I sit in a puddle of sweat on the couch, wishing I had something to change into, listening to the water run upstairs, trying not to think about Jess standing in the shower.
Tyler comes down the stairs. I’m grateful for the distraction. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing up this early?” I counter. I’m not sure how to explain why I’m here. “I thought you were a teenager.”
He shrugs and sits down on one of the chairs. “I don’t sleep so well anymore. I have nightmares a lot.”
“Me too,” I admit.
“Iraq?”
I nod.
He rubs his eyes, looks around him, and then he leans forward. “Tell me about it.”
“About what, Iraq?”
"Yeah."
I take a deep breath. I'm not sure if I should say anything. Will I make things worse or better for him? I start talking. Basic stuff at first—the weather, the people. He keeps pushing for more. I get into this and tell him a couple of funny stories. He keeps asking for more. I’m telling him about a tense day on patrol when his expression changes. At first I think I’ve gone too far, that I said too much. Then, I follow his gaze.
Jess is standing behind me. I’m not sure how to read the look on her face. “Are they paying you to recruit for the Army now?” Her voice is deadly cold.
Tyler stands up. “I asked him to tell me, Jess.”
“Don’t listen, Tyler. It’s not all the glory he makes it out to be.” She turns and heads for the door.
I follow her out. “Where are you going?”
“I need to buy a present for Jasmine.” She’s walking fast, like she wants to get away from me.
This time I won’t lether. “We need to talk.”
She doesn’t stop, and she doesn’t answer. She’s almost at her car. I grab her arm and turn her around to face me, harder than I mean to. Fear flashes in her eyes. I drop my hand, immediately ashamed. I saw Brad, her old boyfriend, grab her like that once. It made my blood boil. This time it’s me.
Her voice is cold and measured. “What do you want to talk about, Jacob?”
I take a deep breath and try not to sound angry. “There are some things I need you to explain to me.”
Her voice and expression don’t change. “Actually, I have some things I want you to explain to me.”
That catches me off guard. “Like what?”
“You were there; explain it to me.”
“Explain what? Iraq?”
She nods. There's something in her eyes that makes me think that question is some kind of trap. She doesn’t give me time to think. “Explain to me why my brother had to go to some God-forsaken desert and die for people who hated him. People who were happy to see him die. People who fired the grenade at him and cheered when they saw his mangled body and watched the Humvee burn. Why couldn’t he just stay home? Why couldn’t he be married now, happy, with Kendra? Why was he there? Why was Gage there? Why were you there?”
Her questions hang in the air—painful, angry, accusing. I don’t have any answers that will satisfy her.
She pushes forward again. “I’ve done a lot of reading in the last few months. I’ve learned some things. I used to think it was all black and white. People who opposed the war were unpatriotic or selfish. Now I think maybe they’re right. We shouldn’t be there. We shouldn’t be fighting for people who don’t want us there. We shouldn’t be tryingto help people who don’t want to be helped. We shouldn’t be saving people who want us dead.”
I lean against her car, wishing I knew what to say. I understand what she’s feeling more than she realizes. I’ve felt that frustration, that anger. But as insane as the whole thing was, when I was there, it made sense. We had a job to do, and we did the best we could. Boots on the ground have a different perspective than a talking-head armchair quarterback ever could.
She’s pacing back and forth. Working herself up again. I wish I could take her in my arms and give her some comfort. Physical comfort, something I know how to do. Talking is harder. What can I say that will make it better?
Nothing.
