Page 72 of Proof Of Life
“Sorry, Goose, but it’s time to buzz the tower,” he recites, then he notices me and says, “Oh, morning, babe.”
Babe. It makes me smile. I’ve never been someone’s babe before. I like it coming from him. I fill my mug and join him on the couch. He’s in full-on fanboy mode, with his mug that reads ‘It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’
His favorite part is coming up. Just like he always does, he raises his mug and smiles, like he’s toasting the fucking brillance of the scene or something. Jesus Christ, I’ve fallen for a freaking dork.
If there was a con for Top Gun fans, he’d be the first in line, guaranteed.
Here it comes. Three. Two. One.
“Goddammit, that’s twice! I want some butts!” Brandt yells.
He cracks up, like it’s the best line ever, and for the first time in the billions of times I’ve heard him repeat it, I laugh. Not at the genius of the script, but at him. Brandt Aguilar is fucking adorkable. And loveable. And mine. He’s all mine.
Brandt glances at me and smiles. “You know, I have a whole new appreciation for that volleyball scene. Want me to rewind it and see if it does anything for you?”
Christ. “I’m good, thanks. But if you want to take off your shirt and get all sweaty for me and sing ‘Playing With The Boys’, I won’t stop you.”
He has to do a double-take before he realizes I’m fucking with him. “Whatever. Don’t ruin the ending for me.”
Me? Not a chance. I’m gonna sit right here and sip my coffee and silently fall even harder for my best friend while he makes a fool of himself.
And I’m gonna enjoy every minute.
Riggs hooked me up with a volunteer opportunity. I didn't tell Brandt the position is called BALLS Buddies. I’m a Ball Buddy. What-the-fuck-ever. Apparently, the other nut in my sac is named Armando Cahill. I’m meeting him at the VA for a doctor’s appointment he has scheduled. Riggs explained to me how some of these guys have anxiety over medical stuff, which I fully understand, even if I don’t suffer from it myself. They just want a hand to hold. I’m hoping he meant figuratively and not literally.
Today, I’m holding Armando’s hand.
Although I don’t have medical anxiety, I can’t deny a tightening in my gut as I walk into the VA. I’ve got nothing but bad memories of military hospitals. Shit, now I kinda wish Brandt was here to hold my hand while I’m holding Armando’s.
I hear him give his name to the receptionist at the check-in desk and wait for him off to the side. While he’s filling out papers, I check him out. Armando is tall, taller than me, maybe like six-foot-three, with dark hair cut short and dark eyes. Though he’s retired now, his body still retains muscle and mass. He’s built solid and thick. If his size isn’t imposing enough to catch your attention, his injuries will. Armando is a burn victim. Half his face is scarred and his ear is disfigured. The burns cover his hands and one arm, and I’m guessing they continue underneath his clothes.
He turns from the counter to find a seat in the waiting area, and I step forward.
“Hey, Cahill. I’m West Wardell. I’m supp–”
“Hey, yeah. Thanks for coming. You can call me Mandy.”
We take a seat and I realize we’re settling in for the long haul, because everything at the VA is long. The wait time, the lines, the forms, and the recovery time. We’re going to have to make small talk.
I fucking suck at small talk.
His knee bounces wildly, and I can tell he’s nervous.
“So, where’d you serve?”
Mandy glances at me like he forgot I was sitting here and blows out a deep breath. “Eighty-second Airborne. I was deployed to Bagram Airfield in Kabul.”
Kabul. My body flushes with heat as I remember the blast that took my leg and my team. Apparently, Kabul took something from Mandy as well.
I want to ask what happened, but he’s clearly agitated as it is, and I don’t want to make a bad situation worse. A story for another day, I guess.
“I know Kabul well.” Unfortunately. He looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin with anxiety, and I check my backpack, hoping my Mad Libs are still packed. Yup, they’re there. “Hey, help me out here. Give me an adjective that rhymes with easy.”
He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads until he sees the cover of my pad, and he chuckles. “Sleazy. Wheezy. Cheesy. Measly.”
“Okay, okay,” I laugh. “You’re way better at this than Brandt.”
I realize I have to explain who Brandt is, but how? Is he my best buddy? My lover? So fucking awkward. He’s all those things and more. He’s everything. But to say that is to open myself up for judgment. Then I’ll have to defend myself and Brandt and our right to feel the way we do about each other. It probably doesn’t make a difference to Mandy one way or another, but I feel like I’m being tested, like this is a huge decision I’m making. Whether to be honest about myself or whether to hide.