Well, shit. Here we go.
“Yeah,” is all I tell her.
“Yeah?” she prods. “Since when? And why?”
I shrug. Since the night before Collins died. “A while ago.”
“You picked up a gross habit like that without telling me, and all you have to say is ‘Yeah?’”
“Didn’t think I needed permission to do something.”
“You don’t, but I thought we were always on the same page about smoking, about how bad it is for your lungs as an athlete, about?—”
“Yeah, we were,” I hiss. “But I’m not an athlete anymore, or have you forgotten?”
“If you keep talking to me like this, I’m going to hang up.”
Her words sting, but I’m too numb inside to break down. There’s no where I can go on this base to have my privacy, to sit and spend hours hashing out how I feel, how my mind is fucked, and how I can’t seem to get over this thick gray haze in my head that tells me how much I’ve fucked up. “Talking to you like what?”
“Like I’m some asshole. Like I’m someone you can’t stand. I’m your girlfriend, remember? Your best friend for the last fifteen years.”
“What the fuck do you want to know, Mags?” I yell. “Do you want to know how much death and destruction I’ve seen? I’ve caused? Do you want to know how often I shoot to kill? It feels fucking great to kick in a door and take down whoever I see.” The heads at the picnic table have all turned, and I flip them off, turning to pace in the opposite direction. “There is real shit that happens out here, Mags. This isn’t some fluffy life like you live …there’s more going on than rainbows and unicorns and being the fucking sugar plum fairy.”
“Lukas,” she warns, her voice wavering. “Knock it the fuck off.”
I can count on one hand the times I've heard her drop an F-bomb, and they’ve never been directed at me. In a sick way, it feels good to get her mad.
“It’s okay to be hurting,” she continues. “It’s okay to be hurting and angry and whatever, but it’s not okay to take it out on me. Don’t start to hate me because I’m not living like you.”
Her words are a gut punch. I pull the phone from my ear and let my head fall back, staring up at the arid sky. It’s already a hundred fucking degrees, the hottest part of the day. The sun heats the skin on my face. I hear her call my name a few times, but I don’t have it in me to answer. There’s a small part of me that wants to hang up on her. Wants her to hang up on me. To be done with this conversation. Every day feels like the start of a new week of fresh hell, and all I’m doing is dragging her through it with me.
“Lukas,” she calls out, and I can hear the tears straining her voice.
Putting the phone back to my ear, I press my fingertips into my eyes. Fuck, I’m such an asshole. I can beat myself into the ground as much as I want, but Magnolia doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve my attitude, or my shitty remarks. She doesn’t deserve the occasional phone call I can barely muster to make and a stack of unfinished letters. She’s the best person I’ve ever known, and I don’t deserve to have her. “I’m sorry, Mags,” I croak, my lips quivering as I bite back the tears. “I’m so fucked up in the head right now, I?—”
She must have moved back to the dressing room, and I can hear her whispering to someone that she needs another second.
“You probably need to go, hey?”
She sniffles, and fuck, now I’ve made her cry before getting on stage. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Mags, I shouldn’t have called.”
She pushes out a shaky breath. She doesn’t agree, but she also doesn’t disagree.
“I’ll let you go.”
“So, what? This is how it ends? Thanks for the fight, talk to you in a month, maybe?” It’s her turn to scoff. “Something has to change, Lukas. I know that you’re in a hard space right now, and I’d love to be there for you more, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying we need to find a way to communicate more.”
“I can’t give you much more when I’m in the middle of a fucking desert.”
Someone calls out a five-minute warning in the background, and I tell her again that I’ll let her go.
“Alright,” she responds, voice defeated. “Love you?”
“How come you say it like you’re not sure?”
