For What It's Worth, page 11
"Who?" came the slurred voice at the end of the phone.
"Your son."
He could hear ice cubes hitting the bottom of her glass through the static of the connection.
"Well, to what do I owe this honor?" Ivonne said with a bitter, sarcastic laugh. She was clearly already drunk. This late in the day she would be, Jesse remembered that well.
"I'm fine, Mother. How are you?" he retorted, just as sarcastically.
"Oh, life's just one party after another," she said, the weariness in her voice. "I'm divorced again."
He sighed heavily.
"I didn't know you…were…married," he said quietly.
"Why would you?" she said, anger evident in her tone. "You haven't called me in years, Jesse. For all I knew, you were dead."
He squeezed his eyes closed. Well, he soon might be, he thought.
"I wanted…I called to let you know…" he took a deep breath. "I've been drafted."
The silence at the end of the phone was deafening.
"What does that mean?" she finally said, still slurring her words.
"It means…" he started, anger building up inside of him despite his best effort to fight it. What the hell did she think it meant, for Christ's sake?! "It means I have to join the U.S. Army, and I'm probably going to Vietnam."
Ivonne was silent for a moment at the end of the line.
"I suppose you already told your father," she said, in that angry and defensive tone she always had in her voice when she felt like she was being slighted somehow.
Jesse briefly looked to the ceiling and then lowered his head to his palm. She hadn't changed, not even a little bit. He heard the clanking of more ice cubes falling into the glass, which he knew would quickly be followed by Kentucky bourbon. It was her drink of choice. It had been forever.
"Haven't talked to him in eight years," he said evenly. "I'm not going to now."
"You want to come home?" she asked, somewhat pensively. He could hear the bourbon pouring into her glass.
"No," he said, without a moment's hesitation.
She let out a cackling laugh -- half crying, half laughing.
"Of course not," she said belligerently. "All these people, these…these hippies are coming to Canada, but not my son. See, this is why I never wanted a boy. They die in wars. You'd rather die than spend time with your mother. Well, that's fine. That's just fine, Jesse…"
Despite himself, Jesse's eyes filled with tears, and he wished to God he'd never picked up the phone and called Canada in the first place. He quickly swallowed them down. He'd stopped crying over his mother a long time ago.
"I just wanted you to know," he said quietly, preparing to hang up the phone.
"Well, thanks for calling with that happy news," she whispered fiercely before taking a long drink. She was breathing heavily, and Jesse could picture her clearly. She was a beautiful woman but with sullen features and smudged mascara and a drink, always a drink, to her lips. The way she looked when he was 18 was how she looked now; he was sure of it. He'd seen her once in 11 years, and she hadn't changed. She never would.
"I shouldn't have…" he started, then stopped. He wasn't going to apologize to her. "I thought you might want to know, that's all."
"Now I know," Ivonne said, knocking her drink against the phone. She didn't say another word.
"Goodbye, Ivonne," he said, fighting back more tears her silence evoked in him.
"Bye, Jesse," she said before she slammed down the phone.
Becca glanced at her watch as the last of the plates were cleared away at their table at Tony’s.
"Grab us another, will ya, honey?" her dad, John, said to the waitress, gesturing to her with the empty bottle of red wine in the middle of the table.
"Of course, sir, right away," the woman said with a smile. Becca let out an audible moan.
"Are you OK, dear?" her mother, Wilma, asked in such a way that Becca understood she had better answer in the affirmative.
Becca just nodded, glancing at her watch again. Ten hours. They were all leaving in ten hours, and she still hadn't talked to Jesse.
"Liz says your friend Joe is at home tonight at his mother's house?" Wilma asked Eli, taking a sip of Pepsi, while Liz nodded.
"Yeah," Eli said. "She lives in Queens."
Wilma nodded.
"Did your friend, what’s his name…Jesse go home to be with his family, too?" John asked.
"Um, no," Eli said, casting a sideways glance at his sister. "I, um, I found out the other night that his, ah, his parents are deceased."
"Oh," Wilma said, putting a hand to her chest. "Does he have no family in town? Brothers or sisters?"
Becca's heart sped up ten-fold. His parents were dead? How did she not know his parents were dead? Suddenly she realized that they'd never had a chance to talk about his parents, to ask about his family. They'd never had a chance to talk about much of anything. Silently she cursed to herself. It was so cruel. She wanted more time with him. She needed more time with him.
