Kirkland in New Mexico.”
She leans her hip against the counter, crossing her arms. I risk a peek at her, then add in the salt, pepper and paprika to the flour and mix it with a fork. She’s never asked what branch of the military I was in, and it was on my application but I doubt she remembers.
Actually, I know she doesn’t because quietly, she asks, “Were you a SEAL?”
I shake my head. “Yes to Spec Ops, no to the Navy.”
“Marine?”
I scoff. “Do I look like a jar head to you?”
“Did you wear a beret?” she asks coyly, and I nod. I shouldn’t say anything else. “Was it green?”
I clear my throat again, and pride or ego or something I’m not sure of makes me say, “Maroon.”
Her brow furrows and I set down the fork, then slip off my IDs and hand them to her. There are only two units in the U.S. military that wear that color beret, one in the Army, and one in the Air Force. She’s going to find out sooner or later.
“After my social security number.”
“AF,” she says, then her eyes shoot up to mine and I take my chain back and re-drape it around my neck, letting it fall back inside my shirt. “The Air Force has Special Operations?” she asks, and I snort.
“Yep, we’re in charge of singing ‘Leaving On A Jet Plane’ and dancing around in our underwear.”
I step towards the refrigerator and grab two bottles of water, turning back around to find Zoe typing away on her cell phone in the living room. Seriously? She’s working now?
“Zoe—”
“ ‘The maroon beret has been an international symbol of elite airborne forces since it was chosen for British airborne forces in World War II’ ,” she rattles off and I lunge for her phone, but she jumps back out of my reach and keeps reading aloud as her eyes grow wider. “ ‘Worn by Pararescuemen or PJs in the United States Air Force, Pararescuemen are among the most highly trained emergency trauma specialists in the U.S. military and the only ones in the Department of Defense specifically trained and equipped to conduct conventional and unconventional rescue processes, making them the ideal force to handle personnel recovery and combat search and rescue operations.’ ”
I throw my hands up in defeat and stalk back to the kitchen, hearing her phone click and Zoe suck in a breath.
“You’re an EMT?” she asks, her voice raised in surprise, and I ignore her. “Two years , Luca? Two years of advanced training in swimming and skydiving and rock climbing and med training through your…” She pauses like she’s checking, then says in shock, “‘Superman School’?”
“Pipeline. Thought you were hungry,” I mutter, leaning forward on the counter with my weight braced on my hands.
“Why are you being so shy about this? This is incredible…” she trails off, and I wince when she begins to recite, “ ‘It is my duty as a Pararescueman —’”
“ ‘To save lives and to aid the injured,’ ” I say and turn around, crossing my arms as I face her and lean against the counter. “ ‘I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts. These things I do, that others may live.’”
She stares at me, and I arch an eyebrow at her.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” she asks, then shakes her head as if she’s lost for words. But apparently she finds some when she says, “You’re a hero , Luca.”
I harden my gaze.
“I’m not , and what does it matter what I used to be? I’m not a PJ anymore, remember? I’m building tables and hauling couches. Exchanging light bulbs in chandeliers.” I smirk harshly and then turn back around, taking a drink of water. But I flinch when I suddenly feel her fingertips press against my shoulder, covering the sixth bullet wound.
She only surprises me more when she then lightly touches the other five through the fabric of my shirt, like she somehow knows their placement even though
She leans her hip against the counter, crossing her arms. I risk a peek at her, then add in the salt, pepper and paprika to the flour and mix it with a fork. She’s never asked what branch of the military I was in, and it was on my application but I doubt she remembers.
Actually, I know she doesn’t because quietly, she asks, “Were you a SEAL?”
I shake my head. “Yes to Spec Ops, no to the Navy.”
“Marine?”
I scoff. “Do I look like a jar head to you?”
“Did you wear a beret?” she asks coyly, and I nod. I shouldn’t say anything else. “Was it green?”
I clear my throat again, and pride or ego or something I’m not sure of makes me say, “Maroon.”
Her brow furrows and I set down the fork, then slip off my IDs and hand them to her. There are only two units in the U.S. military that wear that color beret, one in the Army, and one in the Air Force. She’s going to find out sooner or later.
“After my social security number.”
“AF,” she says, then her eyes shoot up to mine and I take my chain back and re-drape it around my neck, letting it fall back inside my shirt. “The Air Force has Special Operations?” she asks, and I snort.
“Yep, we’re in charge of singing ‘Leaving On A Jet Plane’ and dancing around in our underwear.”
I step towards the refrigerator and grab two bottles of water, turning back around to find Zoe typing away on her cell phone in the living room. Seriously? She’s working now?
“Zoe—”
“ ‘The maroon beret has been an international symbol of elite airborne forces since it was chosen for British airborne forces in World War II’ ,” she rattles off and I lunge for her phone, but she jumps back out of my reach and keeps reading aloud as her eyes grow wider. “ ‘Worn by Pararescuemen or PJs in the United States Air Force, Pararescuemen are among the most highly trained emergency trauma specialists in the U.S. military and the only ones in the Department of Defense specifically trained and equipped to conduct conventional and unconventional rescue processes, making them the ideal force to handle personnel recovery and combat search and rescue operations.’ ”
I throw my hands up in defeat and stalk back to the kitchen, hearing her phone click and Zoe suck in a breath.
“You’re an EMT?” she asks, her voice raised in surprise, and I ignore her. “Two years , Luca? Two years of advanced training in swimming and skydiving and rock climbing and med training through your…” She pauses like she’s checking, then says in shock, “‘Superman School’?”
“Pipeline. Thought you were hungry,” I mutter, leaning forward on the counter with my weight braced on my hands.
“Why are you being so shy about this? This is incredible…” she trails off, and I wince when she begins to recite, “ ‘It is my duty as a Pararescueman —’”
“ ‘To save lives and to aid the injured,’ ” I say and turn around, crossing my arms as I face her and lean against the counter. “ ‘I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts. These things I do, that others may live.’”
She stares at me, and I arch an eyebrow at her.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” she asks, then shakes her head as if she’s lost for words. But apparently she finds some when she says, “You’re a hero , Luca.”
I harden my gaze.
“I’m not , and what does it matter what I used to be? I’m not a PJ anymore, remember? I’m building tables and hauling couches. Exchanging light bulbs in chandeliers.” I smirk harshly and then turn back around, taking a drink of water. But I flinch when I suddenly feel her fingertips press against my shoulder, covering the sixth bullet wound.
She only surprises me more when she then lightly touches the other five through the fabric of my shirt, like she somehow knows their placement even though
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