Page 39 of Proof Of Life
“No, my profile picture is a shot of my stellar abs,” he says, running his hand down his self-proclaimed washboard stomach.
The guys chuckle and shake their heads, but Riggs explains, “Nobody likes to be surprised. They deserve to know what they’re getting into. Perhaps be honest about it upfront, and if they still reply, you have a better chance of them showing up for the date.”
I glance sideways at West to see his reaction. I hate that he’s hearing this and probably thinking he’s going to have the same luck. He's already mentioned his fears about dying fifty years from now with the same load in his nuts because he doesn’t think anyone wants it. Well, besides me. He probably thinks I want it out of pity. If only he knew how little I pity him.
West is seriously abusing his heart squeezy, and I make my way over to the table and choose two blue balls of yarn and some needles for us. He accepts it reluctantly, shooting me a withering glare. At least he’s not making a joke about blue balls.
“What about you two?” a man asks. He has a brown mohawk, and his lip is pierced.
“Jax, they’re new. Everyone gets a pass on their first meeting,” Riggs says, bailing us out.
But if I pass, so will West, and I really want this to work. I need him to agree to give the Bitches a chance.
“No, I don’t mind. I’m Aguilar and this is Wardell. I don’t know what to say. It’s been… It’s been hard since we’ve been back stateside. Sometimes it feels like we have more bad days than good. It’s a struggle, but I’m grateful I don’t have to struggle alone. Also, I have no idea how to knit, but if you can point out some resources, I’ll give it a try.”
Jax stands up and crosses the circle, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a folded up piece of paper that he hands to me. “That’s our phone tree. If you’re having a bad day, start at the top of the list and work your way down. One of us will always answer. And if you message me, I’ll shoot you some website links for getting started with the needles.”
“If I can convince a date to come home with me, I ain’t gonna answer,” McCormick insists.
Stiles looks shocked. “You wouldn’t answer if you had a girl in your bed?”
“Hell no! Not like I need to give them another reason to leave.”
“Well, skip his name and call me first,” Stiles offers.
I glance at Riggs and see the humor dancing around the edges of his mouth. He’s probably used to this back-and-forth nonsense banter, but for me and West, it’s new, and it feels good, lighthearted, even. Like the way we used to joke with our team. A familiar stab of pain spikes through my heart at the memory of them, of their laughter and their smiling faces, of the countless arguments over artillery and weapons and tanks and food.
Will it ever hurt less? Would I want it to?
They ramble for forty-five more minutes until Riggs says, “That’s about it for today, gentlemen. I’ll see you next week. Stiles, if you need help with a job search this week, call me.”
We linger as the other guys wrap it up and move past us, and each one stops to high-five us on their way past. It’s a small taste of the old brotherhood and camaraderie we used to have until recently, when our world was torn apart and reduced down to just the two of us.
When Riggs moves to the door, we follow him out. “I’m glad you guys stayed. It’s a good group. I hope we see you again next week.”
“Hey Riggs,” a guy says as he squeezes past us.
“Marx, what’s up, man?” Riggs claps him on the back.
“Not much, doing good. How about you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Well, that’s all any of us can ask for. See ya.”
We step aside so we’re not blocking traffic through the door as the classroom begins to fill up for another group. “That’s my buddy Brewer Marx,” Riggs explains. “He runs the addiction support group.”
When Riggs and I turn to leave, West lingers, spying on the group. Eventually, he catches up with us down the hall. I wave goodbye to Margaret Anne on our way out the door, and when we climb into the Jeep, West hesitates with his seatbelt.
“Reaper? Don’t ever let me end up in that group.”
“Dude, those guys seemed cool. Your dick isn’t going to fall off because you’re knitting.”
“No, the other one. For addicts. Swear to me, you’ll never let me end up there.”
A knot of emotion gathers in my throat, and it’s hard to swallow as I look into his earnest face. He means it. He’s desperate not to end up like that, not that I would ever let him.
“I swear to you. I’d rather suck-start a pistol than let you go down that road.” I’m relieved he had a glimpse into that dark brief ending and decided he didn’t want it. “Come on, we’ve got a stop to make before we head to lunch.”