All through dinner, she kept getting chills when she thought about him, and she didn't know why, except that she was desperate to see him, desperate to know if he was OK. Now, knowing he was completely alone on the night before he could be shipped off to war…
"Becca?" Liz asked, giving her a quizzical look.
"What?" she snapped, having been pulled swiftly back into the conversation.
Liz looked at the other confused faces at the table before her eyes found her friend's again.
"Does he?"
"Does he?" Becca asked, blinking. "Does who? What?"
"Does Jesse have any brothers or sisters?"
Becca remembered their conversation at the blues club the week before and at least knew that heartbreaking answer.
"No," she said quietly. "No, he doesn't."
"Oh, that poor boy," Wilma said, shaking her head sadly.
Suddenly Becca stood up, and four sets of eyes were on her. She tried to smile a little.
"I have to go to the powder room. Please excuse me," she said as she stepped away from the table. Her throat felt thick, and she started taking big gulps of air as she made her way to the bathroom, Liz on her heels.
"Becca?" she said when they reached the door. Becca swung it open and barreled inside, Liz following her.
"Rebecca!" Liz said, grabbing her arm. "Are you OK?"
Becca took a couple breaths as deeply as she could.
"I've gotta split," she said, clutching the vanity and looking at a worried Liz in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Becca's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were wide. "He's alone. He's all alone."
"Who?" Liz said, furrowing her brow.
"Jesse!" Becca answered miserably, turning to face her friend. "I've got to see him before…I have to see him, Liz. I have to go."
"But what about Eli?" Liz said, somewhat indignant.
Becca looked at her and looked down for a moment.
"I love my brother, I do, I really, really do," Becca said, her voice breaking. "But, Liz, I…Jesse, he…he means more to me than…he's done more for me than… than you know. I have to…I have to go find him. Now. Please?"
Liz studied Becca closely for a moment. She couldn't recall ever seeing the look on her face that she saw now. Her usually controlled best friend was clearly in a panic.
"OK, OK, honey, go," she said, nodding in at least partial understanding. "I'll…I'll back you up, whatever you need."
Becca gave her a relieved smile and hugged her. Liz rubbed her arm, and they both left the restroom and headed back to the table. Becca looked at Eli.
"I'm sorry, I'm not feeling too well," Becca said, looking apologetically at her brother. "I'm so sorry. I think I should go."
"What's the matter?" Wilma said, bristling.
"She…she has a headache," Liz said, bracing Becca's shoulders. "Like the ones she had when she was little, remember?"
Becca looked gratefully to Liz. She used to get horrible migraines when she was younger. She was thankful that Liz remembered them because she was having trouble explaining why she had to rush off from the family dinner.
"Do you want us to take you?" John asked, concerned.
"No…no, I'll make it home," she looked at her brother again, tears in her eyes. "Eli…"
"Go," he said, standing and coming to her. He pulled her into a hug.
"There's a good chance I'll be home another day or two," he whispered, smoothing down her hair. "Love you, sis."
Becca squeezed him then reached up to kiss his cheek.
"You, too," she whispered, her voice thick. She glanced at her parents and Liz one more time before hurrying out of the restaurant.
It had been years since he'd felt as miserable and alone as he did right then.
The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming.
Suddenly he was 13 again. He was being told he was leaving. He was being told he had no choice, to man up and pack his bags.
He'd hated where he was then, but he was even more frightened about where he was going. Not surprisingly, his mother wasn't fighting for him. His father didn't really care what he was thinking or feeling either. He had to go, and that was that.
The phone call with Ivonne had thrown him off balance, and he was still shaking. Now, he'd also lost track of time as the past had come rushing back to him in a deafening stampede. His head was swimming. Now he was scurrying to pack up and get out of the apartment as quickly as possible.
He figured if he found a bar close to the Dresden Center, he could just pass out at its doorway after the final call. He guessed Joe or Eli or someone else would find him and make sure he made into the building by 8 a.m. -- or not, he really didn't give a damn.
He was in his bedroom when he heard the front door to the apartment open. Jesse didn't want to see a soul, but he guessed it was Joe coming back for something he'd forgotten.
"What do you need, Joe?" he said, walking out. Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
"Becca…" he whispered.
"Hey," she said gently. He looked completely disheveled, lost. It was clear he hadn't shaved in days. His hair fell in askew waves around his face, making his blue eyes stand out more than ever before. She started walking towards him, her heart racing and breaking at the sight of him.
