Page 108 of Mr. Charming

Cooper

When I got back to my apartment, I called Logan, my old bunkmate in Afghanistan. We hadn’t talked in almost a year, but with everyone else from Afghanistan coming back into my life, I figured I should search him out too. Maybe he had the answers I sought.

“Hey, Cooper. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, I’ve been laying low since I got out.”

“I hear you. What’s up?”

“Want to grab a beer? I’ve got some stuff I want to talk out.”

“Oh no,” he said, chuckling. “More of your crazy theories on the origin of the universe or why oranges are the perfect fruit?”

I smiled.

“You remember all that shit?”

“Dude, we spent so many hours together. Your stories and monologues kept me going.”

“Glad I accomplished something over there. Let’s grab a beer tonight.”

“I had some plans, but I’ll change them. Where do you want to meet?”

“Let’s go to that joint down Seventy-Fifth Street. What was the name?”

“The Irish Paddler?”

“Yeah, that was it. We met there before we shipped out. Remember?”

“How could I forget. One of the craziest nights of my life.”

“I don’t think we’ll get that crazy tonight.”

He laughed.

“That’s what you always say. I’ll meet you there around seven. That work for you?”

“Sounds great, Logan. Good to hear your voice.”

“Yeah, you too man. Later.”

I ended the call. Afghanistan, even at the late stages of a war that had lasted longer than a decade, had been a place where lifelong bonds were formed for better or worse.

Was that why Jade wouldn’t vacate my thoughts no matter what I tried? Maybe a night of drinking with Logan would eject her, and I would be able to move on.

I did not need a crazy woman in my life. No matter how much I enjoyed fucking her. After talking to Logan, my spirits were lifted enough to make the afternoon tolerable.

While reading an autobiography from a man who had served in Vietnam, I kept glancing over at my phone, thinking Jade might call, but she never did. Fucking women.

*

Later that evening, I walked in the bar like I owned the place. It was pretty much empty, which wasn’t surprising for a Tuesday night. Most normal people who frequented bars had to work hard for their drinking money.

I saw Logan sitting at the bar and walked over. Taking a seat on a stool to his right, I patted his back as he looked in the other direction. He turned around and smiled the moment he saw me. We had been through so much together.

“How you been?” he asked then turned to the bartender. “Two glasses of your top-shelf single malt.”

“Not bad. Yourself?”