WILL
Eight months ago
This fucking week.It wasn’t enough that one of my guys forgot the basics during a HALO jump and busted his goddamn leg in the middle of the South Dakota wilderness or that I was facing at least six months running a task force aimed at eliminating terrorist strongholds in densely populated cities. No, I had to talk my way into Shannon’s building—pulled the brother card again, figured there were too many of them for a doorman to actually keep track—and pick the lock.
All I wanted was my girl and a day or two to chill before shipping out, but something was up. She was quiet and distant after our weekend in D.C., and then pulled some shit about ending things.
I figured she was having a difficult day and putting me on blast because I was handy, but then she blocked my calls. It was an easy hack to get around that—just one of many tools of the trade—but I couldn’t even get a reaction out of her. At the very minimum, I expected some comments about my commando tactics and some vehement “fuck yous” but I got neither.
I thought things were good after that weekend. Really good. I needed to know what went wrong, and more than anything else, I wanted to know that Shannon was all right.
Inside, her apartment looked nothing like I remembered. Where it was once ruthlessly ordered, there were now mountains of photo albums, boxes overflowing with blankets, and dated clothing. And it was everywhere. Every surface in the living room was overflowing.
The kitchen revealed a single wine glass in the sink and six empty bottles in the recycling bin. Her bed was made but rumpled, as if she slept on top of the blankets.
It was strange. I could accept any of these things individually, but when considered together, I couldn’t make sense of it.
I didn’t know when to expect Shannon, so I parked myself on the sofa and tugged my baseball cap low for a nap. I wasn’t sure how long I slept, but snapped to attention when I heard the door bang shut.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Shannon yelled.
“Hey, peanut.”
Her bag slipped from her shoulder and landed on the floor with a thud. She stared at me, her hands propped on her hips, and her expression venomous yet tired. “No,” she said. “I’m not doing this with you. Not anymore.”
I pointed to the small blue table beside the sofa. “What’s the deal with all the rocks? You’ve got these things all over the place. They’re from Erin, aren’t they?”
Her gaze flicked to the geodes clustered on the table, frowning. “Don’t talk about my sister.”
“Is that how it goes? We only talk about her on your terms, and the rest of the time, we pretend she doesn’t exist?” I asked.
“You get off on making your own rules. I understand that, but I am not doing this tonight.”
“Yeah, I have no fucking clue what’s going on here, Shannon. You get that, right? No. Fucking. Clue. I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”
She stepped out of her heels and walked into the living room, and I knew I wasn’t looking at the same woman who slept in my arms last month. “This is over,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Stop calling me. Stop texting. Stop breaking and entering.”
She busied herself with loading the assorted clutter into boxes, muttering to herself while she stepped around me. My mother would call Shannon a worker bee. She was always doing something, never content unless she was working, thinking, moving, and my mother was the same way. She couldn’t watch television without also editing photos for her blog, or reaching for her latest craft project.
But right now, Shannon wasn’t working. She was avoiding, and she wasn’t even doing a fair job of it.
“Yeah, and that’s where you’ve lost me.”
“I’m finished sneaking around with you,” she said. “I hate keeping secrets from my family, and I’m not going to do it anymore.”
“Secrets? You are the one who wanted secrets, darlin’,” I said. She couldn’t be serious right now. “What about Mexico? I wanted to end the fucking secrets, Shannon, if that wasn’t a big enough clue for you.”
“Why, Will? What are we even doing? You tell me where and when to show up, like I’m your goddamn call girl, and that’s it. I’m sorry, but I’m not in love with announcing that I’m your stateside whore.”
“You’re mywhat?” I clasped my hands behind my head as if I could wring some sense from this conversation. “Have I made you feel that way?”
“This isn’t a relationship, Will. It’s sex. Secret, scheduled sex, and I’m telling you I’m finished,” she said.
“I think your definition of relationship needs adjustment,” I said.
“And I think you don’t understand anything about me,” she said.
“I’m a simple guy, peanut. You’re gonna need to explain this load of shit you’re spewing because I’m fairly certain I know you damn well.”
