It sends something hard and sharp stabbing through my chest. That used to bemylook. The one she saved for me.
“Got to hit the head.” I stand, suddenly needing to be somewhere,anywhere,else.
Holy fuck. I know I keep saying the same thing over and over. But it bears repeating. This shit ishard.
I hurry to the bathroom and lean against the door after I’ve shut it behind me. Staring into the mirror, there’s no mistaking the deep bruises beneath my eyes, the hollows in my cheeks, or the Frankenstein’s monster look of my forehead now that the surgical glue is gone. To put it mildly, I look like hell. My heart certainlyhurtslike hell.
Except…itshouldn’t.
Splashing water on my face, I take a quick hit of Gentleman Jack before exiting the bathroom. My eyes land on the travel trunk Luc uses as a coffee table and the three-prong binder sitting atop it. I recognize the binder. I have one that looks exactly like it. Maggie’s letters. Only, these are the ones she wrote to Luc.
Curiosity has me walking over. Temptation makes me reach down. But I don’t open it. Instead, I’m distracted by the notebook lying beside it. It’s one of the many journals Luc keeps for writing down his lyrics and poems and thoughts.
Thumbing through it, I smile at the loose scrawl. I know his handwriting as well as I know my own. How his uppercase Ms always have a tail on them. How his lowercase As look more like a backward uppercase D. He used to love to write out mission parameters on a whiteboard. The guys in our unit teased him by calling himProfessorMaster Sergeant.
Stopping on the last page, I read the short poem he’s titled: Bayou Baby.
Where the black water rolls and the muskrat strolls
That’s where you’ll find my baby
She’s a Cajun queen with a young girl’s dream
Yeah, that’s my baby
She can cast a spell, make your life heaven or hell
Ain’t no one quite like my baby
She hides her secrets in her soul, loving her has made me a fool
Time to let go of my baby.
The last line has my breath hitching. What thefuck?
Am I missing something? Did I misread that look in Maggie’s eye? Are they screwing upThe Goddamned Plan?
I stare through the window at the backs of their heads, in silhouette thanks to the starlight, and try to catch a snippet of conversation or read their body language. But they’re aggravatingly silent. Which isn’t like them. Not at all.
Theyarescrewing upThe Plan.And the vibes I’ve been picking up all night, the ones that gave me hope they’d finally figured out their shit, were obviously all off. They’ve just been putting on a good face for my sake.
Fuck! Damn! Piss! Andshit!
Then again…maybe things have gone sideways because Maggie doesn’t know how Luc feels. Maybe she should be told, or…
No. Coming out and telling her would be too overt. And, of course, it would reveal too much about my ultimate goal. What to do? What to do?
An idea suddenly occurs, proving my brain isn’t completely broken. At least not yet.
Placing the notebook on top of the binder, I leave it open to the poem and quickly rejoin them on the porch.
“I saw Luc’s binder full of letters in there,” I say casually as I resume my seat. “Why don’t you grab it and read us a few, Maggie? You don’t mind, do you, Luc?”
He slides me a curious glance. “I don’t mind. They’re Maggie May’s words. If she wants to share ’em, she can.”
“What do you say?” I ask her. “It’ll be like a blast from the past.”
She shakes her head. “I wrote those to Luc, and I—”
