I crank off the water. “It’s not, but I might as well treat it as such. It’s a small town. Can’t afford to not screen well.” The thought of having a girlfriend is utterly terrifying. I’ve got a long-term relationship with my job. That shows I’m commitment-worthy, right?
“Good luck with that. I’ll just continue my underground app trolling. Did you see the chick Tahoe’s talking to?”
Drying off, I throw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and slide into my flip-flops. “I’d stay away from her, man. That one has his name written all over her.”
Tahoe is fucking smitten. We all know it, but we’re waiting for him to finally admit to himself. Let him live with the turmoil a little while longer.
Aidan scoffs. “Whatever. He hasn’t said anything to let me know otherwise, so I’ll do what I want.” There is the true Aidan.
Rolling my eyes, I grab my bag and scold him over my shoulder. He waves me off, that challenging look in his eye. Tahoe is going to crush him. Aidan will undoubtedly earn it.
The gun range is a decent practice session. Keeping up with my skills feels good. It reminds me that I am, in fact, a SEAL regardless of where I’m situated geographically. Sutter kicks my ass via three different weapons, but it’s okay because Ialmostwon once, which makes him grumpy. We close the day with a meeting, which is an informal occasion—a bunch of dudes incivilian clothing sitting around a conference table. The updates stream into our system as we’re briefed on what’s going on in the world. Terrorist quads lurk everywhere, but they’ve stayed in hiding because we’ve gotten so good at rooting them out. For the first time in a long time, we can breathe a little easier—take our time in deciding our next course of action.
Civilians have no clue what really goes on in the name of keeping America safe. It’s easier that way. There would be panic and disbelief, conspiracy theories, and outrage. Instead, our military has created a false sense of security—increasing our presence around the United States. Reports of incidents aren’t shared as effortlessly as they were at the beginning of the war. To preserve the sense that we have everything under control, it’s now a weekly recap that spews from the mouths of reporters late at night. We’re confirming reports of such incidents right now.
The email flashes on the large overhead screen. “That one looks good. Send it on.”
Someone brushes past me, in a hurry to wrap up and get out of here for the weekend. The email is forwarded on, and the last one pops up as I speed-read, expecting more of the usual. It’s not. It’s the name of a bad guy we’ve been going after for years. A name of a guy I personally missed by the hair on his chinny-chin-chin. The sole name on my list of bad guys I must dispose of before I die. He’s up to no good again, trying to recruit more sinister assholes to keep me gainfully employed. I nod at the guy working the laptop. “Email me that one. I’ll come back later tonight to finish up. Let’s get out of here.” The guys know the name—and my feelings about the fact he’s still at large.
Adrenaline hits me, my fists clenching by my sides as I remember the last mission I was on. Nothing compares to the thrill of the chase and the close call that inevitably follows. They’re all close calls in one form or another. It’s why there’s no room for errors on the Teams. Every mission is a no-failmission. Before we leave for an operation, we’re confident we’ll be successful. That mindset trickles into my everyday life, but I’m acutely aware of the difference. Bronze Bay has taught me that.
Even if it’s hard to admit, the slow pace of life and the sleepy beach town have done wonders to detoxify my mind. I can ride my bicycle or moped most places. There’s plenty of water to wakeboard, fish, and boat. There’s time for me to have a life outside of the grind for the first time in a long ass time. From the day I graduated BUD/s to the day I landed in Bronze Bay, life has been one seamless work cycle with little blips of non-work experiences. I love my job. I loved being busy and making a difference, but there’s also something to be said about calm. I ride home on my shiny black moped on a deserted road. The scent of saltwater and sand clinging to every breath I take. Yes, it is indeed a love-hate relationship.
I see Eva’s car pulling into her usual spot as soon as I turn into my small apartment complex that faces the bay. There are four large units, and we share a dock and a little slip of beach. Old Mr. Olsen is sitting in his lounge chair on his porch when I walk by. He nods his worn-out straw hat as I approach.
“It’s a beautiful day, son. Stop and smell that breeze?” he chirps, voice hoarse from years of chain-smoking Marlboro Reds. He stopped a couple years ago when his pesky cough turned out to be cancer, or so he’s told me. Sometimes I smell cigarette smoke early in the morning, and I know I’m not imagining it.
“All the way home, Mr. Olsen,” I reply, holding up my dorky helmet. If I’m going to die, I better be shot through the heart or blown to pieces. I refuse to be roadkill in this town. That’s a hard line in the sand for me. Safety in all non-hazardous areas of my life, and caution to the wind when I’m downrange under fire. “Enjoy your night. Let me know if you need anything,” I say.
“You do the same,” he croaks. “Though it looks like it may be difficult.” His sly gaze flicks to Eva pacing my tiny front porch, fingers laced behind her back.
Shaking my head, I laugh. “Anyone ever tell you, you’re a smart old man?”
“All the way home, Leif, my son.” With that, he tips his hat over his face and reclines all the way back for an evening nap.
“Eva,” I say, cursing under my breath. “While it’s always nice to see you”—I roll my eyes so she can see—“we could have discussed Mom’s birthday on the phone. You really need to butt out of my life. I have somewhere to be tonight. Plans with my friends, you know?”
Eva huffs, tilts her head to the side, and scrunches up her face in that bitchy way she’s ace at. “Why did you ignore my phone call?”
Mr. Olsen snorts loudly, a laugh masked by a pretend snore. I grin when Eva peeks over my shoulder. “The heavy metal I was holding over my face prevented me from picking up my cell phone at that particular moment,” I fire back, unlocking the door and pushing it open.
Eva flies in first and spins on me. One eyebrow raised, she croons, “What, you’re so weak you can’t hold your gun up now?”
I groan, turning my face to the ceiling. “Bench press, Eva. I was working out when you called. It makes answering the phone hard. What do you have in mind for the party? What do you need me to do? Is your husband gone again?”
Her face changes, and the guilt hits. Eva veers into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “I’ll just make you some dinner before you go out, okay?”
Biting my tongue, I set my bag and helmet on the rack by the door and throw the switches to illuminate the living room. “Why did you marry the guy if you were going to be constantly lonely?” And in my fucking business.
“Why would you marry a woman if you were going to be constantly deployed?” she shoots back, turning on the stove.
I glance at the ingredients, the ones she bought earlier this week, and can’t deny I’m excited to eat what she’s making. It’s one of my favorites.
Leaning on the island bar, I watch her work for a couple silent moments. “That’s why I haven’t committed to anyone, Eva. That logic doesn’t work. Flipping the argument doesn’t win this time.” She sniffles once and tucks her fair blond hair behind one ear. It’s almost the same shade as mine, except hers is a touch darker. I’m in the sun more frequently, and she lives in an office all day long. “Are you happy?” I ask.
She’s quiet for a few moments, and an outsider might think it’s one of those awkward silences that happen when you’re not sure what to say, but when you have siblings like Eva it’s never awkward. There’s nothing I can say that would offend her and vice versa. She’s calculating how her response is going to be taken, weighing whether it’s worth telling the truth. Basically we’re having the conversation in her mind before she begins it.
“I’m as happy as I can be given the circumstances.” She slides a bottle of water to me over the counter. “He is busy with his life. I’m busy with mine. When we’re together it works well and we’re happy. Mundane, maybe, but that’s what it looks like for most people.” She casts a glance, letting me know I don’t reside in that category.
