"It always is, Naomi. That's how it always feels."
Naomi nods, thoughtfully. I let the silence stretch between us. It’s more comfortable now, in spite of the subject matter.
"What did your mother do?" I ask.
"She was a librarian." A smile touches her lips, and fond feelings clearly light her eyes. "That was the other half of me. She loved books. And research. But don’t stereotype her because it wouldn’t fit. She is loud and forward, and she lets you know exactly how she feels. My father was the quiet one. So I guess I am the exact mix of those two things."
What an amazing cocktail, I think. I've felt drunk on it since I took my first sip. Beauty with brains and a backbone.
"What about your parents?" Naomi asks, turning those blue eyes back to me.
"Didn't know them."
"Oh," Naomi says. And she somehow makes those two letters full of empathy and apology. No pity, though. I appreciate that.
"You only live one life. This one's mine. So I don't know what I missed."
The words come out easily, practiced. I've told myself this so many times it feels like the truth. But looking at Naomi now, this beautiful person she is inside and out, clearly talking about two people who loved her, I realize it's a lie.
Maybe if I had a small piece of that, I wouldn't be what I was. I wouldn't have been shaped solely by the program or by people who thought I’d make a better weapon than a person. Perhaps I'd have had some foundation of humanity to build on, instead of having to exile myself.
"What made you join the Army?" Naomi asks, her voice gentle against the hum of the tires on asphalt.
I consider my answer carefully.
"Needed direction and discipline. Seemed like a good place to get it."
What I don't tell her is why I chose to listen to a man who came to me when I was in the Army. Said he represented a special program. Said I had qualities they were looking for. I don't tell her about the deal I made with that devil to become what I am now.
Naomi nods, accepting my answer without pushing further. My body relaxes back into the seat.
"Mountains or ocean?" she asks brightly.
"Mountains. You?"
"Mountains." She beams. "That cabin that you so rudely burned down is exactly my dream. Do you know how much reading I could get done in a place like that?"
I smile at that. A real smile. Naomi doesn't look scared by it, so I must be doing it right.
"You'd have to chop a lot of wood," I say. "Winters are brutal."
"I could handle it," she says confidently.
“I don’tdoubt it.”
She'd be good in the mountains. Better than me, probably. I went there to hide— she'd go there to live.
“Is that where we call home?” Naomi asks.
I look at her, probably longer than is safe while driving. And a whole life flashes like lightning in my mind. A life in a cozy cabin in the woods that’s not purgatory, but heaven when occupied with her.
“Yeah,” I grunt out.
We fall into lighter conversation after that, topics flowing between us for hours as the sun sets. Favorite colors (hers is cobalt blue, mine is forest green). When we stop at a diner for dinner, we discuss the foods we love (Thai for her, and I confess a cliched weakness for Texas barbecue) as well as those we hate. She’s one of those people who thinks cilantro tastes like soap. I tell her no olives.
We both dislike tomatoes. And for the same reason. The taste is fine; it’s the texture.
The sky dark now, she says, "I've never been to Europe.”
