“I’ll be right back.” I offer, watching him climb from the truck and wander off into the darkness, waiting until light spills from the churchdoor as he steps inside before I climb over the console and start the engine.
It’s not uncommon for men like Brighton to get too familiar with death. More often than not, they spent their time at funerals because if active duty didn’t kill them, home soil sometimes finished the job, but I knew the sound of a man who meant it when he said he wanted to die.
I’d still be able to tell his footsteps just from the sound.
I inhale slowly and pull out of the parking lot to find the closest coffee shop. I have zero information about who will be there, so I grab whatever I can and hope it’s enough. I linger outside a liquor store, debating if they’d also want that, but I’ve never seen Brighton drink and would feel weird about bringing it into a church.When I pull into the lot, José swings in from the opposite side and brings his jeep up beside me.
“Need some help?” He asks, hopping from his seat and grabbing the bag I’m balancing on top of the donut box. He looks exhausted, and his shirt is buttoned wrong, crooked all the way up.
“Thanks.” I shoulder the rest, grab the two boxes of coffee, and let José close the door behind me as we start inside.
“Where’s Bright?”
“Inside,” I say, not having anything else to offer him. He eyes me for a second, shifting his grip on the bag he’s carrying to open the church door.
“Don’t take it personally,” he says after a minute. “Brighton doesn’t even talk in groups.”
“He doesn’t?” I question as he leads me over to a table.
“Never.” José shakes his head. “I know he’s one of the best guys to be stationed with, and I know that he did everything he could to save those boys in his squad.” He mentions, and I tense.
His squad?
“He never talks about them,” I push, just to see if I can learn something new that might help him through whatever grief he was about to tackle.
“They call them ‘The Six, ’” he says while he helps me set out the food and cups. “It was a tragedy, really. Bad ops had them marching through a town they shouldn’t have been in. Child Soldiers."
“It was kids?” I do everything I can to keep my face neutral.
“Ambushed them in an alley, killed everyone. Brighton had stopped to help some old lady on the side of the road, and by the time he found them, three were dead, and the other three bled out. Brighton kept them going for twelve hours until evac came, but it was too late.” José explains. “I couldn’t imagine the guilt he feels, but there was nothing he could do. If he weren’t so damn kind, he would have never helped her and would have walked into the same ambush. I think that’s why he doesn't talk about it, because he still thinks it's his fault they’re gone. Like he wasn’t enough, so he doesn’t get to share their stories.”
“He’s punishing himself,” I whisper, and José nods. “He just doesn’t talk to anyone?”
“Maybe, Sarge, but never in front—” he trails off as the door opens and more guys file in.
“Hey,” Brighton calls from the other end of the room. He looks so tired and sad. “In here.”
They all follow the sound of his voice and leave me alone with the story of Brighton’s past, haunting me. I sit on a bench and open my phone. The Six. I type it into the search bar and a few articles from 2017 pop up in the results. He had been twenty-five when it happened. I clench my jaw and scroll through the article. There’s a lot of information I don’t understand, and even more that breaks my heart. Most of them were dads with young kids, just like Brighton. My nose stings as I try to keep the tears at bay, but when I see the photo of them together, smiling with their arms around each other, I break.
Major Brighton Black’s efforts will not go unnoticed. The twenty-five-year-old combat medic lasted twelve hours bouncing between the bodies of his remaining squad members, doing whatever he could to bring them home alive.
The photo below rewireshow I see him.
He’s being escorted off a plane in some desert location following what looks like six gurneys, his gear soaked and stained in blood around the knees and torso. My stomach churns.“Is there a reason there's six?” I had asked him about those daisies.For twelve hours, he had knelt in the blood of his friends. I set the phone down and wipe my tears on the back of my sweater sleeve with shaky hands.
I inhale, taking a walk to clear my head. I couldn’t let the information eat at me, not because it shouldn’t, but because Brighton needed me to be the strong one for the two of us. Even if he doesn’t want me to be.I busy my hands and brain, finish setting up the food and wander closer to the door where most of them disappeared through to listen to the plans, but I only hear José and Brighton arguing.
“What do you mean he’s not coming?” Brighton snaps.
“I called him on the way over here to see if he wanted a ride, and he told me that he couldn't make it,” José explains.
“This isn’t optional.” Brighton’s voice is exhausted and strained. “He was one of Harvey’s best friends. I shouldn’t even be holding this!” Something gets thrown across the room, a chair maybe, and a loud sigh leaves José, “I’m sorry.”
“Annie said she’ll handle the food, and Leon’s girl can help set up a group to contact anyone who might wanna come to the funeral. Let us handle it. I know this is hard.”
“It’s not hard, it’s bullshit.” He swears before stomping away.
I tried to convince Brighton that working is a terrible idea, but he storms around the Hollow like a black cloud. There’s so much electricity coursing beneath his skin that he’s ready to blow at any second.
