Isit at the clunky computer in the corner of the room that used to be Nate’s. He traded it in for an expensive laptop when he went to college. What he did with the laptop after he dropped out, I don’t know.
I know this one doesn’t get used much. Or it didn’t. I imagine Mom will use it to send emails to me during my deployment like she did last time.
Email.
The excuse I made to myself and to the sparse crowd gathered downstairs to say goodbye is that I needed to check my email to make sure nothing has changed. I implied thechangeI was checking on was the where’s and when’s of my deployment three days from now.
I can pass that lie off to Steve, maybe even to myself, but I know Mom saw through it. When I asked about the computer, she gave me the same worried look she’s been giving me since I got here.
It’s not like I’m expecting another last-minute Hail Mary intervention to save my relationship with Jess. Last time I was only a few hours away, and there was a lot less hurt and fewer harsh words between us.
Even as I curse her, blame her, even try to hate her, I get that it’s not fair of me to ask her to go through the months of fear and the excruciating memories this deployment will dredge up. I get that we’ll never be good for each other. I get that it’s time to cut ties and admit defeat.
I still miss her.
“Some people are just not cut out for this life,” Mom said. She knew it was thin comfort, even if it's the truth.
“Better that you know now,” Steve said, no comfort implied. Just his usual gruff practicality. Again, he’s right, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
If I were more like him–practical to a point that borders on stone cold–I’d be downstairs drinking with the few neighbors and shoestring relatives who’ve gathered for this little send-off. I might even try to make small-talk with our next-door neighbor’s pretty niece. She’s about my age and at least superficially interested. I wouldn’t be waiting for this brick of a computer to come to life so my last hope can get dashed.
When it comes to Jess, I’m more of a masochist than I care to admit.
Even Jasmine is telling me I need to let Jess go. She and Little Stevie moved into Gage’s room so she can finish college with free room, board, and babysitting. Mom is thrilled to have her grandson close, and both my parents love Jasmine. I’m glad they’ll be here. The two of them make our house feel more alive and less empty.
I scroll through a list of unread advertisements, resisting the urge to go back to the emails I saved from before. Rereading and remembering what we had can lead to nothing good.
I’m about to shut it all down, close up the computer and go back downstairs to drinks and goodbyes and maybe even some superficial flirting with a pretty girl to see where that leads. An email at the bottom stops me. I don’t recognize the sender, or really anything about the email, except the subject line.
Thinking of her.
My blood runs cold. I immediately know who it’s from. Brad. Jess' old boyfriend who’s spent almost three years in prison for assaulting both of us. He’s not supposed to contact either of us, but if he can get my email, he can get hers.
Thirty-six months minus time served, I do the math in my head. His sentence ended two weeks ago. Somehow, in the middle of everything going on. I missed that. Once when I brought up that he would be out soon, Jess said she wasn’t worried about it. She was lying; I could see it in her face, but I didn’t want to push it then. I assumed I’d be there to protect her when he got out, or that she’d be with me, somewhere far away from him.
I open the email and my blood boils. It’s filled with pictures of her: running, leaving her counselor’s office, her eyes closed as she balances on one foot in the yoga studio she started going to, through her apartment window, getting out of her car to go to work at the hospital.
Besides the pictures, there’s one line of text, a date. 2006–08—20 three days from now, the day I deploy.
His message is clear. He can get to her any time he wants, and he will, as soon as I'm out of the way.
I reach for my phone and dial her number, praying she’ll answer. I get a message that her phone was disconnected, and I remember Tyler told me she’d changed her number.
I try Tyler's number, then both of her parents. No one answers.
She told me she was moving home for the summer, so I try her house phone. No one answers. I find the phone number for the Thurston County Sheriff's office and call them. I’m shuffled around for what seems like hours. Finally, I get on with someone who knows something.
The officer on the other end has a voice that’s lazy and unconcerned. “Forward the pictures to my email and I’ll take a look, but if he’s served his sentence, so there’s no direct supervision or check-ins he needs to do. Basically, he’s free to live his life.”
I’m getting desperate. “He’s obviously stalking her. Can you send someone to check on her, or at least warn her?”
He sighs. “You could contact her yourself.”
“I don’t have her phone number, her new address or—”
“I see.” The officer says, and I hear it in his voice.Are you sure you aren’t the one stalking her?After a long silence, he says. “Probably the best thing you can do is come down and file a restraining order. You said you were a victim too, and he isn’t supposed to have any contact with you. That would at least give us an excuse to talk to him when it was served. It might take a few days to process though.”
I work to keep my voice even. “I’m across the country in North Carolina. I’m deploying to Iraq in three days. I can’t just come down, and I can’t wait days for you to talk to him.”
