when he sees them for the first time. I think that’s another reason why I can’t call my mom. I need to see her and Livvie, and I know I can’t continue to put it off any longer. Thing is, spending time with my son and his mother is more important. Well, his mother is the icing on my unfrosted cake. If I get any time with her it’ll be worth it.
Tucker McCoy is our sniper and a damn good one. When we met back at the base after our fateful return, his story was similar to mine except his wife left and took their daughter. She didn’t leave a forwarding address and isn’t in her hometown. How he knows the latter is beyond me. I’m not going to ask. In fact, I try not to ask any questions because our wounds are so deep it’s like pouring salt in them, rinsing and repeating.
The guys are sitting at the table throwing the beers back. I can’t help but wonder if they were already here when I called them. I probably would’ve been had I not agreed to the therapy session today.
Just as I sit down, Raymond “River” Riveria, walks in. He receives pats on the back, shares handshakes and is admired by our fellow brothers. He’s our fire team leader and a damn fine one at that. Frannie, his wife, and Ryley are friends; at least, they were when we left. River’s the lucky bastard of the group. His wife welcomed him home with open arms and then vowed vengeance on whoever is responsible for the colossal fuck-up. Frannie offered their extra bedroom to me, but I declined. They haven’t seen each other in years, the last thing they need is a roommate. River and Frannie also know everything about what’s going with Ryley. It’s a bit comforting to hear from Frannie that Nate and Ryley didn’t just fall in love and that she refused him for years, even though it still hurts and doesn’t really change my opinion of the situation.
Since our return, it’s been a never-ending cycle of pain. I’m starting to wonder if we were better off never coming back. Most of the wives and families had accepted that we were dead, and yet here we are ripping open healed wounds without any of the answers that our families and we need so desperately.
There’s an uncomfortable silence at the table. It’s completely different from when you’re meeting someone for the first time and you’ve run out of things to talk about. This silence is deafening, scary. We have too much to say with far too many questions to ask, and we’re all afraid of the answers.
A fresh pitcher of beer is set on the table and two other glasses added. I nod at Slick Rick, who is a dear friend of all the SEALs. He’s owned this bar for years and has always catered to the Navy. As far as he’s concerned this is our establishment. He’s open seven days a week and when I asked him why, he said the military is always working and so was he. As soon as our glasses are filled, we raise them toward the bar, acknowledging our thanks. Rick waves us off as if thanks aren’t needed.
“I’m hiring a private investigator.” It’s McCoy who breaks the silence. He’s lost the most out of our group. While some may think that he’s in the same boat I am, it’s not strictly true. I have the luxury of seeing Ryley whenever I want even if it tears me apart. McCoy hasn’t seen his daughter, who was three when we left, and now she’s gone.
“It’s smart,” River says, as he sits down. “Frannie wants us to talk to someone from the CIA to help us.”
“Why?” Rask asks, which honestly dumfounds me.
“Because something happened to us and our families,” I say. “After the shit I learned today, the articles I read… this mission we were on was a cover-up for something bigger and we were pawns.” I chug down my glass of beer and refill it, emptying the pitcher. No sooner do I set it down, another one appears. Rick just knows.
“I know someone, or at least I did, in the CIA,” I add. “Her name is Cara, and she used to date my brother.” Before my mission, I
Tucker McCoy is our sniper and a damn good one. When we met back at the base after our fateful return, his story was similar to mine except his wife left and took their daughter. She didn’t leave a forwarding address and isn’t in her hometown. How he knows the latter is beyond me. I’m not going to ask. In fact, I try not to ask any questions because our wounds are so deep it’s like pouring salt in them, rinsing and repeating.
The guys are sitting at the table throwing the beers back. I can’t help but wonder if they were already here when I called them. I probably would’ve been had I not agreed to the therapy session today.
Just as I sit down, Raymond “River” Riveria, walks in. He receives pats on the back, shares handshakes and is admired by our fellow brothers. He’s our fire team leader and a damn fine one at that. Frannie, his wife, and Ryley are friends; at least, they were when we left. River’s the lucky bastard of the group. His wife welcomed him home with open arms and then vowed vengeance on whoever is responsible for the colossal fuck-up. Frannie offered their extra bedroom to me, but I declined. They haven’t seen each other in years, the last thing they need is a roommate. River and Frannie also know everything about what’s going with Ryley. It’s a bit comforting to hear from Frannie that Nate and Ryley didn’t just fall in love and that she refused him for years, even though it still hurts and doesn’t really change my opinion of the situation.
Since our return, it’s been a never-ending cycle of pain. I’m starting to wonder if we were better off never coming back. Most of the wives and families had accepted that we were dead, and yet here we are ripping open healed wounds without any of the answers that our families and we need so desperately.
There’s an uncomfortable silence at the table. It’s completely different from when you’re meeting someone for the first time and you’ve run out of things to talk about. This silence is deafening, scary. We have too much to say with far too many questions to ask, and we’re all afraid of the answers.
A fresh pitcher of beer is set on the table and two other glasses added. I nod at Slick Rick, who is a dear friend of all the SEALs. He’s owned this bar for years and has always catered to the Navy. As far as he’s concerned this is our establishment. He’s open seven days a week and when I asked him why, he said the military is always working and so was he. As soon as our glasses are filled, we raise them toward the bar, acknowledging our thanks. Rick waves us off as if thanks aren’t needed.
“I’m hiring a private investigator.” It’s McCoy who breaks the silence. He’s lost the most out of our group. While some may think that he’s in the same boat I am, it’s not strictly true. I have the luxury of seeing Ryley whenever I want even if it tears me apart. McCoy hasn’t seen his daughter, who was three when we left, and now she’s gone.
“It’s smart,” River says, as he sits down. “Frannie wants us to talk to someone from the CIA to help us.”
“Why?” Rask asks, which honestly dumfounds me.
“Because something happened to us and our families,” I say. “After the shit I learned today, the articles I read… this mission we were on was a cover-up for something bigger and we were pawns.” I chug down my glass of beer and refill it, emptying the pitcher. No sooner do I set it down, another one appears. Rick just knows.
“I know someone, or at least I did, in the CIA,” I add. “Her name is Cara, and she used to date my brother.” Before my mission, I
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