He swallowed hard and ran a shaking hand through his hair. She was a vision. Loose blouse, long skirt, her hair pulled back at the top but cascading over her shoulders. Her big, bright blue eyes were shining at him.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice low, as he took a step back, looking anywhere but at her.
"Why am I…" she countered, confused. "Jesse, I haven't seen you since Monday. Don't you think I wanted to… to see you before…"
"What about Eli?" he said, looking for an out. "Shouldn't you be spending time with him?"
"I've spent time with him," she said, eyeing him closely. He backed away again, trying to put physical space between them. She could tell he was attempting to keep her at a distance. His body language was defensive like he was insulating himself from something, though she wasn't entirely sure what. She wanted to comfort him.
"Joe…Joe's out in Queens," Jesse mumbled. "He's meeting us tomorrow morning…"
"I know all that," she said, trying hard to hold onto her patience. "I want to spend time with you. I know…I know you're alone, and I thought…"
"I don't want your pity," he said quickly, with a flash of anger in his voice and dark clouds hanging over his features.
She didn't know what happened to bring that look of devastation over his face, but it nearly took her breath away. Why wouldn't he let her comfort him? She so wanted to comfort him…
"Look, don't waste time on me," he said dismissively. "I didn't even know you until, what, three months ago?"
It was her turn to take a step back from him.
"What does that matter?" she said, getting angry herself. "Jesse…"
"No, look, no!" he said. The pain in his eyes as they finally met hers made her heart constrict. "This is the way it is, you dig? This is it. If I die over there, no one should give a shit, Becca."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"But…" she started weakly.
"Like your boss says, 'that's the way it is,'" he interrupted with a strangled chuckle.
He turned away then and walked back into his bedroom, fighting the tears in his eyes as he continued to pack his things. He wanted desperately for her to go away. Right then, he wished he'd never met her in the first place. She'd fueled his fantasies, made him believe a happy future was possible when he knew -- he knew -- it was all bullshit. That wasn't going to happen to someone like him -- someone who was a mistake to begin with -- someone who "wasn't worth it," as Felicia had once screamed at him. Someone who was born so he could "die in a war," as his loving mother just told him. Well, the universe was taking care of that now, wasn't it?
Somewhere under the hurt, he knew she wasn't to blame for the way he was feeling right then. Still, if he'd never met Becca, he never would have forgotten that living a long, happy life was never in the cards for him.
Becca stared at his back in the other room. She wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him and make his hurt go away. Instead, she backed toward the door, her own emotions threatening to drown her in the middle of his living room, the walls he put up around himself now so high she wasn't sure she could scale them.
"I…I will give a shit, Jesse," she said just loud enough for him to hear, her hands finding the doorknob behind her. He stopped packing and stood up straight, making a mild attempt to glance back at her. She waited a moment, but when he didn't turn around, she closed the door behind her and hurried over to her apartment, tears beginning to stream down her face.
When she'd left, he turned and looked blankly at the closed door, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He heard her apartment door shut behind her. He hesitated -- his head trying to keep his feet planted in the middle of his bedroom. His heart pushed him forward, though, and haltingly he walked over to the front door, pressing his forehead hard against its cool, metal surface. His hand massaged the doorknob. His desire for the comfort he sought from her engaged in a raging battle with his desire to keep her at arms-length at all costs. He squeezed his eyes closed.
Finally, when he couldn't fight it anymore, he turned the knob and swung open the door.
15
ANGEL OF THE MORNING
Becca slammed the apartment door shut and raced over to the couch, gripping her hands on the back of it until her knuckles were sore.
The darkness of the room fit her mood as more tears swam in her eyes. It was a nightmare -- the last few days had been an absolute nightmare. The draft. The war. The goddamn war. The pain.
His pain.
She couldn't take it. He was pushing her away just when she knew he needed someone. He needed her the most.
She took a deep, ragged breath, willing her heart to settle down. She wanted the look in his eyes to leave her mind -- the words he'd said erased from her memory.
If I die over there, no one should give a shit…
A sob escaped her as she moved slowly from her spot behind the couch, tears once again streaming down her face. How had it come to this? How had he become so important to her so quickly?
Why was her heart crying out for him?
She didn't understand it. She didn't understand him -- all she knew was he was hurting, and he was leaving. They were all leaving.
"So much leaving…" he'd said in his drunken state on Friday night.
