Oli would get mad. He’d grow angry, and as Aberlour continued to drown in his own fierce anger and heartbreaking grief, in the house he’d once considered his real home, he’d stop seeing it altogether. Oli’s anger, like wallpaper in his mind, covering what he’d loved with something else, until finally, the house on the end of the street, with the red door, and the mailbox, would no longer be home. It would just be Oli’s house. Oli’s home.
And Oli wasn’t Aberlour’s home anymore.
He sat down on the curb of the street, refusing to take a single step further. It was already close enough. Already too close.
What now? Where the fuck could he go? He wasn’t drunk anymore. His place was fucking miles away. He didn’t want to walk anywhere anymore.
He could always steal Oli’s car. He thought about it, briefly considering it. He turned, wondering if he’d put it in the garage, but no, it sat in the driveway. The old Buick impossible to miss, parked to the right of a shiny Mercedes Benz sports coupe Aberlour had never seen before.
He moved to get a better view; his left foot ended up in a puddle. Water filled his shoe. He waited for his breathing to stop.
He wished it would stop—
Chapter 24
Present day
May 2020
There was a huddle of old men on the far left of the bar. It was a large corner booth, right beneath a picture of a topless Marilyn Monroe from the very firstPlayboymagazine every published. This bar was the official gathering place for the town’s veterans. Aberlour had sat with them once. They’d tagged him as a Marine during one of his first solo visits to the bar and they’d practically dragged him back to their corner booth like squirrels stashing nuts for winter. All evening they’d rambled on about the “good ole days” when men were still men, and women knew where they belonged. Aberlour hadn’t remotely shared any of those views, but he’d been amused by the stories they told. Mostly because they weren’t true at all. Telling tall tales was just something they did for entertainment, he supposed.
He'd been to war. He’d been to the hellholes they described. He’d sat next to dying men and bleeding friends, and not once had he found it heroic. The reality was, for every tale of bravery and self-sacrifice, there was one of a scared boy pissing himself to sleep—cold, hungry, and praying for his mother. They never told those stories, however, and yet, to Aberlour, those were the only stories left worth telling. They were the onlytruths.He hadn’t sat with them again after that night, and whether sensing he did not want to be regaled by their glory days or because they were wary of his narrowed, cold eyes, they hadn’t tried to stash him into their booth again. It had been just as well; he didn’t come to the sleazy bar to socialize. That was never the purpose.
They were there again. The same old men, but there were a few missing. When he’d sat amongst them, he’d beensurrounded. Seven or eight of them, at least. There were only four now. Not even a huddle. Just a group. Aberlour wondered where the others were, but the forlorn expression on the faces of the men told him they were most likely dead and gone. He thought of Charles Aznavour again. Thought about life in his 20s and the men he’d lost. He thought of his parents and the bitter taste of death, and then he thought of the old Aberlour staring down at him from the ceiling mirror.
The thing about getting old was that, while you got old, some never got the chance.
He’d never really feared his own death, which was certainly no small feat, considering how often he’d looked it right in the eye and smiled. Aberlour had been a willing idiot. He’d always figured he’d die before he retired. He’d been prepared for such a thing. Had not welcomed it or anything so dramatic but had certainly expected it.
The part about getting old that no one prepared you for was living while everyone else moved on.
He was too young to be this bitter Aberlour thought, distractedly. He wasn’t sure when he’d lost the taste for adventure and freedom. Once upon a time, he’d rolled down the highway, craving the wind and the open road. He’d been so—happy. Now? He sought out dark bars, where he could hide and disappear, taking comfort in the roll of darts in his hands and the predictability of his aim.
He'd gotten so old. So fucking old for a man who was barely in his mid-30’s. Aberlour grabbed his drink and felt how cold the liquid was through the glass. He swished it around, enjoying the weight of the liquor as it rolled from side to side.
So fucking old. Yet with so many more years left. Death hadn’t come for him, not literally, but he wondered if perhaps it hadn’t gotten to him anyway. As though death had chiseled away at him every time it had come for those he loved. Chiseleduntil he’d cracked and ended up this shapeless, pointless lump of sharp edges.
He wondered how many more hits he could take before there would be nothing left that he’d recognize.
As if holding the answer, his phone rang again. He watched it buzz but didn’t move to answer it. Not yet.
Chapter 25
August 2014
They deployed early August. It wasn’t the official big parade with hundreds of loving wives and husbands waving off their significant others. It was just the six of them getting dropped off on the flightline to board a cargo plane waiting to fly them to their final destination.
He caught a ride with Marcus and Sabine. They were the last to arrive, Sabine—heavily pregnant—began to cry long before they hugged her goodbye.
JD was dropped off by his wife, waving goodbye and trying to smile through her tears as she drove away. Carlos’ mom hugged him and there was a long-winded goodbye in rapid-fire Spanish. Ghost’s daughter hugged her father goodbye, and he tossed her up in the air one last time before giving her a final kiss on the cheek.
Oliver had arrived before Aberlour. As a result, Aberlour had the misfortune of witnessing Abby give Oliver a goodbye kiss. It was a long one. With far too much tongue.
Abe quickly turned away and when he turned back around, duffle slung over his shoulder, she was pulling away from hugging him. Catching sight of Aberlour, she waved, unaware of his disgust.
“Hi, Gavin!” she greeted him warmly, although she too looked like she was about to cry.
Aberlour had neither the desire nor the words to pretend he was happy to see her. He gave her a curt nod and strode rapidly past her to board the cargo plane.
