Page 60 of Proof Of Life
“Since Boot Camp,” I say.
“Twelve long years,” West adds.
“Wow, that’s a long time.” He shoves a potato skin in his mouth as he glances back-and-forth between the two of us. “I like what you shared today,” he says to West. “I can imagine after what you two went through, you were in a pretty dark place for a long time. I’m glad to see you’re starting to crawl out.”
“How do you know what we went through?” West asks, his brows drawing down tight.
“Everybody knows. It was all over the news for weeks. Every major network across the country picked up the story.” He studies us, maybe taking note of our surprised expressions, and his eyebrows rise. “You didn’t know? Hell,” he laughs, “you two are national heroes.”
Fuck, I know how much West hates that word.
“We were stuck in a hospital in Germany for weeks. I guess it was old news by the time we got back stateside.”
West nods. “I didn’t even know what had happened until I woke up. I was in for quite a shock when I pulled the covers back on my leg.”
“Fuck, that’s a terrible way to find out.”
“What about you? How’d you lose yours?” West asks.
“Humvee drove over an IED. Kaboom! Next thing I know, the damn thing rolled on top of me. There were five of us. Two died, Manny lost his arm, and Margie–" McCormick swallows and bites his lip. I can see he’s struggling. “–she…her face–” Swallowing again, he looks back and forth between us. “Half of it’s gone now.”
A sick feeling drops like lead to the pit of my stomach, souring the beer and potato skins. West covers McCormick’s hand with his. “How are they doing now?”
A sheen covers his eyes, and I can see and feel what it’s costing him not to fall apart in this restaurant.
“I don’t know. I don’t keep in touch with them. We used to be close, but… I just can’t. You know?” His voice cracks, and he’s barely holding it together. “I tried, but it’s just it’s too much, and I can’t–”
“Hey, you don’t have to. Brandt says we’re victims of the tragedy we went through, and we’re victims to the aftermath and the feelings we’re left with. Those corrosive thoughts eat away at us like acid. And it’s not our fault. Nobody gets to tell us how to manage those feelings. They don’t fucking know what we’ve been through, so they can’t imagine what it feels like. If you did the best you can, then you did more than enough. You don’t owe anybody a fucking explanation, least of all us.”
McCormick laughs weakly as he sniffles into his napkin and then washes down the rest of his beer in one long gulp. “I’m glad you get it.” He breathes in a deep breath and releases it harshly. “So, how's the new blade working out? It looks good on you.”
“It’s not bad. We tested it out on the track today, didn’t we, Brandt?”
I could bring up the grandma situation because we all need a good laugh right about now, but I’ll spare his ego. So instead, I just nod.
“I can’t wear it for long, though. I’m already starting to feel it.”
“In your hips and lower back, right?” McCormick asks. “It's because the blade is longer than your leg, and it throws everything out of alignment.”
“Yes! It’s nice to talk to someone who understands.”
He glances at me to see if I understand, but he doesn’t realize how his words cut me. It stings. I feel like I’m on the outside looking in for the first time, and that someone else understands him better than I do. The feeling doesn’t sit right with me at all, but I cover my anger with a false smile. West needs this. Needs to feel like one of the guys. Needs to bond with people who literally walk in his shoes. Truth is, I don’t. I’m a bystander to his struggles.
Frustrated with my jealousy, I push to my feet. “I gotta take a piss. I’ll be back.”
In the bathroom, I'm not alone. When I finish relieving myself, I hit the sink to wash my hands as a man empties out of the other stall, joining me at the sink. He’s the same height as me, pretty much the same build, with dark hair and eyes, like West. But he’s nowhere near as attractive as West, at least not to me. I feel his eyes on me in the mirror, taking his time as he lathers his hands with soap, like he’s trying to seduce me with hygiene or something. Just as I meet his eyes in the mirror, West pushes into the bathroom, and he stands behind me, eyeing the guy without saying a word. The tension reaches an uncomfortable peak. He places his phone on the counter between our sinks.
“You can put your number in there if you want.”
West shoulders his way between us with all the grace of a bull in a china shop and swipes the guy's phone to the side, practically dropping it in the sink. “Excuse me,” he says rudely. “Are you done with that sink?”
“Y-Yeah,” the guy stutters, finally looking at West. He pockets his phone and gives me one last long look before he walks out.
I play it off with a laugh and shake my head, and West's gaze is burning a hole through my head in the reflection of the mirror. He's not amused.
He rips a paper towel from the wall holder and dries his hands before chucking the wadded up ball into the trash. “It’s time to go.”
He’s silent on the ride home, staring out the window, fidgeting with the radio, but I can feel his anger and anxiety mounting with each passing mile until he finally blurts, “Maybe you should turn around and go back, get that guy’s number.” I hold my breath, and he adds, “He was obviously into you.”