Just Remember to Breathe (21 page)

I nodded. “Me, too. But I missed all my classes today. I’m going to need to keep it together tomorrow.”

He nodded, then said, “If it helps any… Ah, shit. Dylan will not appreciate this. But fuck him. I’m sending you some emails. From last March, when he first got to Walter Reed. I think you need to read them. If nothing else, it will give you some insight into the crazy shit going on in his head.”

He took out his phone, and I could see him paging through it. “All right,” he said. “What’s your email address?”

“Um… AlexLovesStrawberries, all one word, at yahoo.com.”

He grinned. “That’s hilarious. Okay. Just… delete these or something, okay? I shouldn’t be sending them to you at all. But… look. He’s my friend. And it’s killing me seeing him do this to himself.”

My phone chimed a second later. I checked, and there were the emails from Sherman.
 

“Thank you,” I said.

“You going to be okay?” he asked.

I shrugged. “What’s okay, when your heart is breaking apart? I’m not going to go kill myself, if that’s what you’re asking. But no. I’m not okay.” For the first time since the talk with Dylan, my voice broke. “I’m not okay at all.”

There wasn’t anything else to say. I asked him how long he was staying in town.
 

“Couple weeks. At least that was the plan. I don’t know if Dylan’s going to want me around, but all my crap’s at his place. We’ll see what happens, okay? I’ll keep you in the loop. If nothing else, I need to try to keep him out of jail.”

I swallowed, then said, my voice very quiet, “Thank you.”

We stood, and he gave me an awkward hug, and I began to trudge back to my dorm. I could see Dylan in my mind: lean, exhausted, pale, leaning his head against the wall. Telling me that he had to protect me from
him
, that he was ending it, because he wasn’t good enough. The heartache and pain in his eyes as he pushed away from me.
 

If I had any doubts whether or not he loved me, they were gone. But maybe love just wasn’t enough.

I didn’t realize it when I started crying. Not until the guy who ran the flower shop at the corner of West 109
th
and Broadway saw me. He stared, then pulled a single rose out, and said, “Hey, girl. This is for you. Whatever is making you sad… I hope this makes it better.”

I stopped, stunned, and took the rose.
 

“Thank you,” I said, and started crying harder. “I really appreciate it,” I said, wiping my face and feeling like a complete idiot.
 

He literally bowed, then backed into his shop. I walked on, arriving at my dorm five minutes later. But I wasn’t ready to go in and face Kelly, so I kept going, turned right on 103
rd
and walked down to Riverside Park. It had been quite a while, but I used to sit on the benches here—sometimes alone, sometimes with Kelly—and watch the river.

In fact, Kelly and I used to picnic over here on the weekends last year, sometimes with Joel. We hadn’t this year, and not only did I wonder why not, but I also wondered why, when Dylan asked me about my favorite thing to do in New York, I never included our times down here.

Of course, the answer was simple. I spent most of last year pining for him. Worrying about him, knowing he was in danger every day in Afghanistan. Then, not knowing anything at all, except that his name had failed to appear on the lists of soldiers killed-in-action—which I checked every day—but that he’d disappeared all the same.

My whole life was wound up in his.

So I sat by the river, and I thought, and I remembered.

I remembered the first time we kissed, halfway around the world from here.

I remembered sitting with him the night before we left Israel. He was wearing his black trench coat, both of us on a wide balcony, facing each other.

I’d asked him what he wanted. Did we want to commit to each other? Was it over when we returned to our respective homes? Would we stay together, even with the distance? What did he want?

He couldn’t answer.

I remember slapping him on the chest, and crying out, “Why won’t you tell me how you feel?”

He couldn’t. “I don’t know how to answer that,” he said. “I think we just need to see what happens.”

So we made no plans at all. It was all muddled, no commitment, but we still loved each other. Both of us broke it off with the people we’d been dating back home within days of our return, but even so, it was still just so unclear.

To think that less than nine months after that, he told his drill sergeant that he intended to marry me.
Why the hell couldn’t he tell
me
that?

“Hey baby, why you crying?” asked a guy on his bike, stopping in front of me. “You need some comfort?”