Her breath hitched, and her shoulders started to shake as she made her way toward her bedroom. All of it -- all of it -- was killing her.
Suddenly she heard the apartment door open swiftly, then slam behind her. She jumped, turning around in her bedroom doorway, quickly wiping the tears from her eyes.
"I don't want your pity," he said in the same tone he had before, same shadows clouding his features.
She took a couple steps toward him, furious, her emotions taking over every move she made.
"I don't want to give you pity," she spat out at him, devastation coursing through her, blue eyes blazing. Then she added in a fierce whisper. "I want to give you me..."
And just like that, the clouds ran away from his face. A look of confusion replaced it with something akin to shocked relief. Something like taking a painkiller. Something that made him look, and feel, like a man again.
He didn't say a word as he took long, determined strides over to her. He grabbed her face, pulled her hard against him, and kissed her raw. Strong, fast, slow, endless…all the while backing her into her bedroom. She pulled on him, pulled his sleeves, his arms, his hips, his hair, anything she could to get him into that room and closer to her.
Closer -- to take him in, all of him, to take all of his pain into her -- to make her own pain go away.
Her legs hit the side of the bed, and she fell back, their lips attacking each other -- not missing one touch. She pulled and pulled until she ripped the buttons off his shirt and tore it away from him. He roughly pulled her loose, pilgrim blouse over her head in one motion, changed direction, and pulled her skirt and panties down in the next. She tugged and pushed down his jeans and underwear -- he kicked them off then hovered over her, heat radiating from every inch of him. Her arms were thrown over her head as his wild eyes briefly raked her body before locking with hers again.
"Jesse…" she breathed, raising her hands to grip his shoulders.
"Don't speak," he whispered in a hoarse plea. "Don't make it real."
Through sheer force of will, he hesitated, waiting for her to answer him, bracing himself just above her. His arms extended as he gripped the edge of the mattress at either side of her naked hips. His breathing was labored.
She was breathing rapidly. His body took up all the space surrounding her while his kiss lingered in the spaces of her mind. None of it seemed real. All of it felt like a fantasy.
Instantly she understood that he was begging her to keep it that way. Keep it a fantasy -- keep it a dream. Keep it something he could hold onto when he was being shot at in a jungle far away.
"Your son."
He could hear ice cubes hitting the bottom of her glass through the static of the connection.
"Well, to what do I owe this honor?" Ivonne said with a bitter, sarcastic laugh. She was clearly already drunk. This late in the day she would be, Jesse remembered that well.
"I'm fine, Mother. How are you?" he retorted, just as sarcastically.
"Oh, life's just one party after another," she said, the weariness in her voice. "I'm divorced again."
He sighed heavily.
"I didn't know you…were…married," he said quietly.
"Why would you?" she said, anger evident in her tone. "You haven't called me in years, Jesse. For all I knew, you were dead."
He squeezed his eyes closed. Well, he soon might be, he thought.
"I wanted…I called to let you know…" he took a deep breath. "I've been drafted."
The silence at the end of the phone was deafening.
"What does that mean?" she finally said, still slurring her words.
"It means…" he started, anger building up inside of him despite his best effort to fight it. What the hell did she think it meant, for Christ's sake?! "It means I have to join the U.S. Army, and I'm probably going to Vietnam."
Ivonne was silent for a moment at the end of the line.
"I suppose you already told your father," she said, in that angry and defensive tone she always had in her voice when she felt like she was being slighted somehow.
Jesse briefly looked to the ceiling and then lowered his head to his palm. She hadn't changed, not even a little bit. He heard the clanking of more ice cubes falling into the glass, which he knew would quickly be followed by Kentucky bourbon. It was her drink of choice. It had been forever.
"Haven't talked to him in eight years," he said evenly. "I'm not going to now."
"You want to come home?" she asked, somewhat pensively. He could hear the bourbon pouring into her glass.
"No," he said, without a moment's hesitation.
She let out a cackling laugh -- half crying, half laughing.
"Of course not," she said belligerently. "All these people, these…these hippies are coming to Canada, but not my son. See, this is why I never wanted a boy. They die in wars. You'd rather die than spend time with your mother. Well, that's fine. That's just fine, Jesse…"
Despite himself, Jesse's eyes filled with tears, and he wished to God he'd never picked up the phone and called Canada in the first place. He quickly swallowed them down. He'd stopped crying over his mother a long time ago.
