HeyLucas,
You worked on the clean-up module in the main framework, right? There’s something funky going on there. Tag me when yougetthis.
-Cam
After a quick break to order pizza, I check in on VetNet. The PTSD board is hopping, but few messages wait for me anywhere else. I have two missed messages from HuskyFan, so once I send my latest module to the compiler, I open up aprivatechat.
FlashPoint:Hey. How’s it going? Are you on baby watch yet? I never asked how far along yourwifewas.
The little dots at the bottom of the window spin as I crackmyneck.
HuskyFan:She’s got another eight weeks. My mother-in-law hates me for working all these extra hours, but in a little over a week, I’ll be done with this side job, and I’ll be able to afford our insurance. I took the boy to the Science Museum this morning, and he begged me to call in sick tomorrow. Broke my heart, but at least I got to spend a few hours with him before I headed off to mysidejob.
FlashPoint:That’s great, HF! Are things going okay at work?Bothjobs?
Again, the dots dance, but this time he stops typing then starts three times again before his messagepopsup.
HuskyFan:Yes.
I frown at all that time messaging for a single word answer. Then again, it’s hard to share with virtual strangers, and sometimes, we need to some encouragement toopenup.
Before I can reply, Oversight throws up an error. “You little bitch,” I mutter as I switch over to the compiler to try to find the problem. The computer dings at me, but other than a cursory glance at the flashing message window, I don’t look up for another fifteen minutes. Once I’ve eliminated the fault and sent the code through again, I find three messages waiting for me, each more concerned thanthelast.
FlashPoint:Sorry. Work is killing me right now. You were nervous about taking that side job. Did it turn out to be a goodthing?
Another few minutes pass while I verify that my code changes didn’t cause anything else tobreak.
HuskyFan:Not something I can really talk about, but the people I’m working for are assholes, and they don’t care that I have to work all night. I still don’t want to be here, but I don’t have much choice. How wasyourdate?
My cheeks heat, and as I shift in my recliner, all of the little aches and pains from a night—and morning—filled with ecstasy make themselvesknown.
FlashPoint:We’re going to Portland in a few weeks for a longweekend.
HuskyFan:Sounds fun. I took my wife there before we gotmarried.
On paper, he’s right. Three days with myboyfriendin one of my favorite cities should make me happy. So why am I vaguely nauseous? Leaning my head back against the chair, I remember West’s hands on me, the soft restraints he brought out the previous night, the overwhelming climax I had while blindfolded and unable to move my arms. Maybe this will be fun. Or at least…maybe I won’t screwthingsup.
HuskyFan:You stillthere?
I’m somewhere. Like back in West’sbedroom.
FlashPoint:No. I just… This is gettingserious.
Another few minutes pass as HuskyFan types, and I alternate between worry I’ve said too much and relief that I can admit my fears to someone—even if it is an anonymous someone on the internet. Lucas doesn’t even know the extent of my issues, though he’s tried to find out morethanonce.
HuskyFan:You like this guy, right? Isn’t serious a goodthing?
The pizza delivery guy shows up, and I’m grateful for the time to think of a reply that doesn’t make me sound like a commitment-phobic asshole. Though I’m not sure Isucceed.
FlashPoint:I haven’t had a long-term relationship in…well…ever? My record is three weeks. Any longer than that, and the guys want you to meet their parents and share secrets. I don’t do well with thoseparts.
HuskyFan is either typing a book, or he doesn’t know what to say. I’m about to tell him to ignore me when his message pops up on thescreen.
HuskyFan:We all have secrets. Even your dude. You said he gets you. Why not just ask him to be patient with you? Or do something really crazy and let him in. What’s the worst that couldhappen?
I could. Of course, I could. Just open my mouth and confess my painful history. But after our weekend together, I fear we’ve passed the point where I can admit I don’t have a relationship with my parents because I was an idiot sixteen years ago. I run my fingers over one of the thickest scars above mywrist.
FlashPoint:You don’t understand. My family won’t talk to me anymore because I did something supremely stupid. My best friend from the army—my CO for fuck’s sake—walked out on me after I got blown up. I work for him now. I have to face him every day, and know that I’ll never see the old Royce again. The one who used to challenge me to drinking contests, who talked me through every bomb I diffused, who used to give me his MRE brownies because oddly, they reminded me of my Nana’s. If this guy learns all of that, how likely do you think he is to stickaround?