“Oh, fuck off,” I replied.

“Bitch,” he said, then rode off.

I took a deep breath. I was a mess. I rooted around in my purse, found a not-terribly clean napkin, and wiped my face. Then I took out my phone, and started to read.
 

At first the messages didn’t make sense. Then I realized the newest ones were on top, of course. So I scrolled way down to the bottom, and started reading up. And tried to keep from falling apart.

MARCH 24, 2012

TO:

FROM:

SUBJECT: WASSUP?

Weed,

I’m at Walter Reed. They say I might get to keep the leg, but it doesn’t work worth a shit. What’s up with you? How’s everybody?

I miss you guys more than you know.

Dylan Paris

MARCH 25, 2012

TO:

FROM:

SUBJECT: RE: WASSUP?

Holy shit, it’s alive! You get your laptop replaced? How’s Walter Reed? I’m sure the hospital sucks, but is the food at least better than here? We’re doing okay, mostly. Weber got whacked by some fucking hajis a couple weeks ago, and Sergeant Colton got hit. Colton’s back on duty already, and raising hell because we got caught with a fifth of gin in the tent. Bet he took it to drink himself.

I miss you too, dude. For one thing, there’s no one here worth talking to. Bogey keeps going on about his fucking conquests with girls, all day and all night long. The only conquest he’s ever really had is with his hand. Which, we caught him doing, on patrol. I mean, come on, in your sleeping bag at the FOB, sure, but out in the field? Give me a fucking break.

You ever hear from Alex?

Write me back and soon, motherfucker. If they don’t extend us, I’ll be out of here in six more months. Or so. Whenever. I hate this fucking place.

Ray

I couldn’t help but laugh at the tone of the emails, even though my heart gave a twinge at the sentence,
You ever hear from Alex?
They sounded just like the way Dylan and Sherman talked with each other. I continued to read, slowly scrolling up after each email.
 

MARCH 25, 2012

TO:

FROM:

Weed,

Sorry to hear about Weber. Wow, I wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye. Or something. I’ve been thinking about going to see Robert’s parents when I get out of the hospital. But I don’t know, maybe I should stay away. How do you tell someone’s mom, “I’m sorry I got your kid killed?”

As far as Alex goes, we’re done. I’m pretty sure she staged the whole fucking thing anyway. But seriously, I never had any business falling for her. She’s way out of my league. I hate it, but that’s life.

Tell Sergeant Colton I had two liters of vodka in my bags, and I want that shit back. I know he took it before they shipped my stuff here.

Dylan

APRIL 1, 2012

TO:

FROM:

Stop calling me Weed, Mr. Studmaster.

On that topic: You need to sit back and take a good look at the pictures you have of you and Alex together. Yeah, she probably got over you. But if I were you, I’d be chasing that down. Seriously.

With regards to Roberts: don’t be an asshole. You didn’t get him killed, the hajis did. Not your fault, dude. If we hadn’t been out on that patrol, someone else would have. And they’d be just as dead.

So, seriously, don’t take this the wrong way. But go see a shrink. Like tomorrow. You got knocked on the head pretty hard, and the things you’re writing worry me.

Your friend,

Ray

P.S. Sorry it took me so long to write back. Been out on a fucking 5-day patrol. They’re saying Lieutenant Eggers volunteered us for it, the shit.
 

And bullshit on the vodka. Since when do you drink?

APRIL 1, 2012

TO:

FROM:

Ray,

Listen, dude. We’re friends. But please don’t write to me about Alex. I’d just ruin her life. We’re too different. Sometimes I think I’m going to end up like my dad. Until my Mom got wise and kicked his ass out, he used to knock her around whenever he got drunk. Which, my friend, is why I don’t drink.

I gotta tell you, being in this hospital, it makes me think I do need a shrink. Except for my mom, who comes to visit pretty much every day, it’s very quiet here. Nurses and docs come and go. I get tests done. And I watch TV and read. That’s about it. Lots of time to think. And think. And think. Dude, I’m gonna write some stuff here I gotta think about and talk about, and you’re elected to listen. Because there isn’t anyone else.

