She cleansed the gash and clamped it shut with a few butterfly bandages. As she worked, she said, “What are you doing, carrying that damn ring everywhere you go?”
“I don’t know what else to do with it,” he said. “Shoving it in the back of my underwear drawer seems a little … well, that’s where I used to stash my—never mind.” He didn’t want to go there with Sayers. “Sad to say, campus theft happens.”
Unspoken was another truth they both understood. If the jump had proven fatal, the presence of the ring box would’ve been a silent final message to the woman he loved, the woman he wanted to love forever.
“I figure I’ll keep it handy and I can pop the question when I know the time’s right.”
Sayers shook her head in disgust as she touched gentle fingers to the row of butterflies. “A word to the wise,” she cautioned. “Make sure the poor girl is present when you whip it out.”
“That’s the plan. I invited her to our commissioning ceremony, so if she comes for that—”
“Wait a minute, if? There’s some question?”
“Well, things have been a little weird for us,” he said. Understatement.
“Oh, now there’s a fine basis for a lasting relationship,” she said, putting away her gear and grabbing his hand. She yanked, helping him to his feet.
He shook out each limb, schooling himself not to wince at the pain. His nerve endings had nerve endings, but pain was only a feeling. Everything was in proper working order—that was the key. Despite the fiery aches, he was sure they hadn’t overlooked a break or sprain. Nope, he was good to go.
“See, here’s the thing,” he said, wading up the chute. “With Daisy and me—we’ve been like a moving target. Nothing is ever simple. She’s got this kid, a great kid, but he complicates things. She’s going in one direction, and I’m going in another, and we can never get on the same page.”
He and Sayers started hiking out of the woods. His heart sped up as he thought about Daisy. “I’m nuts about her, and I know she feels the same. Getting engaged is going to cut through all the extraneous crap and simplify everything.”
Sayers stopped walking and turned to him, putting her hand on his chest. “Oh, honey. Can you really be that stupid?”
He grinned. “You tell me.”
She studied his face, her expression reflecting concern, exasperation and barely suppressed compassion. “My mama once told me never to underestimate the thickness of a man’s skull. I think she was right.”
“What? She’s nuts about me, too,” Julian pointed out. “I know she is.”
“That makes two of you, then.”
It took a while to get back, make a full report, tag and submit the chute for a safety study.
Julian ignored a deep twinge of soreness in his shoulder as he returned to campus, stopping off at the student center to check his mail. He sorted through the small stack as he hiked back to the residence hall. He tried not to let the commissioning ceremony mean too much to him. It was a personal milestone, his achievement to own, and if nobody but his half brother, Connor, showed up for it, Julian would be okay with that.
Then again, he was probably telling himself that, preparing for disappointment.
Others in his detachment were planning on half the civilized world to show up. Julian simply didn’t have a ton of people in his life. His father, a professor at Tulane, had died when Julian was fourteen. Julian’s aunt and uncle, in Louisiana, had lacked the means and the space to take him in. With no other options available, Julian had gone to Chino, California, to live with his mother.
It wasn’t the kind of personal history that gave rise to a host of adoring relatives. Could be that was why he was so at home in the service. The people he trained with and worked with felt like family.
As usual, his mind wandered to Daisy. She came from a big extended family, which was one of the many things he loved about her, yet it was also one of the reasons he had trouble imagining a future with her. His duties meant she’d have to tell them all goodbye. It was a hell of a lot to ask of someone.
Flipping through the mail, he came to a small envelope, pre-addressed to him. He ripped into it, and his face lit up with a grin.
Everything fell away, his worries about the ceremony, the pain in his shoulder, the fact that he had a presentation due tomorrow, everything.
He stared down at the simple reply card: “Daisy Bellamy
He was in a great mood by the time he got back to his room. Davenport, one of his suite mates, took one look at his face and asked, “Hey, did you finally get laid, Jughead?”
Julian simply laughed and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge.
“You must have finished your presentation, then,” said Davenport.
“Barely started it.”
“What’s the topic again?”
“Survivable Acts in Combat.”
“Which means it’ll be a very short list, eh? No wonder you’re not worrying.”
“You’d be surprised what disasters a person can survive,” Julian said.
“Fine. Surprise me.” Davenport swiveled away from his computer screen and waited.
“Parachute mishap, if you can find a soft place to fall,” Julian said, rotating his sore shoulder.
“Ha-ha. Give me a rocket-propelled grenade over that, any day.”
“A grenade can be survivable.”
“Not to the guy who throws himself on top of it to save his buddies.”
“You want to throw the thing back where it came from, ideally.”
“Good to know,” said Davenport.
Julian wasn’t worried about the topic. The hard part of life did not involve physical tasks and academic achievement. He could do school, no worries. He could run a marathon, swim a mile, do chin-ups one-handed. None of that was a problem.
He was challenged by things that came easily to most other people, like figuring out life’s biggest mystery—how love worked.
That was about to change.
There was no textbook or course of study to show him the way, though. Maybe it was like getting caught in a wind shear. You had to hang on, navigate as best you could and hope to land in one piece. That was kind of what he’d always done.
February 2007
Julian stared at the cover letter from the United States Secretary of the Air Force. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Three different ROTC detachments had admitted him, and now he had confirmation of his scholarship. Crushing the formally worded notice against his chest, he stood in the middle of a nondescript parking lot and looked up at the colorless sky over Chino, California. He was going to college. And he was going to fly.
Although bursting with the news, he couldn’t find anyone to tell. He tried to explain it in rapid-fire street Spanish to his neighbor, Rojelio, but Rojelio was late for work and couldn’t hang out with him. After that, Julian ran all the way to the library on Central Ave., barely sensing the pavement beneath his feet. He didn’t have a home computer, and he had to get his reply in right away.
The author John Steinbeck referred to winter in California as the bleak season, and Julian totally got that. It was the doldrums of the year. Chino, a highway town east of L.A., was hemmed