"I just wanted you to know," he said quietly, preparing to hang up the phone.
"Well, thanks for calling with that happy news," she whispered fiercely before taking a long drink. She was breathing heavily, and Jesse could picture her clearly. She was a beautiful woman but with sullen features and smudged mascara and a drink, always a drink, to her lips. The way she looked when he was 18 was how she looked now; he was sure of it. He'd seen her once in 11 years, and she hadn't changed. She never would.
"I shouldn't have…" he started, then stopped. He wasn't going to apologize to her. "I thought you might want to know, that's all."
"Now I know," Ivonne said, knocking her drink against the phone. She didn't say another word.
"Goodbye, Ivonne," he said, fighting back more tears her silence evoked in him.
"Bye, Jesse," she said before she slammed down the phone.
Becca glanced at her watch as the last of the plates were cleared away at their table at Tony’s.
"Grab us another, will ya, honey?" her dad, John, said to the waitress, gesturing to her with the empty bottle of red wine in the middle of the table.
"Of course, sir, right away," the woman said with a smile. Becca let out an audible moan.
"Are you OK, dear?" her mother, Wilma, asked in such a way that Becca understood she had better answer in the affirmative.
Becca just nodded, glancing at her watch again. Ten hours. They were all leaving in ten hours, and she still hadn't talked to Jesse.
"Liz says your friend Joe is at home tonight at his mother's house?" Wilma asked Eli, taking a sip of Pepsi, while Liz nodded.
"Yeah," Eli said. "She lives in Queens."
Wilma nodded.
"Did your friend, what’s his name…Jesse go home to be with his family, too?" John asked.
"Um, no," Eli said, casting a sideways glance at his sister. "I, um, I found out the other night that his, ah, his parents are deceased."
"Oh," Wilma said, putting a hand to her chest. "Does he have no family in town? Brothers or sisters?"
Becca's heart sped up ten-fold. His parents were dead? How did she not know his parents were dead? Suddenly she realized that they'd never had a chance to talk about his parents, to ask about his family. They'd never had a chance to talk about much of anything. Silently she cursed to herself. It was so cruel. She wanted more time with him. She needed more time with him.
All through dinner, she kept getting chills when she thought about him, and she didn't know why, except that she was desperate to see him, desperate to know if he was OK. Now, knowing he was completely alone on the night before he could be shipped off to war…
"Becca?" Liz asked, giving her a quizzical look.
"What?" she snapped, having been pulled swiftly back into the conversation.
Liz looked at the other confused faces at the table before her eyes found her friend's again.
"Does he?"
"Does he?" Becca asked, blinking. "Does who? What?"
"Does Jesse have any brothers or sisters?"
Becca remembered their conversation at the blues club the week before and at least knew that heartbreaking answer.
"No," she said quietly. "No, he doesn't."
"Oh, that poor boy," Wilma said, shaking her head sadly.
Suddenly Becca stood up, and four sets of eyes were on her. She tried to smile a little.
"I have to go to the powder room. Please excuse me," she said as she stepped away from the table. Her throat felt thick, and she started taking big gulps of air as she made her way to the bathroom, Liz on her heels.
"Becca?" she said when they reached the door. Becca swung it open and barreled inside, Liz following her.
"Rebecca!" Liz said, grabbing her arm. "Are you OK?"
Becca took a couple breaths as deeply as she could.
"I've gotta split," she said, clutching the vanity and looking at a worried Liz in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Becca's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were wide. "He's alone. He's all alone."
"Who?" Liz said, furrowing her brow.
"Jesse!" Becca answered miserably, turning to face her friend. "I've got to see him before…I have to see him, Liz. I have to go."
"But what about Eli?" Liz said, somewhat indignant.
Becca looked at her and looked down for a moment.
"I love my brother, I do, I really, really do," Becca said, her voice breaking. "But, Liz, I…Jesse, he…he means more to me than…he's done more for me than… than you know. I have to…I have to go find him. Now. Please?"
Liz studied Becca closely for a moment. She couldn't recall ever seeing the look on her face that she saw now. Her usually controlled best friend was clearly in a panic.
"OK, OK, honey, go," she said, nodding in at least partial understanding. "I'll…I'll back you up, whatever you need."
Becca gave her a relieved smile and hugged her. Liz rubbed her arm, and they both left the restroom and headed back to the table. Becca looked at Eli.
