Thanksgiving together, just like we did last year. Maybe that was what we needed.
Gus sighed. “Do me a favor, man. Figure it out. I don’t want to tell Viv that we can’t give the caterer a final count yet. She’ll make me sleep in the barn, and I won’t get—”
“I’ll be there,” I said. “And I’m bringing someone.”
Even if I have to kidnap her. Actually…that might make it more fun.
“Wes got his own invitation,” Gus said. “That fucker hasn’t responded either.”
“Not Wes. A friend. A girlfriend,” I said, and I hated the taste of that word immediately. She’d rip my spleen out of my belly button if she heard me stammer through that comment, but that was what I loved about her. She was completely unafraid of reaching into me, tearing out my bleeding organs, and making me look at them.
Women like Shannon weren’t girlfriends. I didn’t know what the right term was, butgirlfrienddid not fit the bill. She was too bold and sophisticated and independent to be anyone’s girlfriend.
“Uh-huh,” he murmured. “Should we celebrate you popping your cherry before hitting forty? And this lady isn’t in Boston by chance, is she?”
“Yes, she is, but I’m not here because…okay, yeah I’m here for her,” I said. “My last mission went to shit, my arm is fucked up, and I’m thinking hard about retirement. On top of that, I left things in shambles with my girlf—err, my Shannon, when I saw her before this deployment. Come back and she’s dating a douchebag.”
Gus was silent for a moment. “Is your arm okay?”
“Shrapnel. Nerve damage. Trigger finger.”
“Shit,” he murmured. “Didn’t anyone tell you that you’re supposed to be good to your lady before going down range?”
I yanked my baseball cap off my head and rubbed my palm against my forehead. “I didn’t get that briefing, no,” I said.
Another long pause filled only with the rustle of wind and trees on Gus’s end. “You serious about retiring? What would you do?”
“Fuck if I know,” I said. “On both counts.”
“You could probably sell t-shirts at Quiksilver,” he said. “And those cute puka shell necklaces? You’d be good at that. You know, being a surfer boy yourself.”
