Page 77 of Proof Of Life
“Pharo?” Riggs prompts. “Anything new?”
“I'm about to head out of town again. Don't know how long I'll be gone. I just really needed to be here today, to touch base and get grounded before…you know.”
I did know. Civilian life is a whole other world from deployment. Like a parallel universe.
It's Jax’s turn, but he remains silent, scowling at the threads in his jeans.
“What's up with you man?” Stiles asks.
“I'm here, aren't I?” he snipes.
“That doesn't mean you're okay,” Riggs says.
“I am for today. Been fighting depression and anger this week.”
“If you need help coping, please reach out,” Riggs begs.
“Hell, I'll even break my rule and answer the damn phone if I'm on a date with Carly,” McCormick offers as Stiles rolls his eyes.
I can’t help but laugh when Stiles says, “Just do yourself a favor and call me first.”
Riggs continues. “Well, I'm glad to be home. Like I said, I had a close call this week, some triggering moments that brought me back to a dark time, but that's what I signed up for when I reenlisted. I'm not ready to share about it. I'm not even sure if I can. It's classified. But I'm coping and I'm speaking to my therapist, Brewer Marx. I want to thank you all for being good to him while I was gone. Brandt?”
As comfortable as I feel among these guys, I hate speaking in front of the group. It's one thing to shoot the shit, but it's another to speak about things that are private, like feelings.
“I'm in a good place this week. West and I are starting a new venture and it's going well. I'm excited to see where it goes. It feels good to connect with familiar things from my past, like being outdoors, sleeping rough, shooting a gun, and having my sidekick back.” I glance at West and he gives me a smile that reaches his eyes.
West huffs and pushes his fingers through his hair, making the ends stand at attention. “As usual, my week has been up and down. Both good and bad. At least I can say it's a good balance of both. We had a blast from the past,” he admits, looking at me. “Our ex-CO wants us to show up for a ceremony and receive awards and…I'm struggling. I don't feel that I deserve to be recognized. And it's not coming from a place of self-pity or guilt. I honestly didn't do jack shit to deserve a hero award. I didn't save anyone. I didn't do something heroic or extraordinary. I survived by luck and the grace of God, and probably Brandt, and I don't think that's deserving of a bronze star or purple heart.”
Looking around the group, I see several guys close their eyes or nod their heads. They've all been there, receiving medals they don't feel they deserve. Some of them do, and some of it was probably just a formality, but we can all relate. It's why I love this group. Who else would understand but the Bitches?
“I've also been struggling with some truths about myself, and I feel like I made a lot of progress with it this week. But more on that later.”
West gives me a secret smile, and I know he's talking about us, coming out to my mother and then Mandy.
I’m so fucking proud of you.
It's Mandy's turn, and he looks to me and West before speaking. “I had a difficult week. I'm not really used to talking about my life or my feelings. I guess I don't have anyone in my life who gives a shit. The doc said I have to undergo more skin grafts, and I'm freaking out. I suffer from extreme medical anxiety and the hospitals, the surgeries, the feeling of powerlessness when you go under anesthesia, gives me the fucking heebie-jeebies. Not to mention the pain of recovery. And then the disappointment when I look in the mirror and don't see much improvement. I fucking hate looking in the mirror,” he grumbles. “Somehow, I got lucky enough to meet West and then Brandt, and they offered to hold my hand through it all, literally,” he laughs. “I guess I'm going to be okay, but each surgery takes a piece from me, from my soul, and I don't know what will happen if I lose too many of those pieces. Will I lose my peace of mind completely? I swear I don't have much left as it is.”
“You're in the right place, brother,” Stiles swears. “We'll get you a phone tree list, and you can call us anytime. I'll hold your hand.”
“Yeah,” McCormick seconds, “I'll hold your hand, too.”
It's oddly heartwarming coming from such huge scarred guys decorated in leather and tattoos. They really are the best of the best.
The Black Mountain Tavern is pretty empty considering it’s Wednesday afternoon. Stiles, McCormick, Mandy, and West join me at a round table near the bar. We order wings, potato skins, and beer, and with each glass emptied, the bullshit gets thicker.
“Man, I burned that bush with a flamethrower!” McCormick brags.
Stiles snorts. “You’re so full of shit, your eyes are brown. You never fired a flamethrower, you jackass. They’re practically outlawed. Mostly so geniuses like you don’t hurt themselves.”
The guys roll their eyes and shake their heads. He really is full of shit.
“I did,” Mandy admits, breaking the silence.
“You did, what?” West asks.
“Use a flamethrower.”