"I'm sorry, I'm not feeling too well," Becca said, looking apologetically at her brother. "I'm so sorry. I think I should go."
"What's the matter?" Wilma said, bristling.
"She…she has a headache," Liz said, bracing Becca's shoulders. "Like the ones she had when she was little, remember?"
Becca looked gratefully to Liz. She used to get horrible migraines when she was younger. She was thankful that Liz remembered them because she was having trouble explaining why she had to rush off from the family dinner.
"Do you want us to take you?" John asked, concerned.
"No…no, I'll make it home," she looked at her brother again, tears in her eyes. "Eli…"
"Go," he said, standing and coming to her. He pulled her into a hug.
"There's a good chance I'll be home another day or two," he whispered, smoothing down her hair. "Love you, sis."
Becca squeezed him then reached up to kiss his cheek.
"You, too," she whispered, her voice thick. She glanced at her parents and Liz one more time before hurrying out of the restaurant.
It had been years since he'd felt as miserable and alone as he did right then.
The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming.
Suddenly he was 13 again. He was being told he was leaving. He was being told he had no choice, to man up and pack his bags.
He'd hated where he was then, but he was even more frightened about where he was going. Not surprisingly, his mother wasn't fighting for him. His father didn't really care what he was thinking or feeling either. He had to go, and that was that.
The phone call with Ivonne had thrown him off balance, and he was still shaking. Now, he'd also lost track of time as the past had come rushing back to him in a deafening stampede. His head was swimming. Now he was scurrying to pack up and get out of the apartment as quickly as possible.
He figured if he found a bar close to the Dresden Center, he could just pass out at its doorway after the final call. He guessed Joe or Eli or someone else would find him and make sure he made into the building by 8 a.m. -- or not, he really didn't give a damn.
He was in his bedroom when he heard the front door to the apartment open. Jesse didn't want to see a soul, but he guessed it was Joe coming back for something he'd forgotten.
"What do you need, Joe?" he said, walking out. Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
"Becca…" he whispered.
"Hey," she said gently. He looked completely disheveled, lost. It was clear he hadn't shaved in days. His hair fell in askew waves around his face, making his blue eyes stand out more than ever before. She started walking towards him, her heart racing and breaking at the sight of him.
He swallowed hard and ran a shaking hand through his hair. She was a vision. Loose blouse, long skirt, her hair pulled back at the top but cascading over her shoulders. Her big, bright blue eyes were shining at him.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice low, as he took a step back, looking anywhere but at her.
"Why am I…" she countered, confused. "Jesse, I haven't seen you since Monday. Don't you think I wanted to… to see you before…"
"What about Eli?" he said, looking for an out. "Shouldn't you be spending time with him?"
"I've spent time with him," she said, eyeing him closely. He backed away again, trying to put physical space between them. She could tell he was attempting to keep her at a distance. His body language was defensive like he was insulating himself from something, though she wasn't entirely sure what. She wanted to comfort him.
"Joe…Joe's out in Queens," Jesse mumbled. "He's meeting us tomorrow morning…"
"I know all that," she said, trying hard to hold onto her patience. "I want to spend time with you. I know…I know you're alone, and I thought…"
"I don't want your pity," he said quickly, with a flash of anger in his voice and dark clouds hanging over his features.
She didn't know what happened to bring that look of devastation over his face, but it nearly took her breath away. Why wouldn't he let her comfort him? She so wanted to comfort him…
"Look, don't waste time on me," he said dismissively. "I didn't even know you until, what, three months ago?"
It was her turn to take a step back from him.
"What does that matter?" she said, getting angry herself. "Jesse…"
"No, look, no!" he said. The pain in his eyes as they finally met hers made her heart constrict. "This is the way it is, you dig? This is it. If I die over there, no one should give a shit, Becca."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"But…" she started weakly.
"Like your boss says, 'that's the way it is,'" he interrupted with a strangled chuckle.
He turned away then and walked back into his bedroom, fighting the tears in his eyes as he continued to pack his things. He wanted desperately for her to go away. Right then, he wished he'd never met her in the first place. She'd fueled his fantasies, made him believe a happy future was possible when he knew -- he knew -- it was all bullshit. That wasn't going to happen to someone like him -- someone who was a mistake to begin with -- someone who "wasn't worth it," as Felicia had once screamed at him. Someone who was born so he could "die in a war," as his loving mother just told him. Well, the universe was taking care of that now, wasn't it?