Alex sent me a bunch of emails. Right after I blew my laptop up, and again the next day, and the day after that. Every day for a couple weeks, then about once a week. Then they stopped.

I haven’t read them. Every time I open my email, there they are. 16 unread emails. I’m sure she hates me now.

I’m also sure it’s better that way. You say I should take a second look. But I already know. I loved her more than my own life, Sherman. But she’s smart, and beautiful, and going to a great college, and has her whole life ahead of her.
 

I did get an email from her Dad. He’s a real sweetheart. Former Ambassador, likes to keep his tentacles in everything. Back when I went to visit her in San Francisco, a couple years ago, he took me aside at one point to tell me what a worthless piece of shit I was. That I wasn’t nearly good enough for his daughter. Would you believe he had run a background check on me? And my parents. I’m sure he dug up some good stuff on Dad. He told me to stay the hell away from her in his email. “Let her believe you are dead. It’s better for both of you.”

The thing is though, he’s right. She’s got a chance for a beautiful life. I, on the other hand, am a disabled vet who gets seizures, and blackouts, and flashbacks. Sometimes I wake up at night screaming. Because I keep having the same dream over and over again. We’re headed down that fucking dirt road, and I can see the bomb, it’s right out there in the open. And I can’t stop it. We’re headed right for it, and we’re going to run over it, and I grab the wheel, and it’s too late. Boom. Roberts is vaporized, about two gallons of his fucking blood all over me, and then, eyes open, I’m awake and screaming my fucking head off. They come and give me sedatives, and I’m out again. Until the next night.
 

I’m never going to be worth a shit after this. She doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t need me in her life, dragging her down, ruining everything for her.
 

Ray, I love Alex, like nothing you can imagine. And because I love her, I’m going to leave her alone, and let her move on. Anything else would be hurting her. And I would kill myself before I harm one hair on her head. And that’s not an idle threat.

So, no more fucking talk about Alex, all right? The subject is closed.

Dylan

APRIL 1, 2012

TO:

FROM:

Dude,

Your email made me cry like a fucking baby.

All right. I won’t bring up Alex again. But you better fucking promise to get better. Do you hear me? I don’t give a shit how bad you feel. Get better. Man up. Do whatever it takes to get it through your head that a) you’re a good guy, and b) you deserve better than the shit you’re writing about, and c) You are NOT fucking responsible for Roberts’ death.

Dude, get some help.

Fuck the Army,

Ray

Oh, God. I missed Dylan. I loved him. But I didn’t know how to help him. I don’t know that anyone could. Not unless he was willing to help himself. And this about my father, I had no idea. Dad and I would be having a discussion when I went home for the holidays.
 

I did some googling. “How to Help a friend with PTSD.” And it wasn’t much help, to be honest. It was all generic, useless stuff. Don’t take his behavior personally. Have good boundaries. Yeah,
right.
Don’t judge. Love them.

Love them.

Oh, God. I couldn’t stop loving him. But I couldn’t help him either.
 

The sun was setting, on what was possibly one of the longest and saddest days of my life. I stood up, put my phone away, picked up my rose, and began walking back towards my room.

How can you be so casual about it (Dylan)

When the alarm went off the next morning, I got up as usual. Really, I didn’t know what else to do. Keep going. Go to class. Go to court. Whatever.
 

It was dark, quiet, and bitter cold. An icy wind blew off the Hudson River, turning the green in front of the library into a wind tunnel. I hoped it wasn’t going to snow any time soon. In the meantime, I wore my army sweats, kept my hood on, and got out there and started to stretch.

I’d gotten pretty adept at doing pushups with just my left hand, but I hoped my right would be back into shape soon. Needed to go see a doctor, and soon, about that. I’d missed my Monday appointment at the VA, because of jail, but I’d be down there Wednesday. Maybe they’d put it in another cast.
 

I was doing pushups when I heard footsteps. I kept doing what I was doing, but my eyes darted up.

It was Alex. She was in sweats and running shoes, and started stretching. Just like it was any normal morning.