Somewhere under the hurt, he knew she wasn't to blame for the way he was feeling right then. Still, if he'd never met Becca, he never would have forgotten that living a long, happy life was never in the cards for him.
Becca stared at his back in the other room. She wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him and make his hurt go away. Instead, she backed toward the door, her own emotions threatening to drown her in the middle of his living room, the walls he put up around himself now so high she wasn't sure she could scale them.
"I…I will give a shit, Jesse," she said just loud enough for him to hear, her hands finding the doorknob behind her. He stopped packing and stood up straight, making a mild attempt to glance back at her. She waited a moment, but when he didn't turn around, she closed the door behind her and hurried over to her apartment, tears beginning to stream down her face.
When she'd left, he turned and looked blankly at the closed door, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He heard her apartment door shut behind her. He hesitated -- his head trying to keep his feet planted in the middle of his bedroom. His heart pushed him forward, though, and haltingly he walked over to the front door, pressing his forehead hard against its cool, metal surface. His hand massaged the doorknob. His desire for the comfort he sought from her engaged in a raging battle with his desire to keep her at arms-length at all costs. He squeezed his eyes closed.
Finally, when he couldn't fight it anymore, he turned the knob and swung open the door.
15
ANGEL OF THE MORNING
Becca slammed the apartment door shut and raced over to the couch, gripping her hands on the back of it until her knuckles were sore.
The darkness of the room fit her mood as more tears swam in her eyes. It was a nightmare -- the last few days had been an absolute nightmare. The draft. The war. The goddamn war. The pain.
His pain.
She couldn't take it. He was pushing her away just when she knew he needed someone. He needed her the most.
She took a deep, ragged breath, willing her heart to settle down. She wanted the look in his eyes to leave her mind -- the words he'd said erased from her memory.
If I die over there, no one should give a shit…
A sob escaped her as she moved slowly from her spot behind the couch, tears once again streaming down her face. How had it come to this? How had he become so important to her so quickly?
Why was her heart crying out for him?
She didn't understand it. She didn't understand him -- all she knew was he was hurting, and he was leaving. They were all leaving.
"So much leaving…" he'd said in his drunken state on Friday night.
Her breath hitched, and her shoulders started to shake as she made her way toward her bedroom. All of it -- all of it -- was killing her.
Suddenly she heard the apartment door open swiftly, then slam behind her. She jumped, turning around in her bedroom doorway, quickly wiping the tears from her eyes.
"I don't want your pity," he said in the same tone he had before, same shadows clouding his features.
She took a couple steps toward him, furious, her emotions taking over every move she made.
"I don't want to give you pity," she spat out at him, devastation coursing through her, blue eyes blazing. Then she added in a fierce whisper. "I want to give you me..."
And just like that, the clouds ran away from his face. A look of confusion replaced it with something akin to shocked relief. Something like taking a painkiller. Something that made him look, and feel, like a man again.
He didn't say a word as he took long, determined strides over to her. He grabbed her face, pulled her hard against him, and kissed her raw. Strong, fast, slow, endless…all the while backing her into her bedroom. She pulled on him, pulled his sleeves, his arms, his hips, his hair, anything she could to get him into that room and closer to her.
Closer -- to take him in, all of him, to take all of his pain into her -- to make her own pain go away.
Her legs hit the side of the bed, and she fell back, their lips attacking each other -- not missing one touch. She pulled and pulled until she ripped the buttons off his shirt and tore it away from him. He roughly pulled her loose, pilgrim blouse over her head in one motion, changed direction, and pulled her skirt and panties down in the next. She tugged and pushed down his jeans and underwear -- he kicked them off then hovered over her, heat radiating from every inch of him. Her arms were thrown over her head as his wild eyes briefly raked her body before locking with hers again.
"Jesse…" she breathed, raising her hands to grip his shoulders.
"Don't speak," he whispered in a hoarse plea. "Don't make it real."
Through sheer force of will, he hesitated, waiting for her to answer him, bracing himself just above her. His arms extended as he gripped the edge of the mattress at either side of her naked hips. His breathing was labored.
She was breathing rapidly. His body took up all the space surrounding her while his kiss lingered in the spaces of her mind. None of it seemed real. All of it felt like a fantasy.
Instantly she understood that he was begging her to keep it that way. Keep it a fantasy -- keep it a dream. Keep it something he could hold onto when he was being shot at in a jungle far away.
