"Three-day supply of MREs, two Twix bars, a compass, map, GPS, bayonet, three smoke grenades, my M4, Berretta, six mags of Simunition, canteen, two packs of smokes, waterproof matches, lighter, gloves, hand-warmers, ear-plugs, extra batteries for my radio, smelling salts, and a change of boxers and socks." Jack tightened the Velcro strap holding the bayonet to his thigh before resting his hands on his hips. He stared down, where most of his gear lay arranged on the grass. "Am I missing anything?"
Eyes fixated in a little mirror, Davidson smeared dark green and brown paint along his forehead and cheeks. "Brass knuckles."
"Brass knuckles… what the fuck for? Are you expecting hand-to-hand?"
"It's like having a condom in your wallet." He capped the tubes of paint and tossed them to Jack. "You don't know if you're going to end up using it, but you want it there in-case-of-emergency."
When put like that, how could such logic be argued?
Jack kicked himself for being stupid and leaving his brass knuckles at home. If only he remembered where he put them. He'd hidden them months ago from Aubrey. The mere thought of having to do that made Jack furrow his brows. He's losing control of his household. The guns and the bayonet she was fine with, but she drew the line at brass knuckles.
Probably because she watched her father beat a man to death with them.
Oh, well.
She needed to get over it.
Plopping down in the grass beside Davidson, Jack snatched the mirror from him and started to messily smear the paint to his face. Jack didn't have a particular pattern he liked to use, unlike some the guys. Just as long every inch was plastered thickly in the deep hues, he's happy.
Davidson wrapped a red band around the lower part of his bicep, rolling a piece of nicotine gum between his teeth. "How long do you think we'll last before Tweedledumb get us killed?"
Jack blackened his eyes and snorted. "I give it six hours."
Saying the words aloud made Jack's stomach turn. Lieutenant Elliot never failed to lead the platoon right into an ambush, no matter how many times the NCOs advised against retreating from their position of cover. He was too jumpy, and too young, and had no actual battlefield experience. Jack understood the occasional minor slip here and there, but with Iraq creeping into the back of his mind, this weekend was the genuine test of whether Jack would follow that man into combat.
He'd seen poor leadership be the downfall of too many good platoons. It would be a cold day in hell before he willing walked into a death trap again.
Once he finished with the face paint, Jack tossed the tubes into his backpack and reached for the cigarette behind his ear.
"On a lighter note," Davidson chucked. "How did Aubrey react to the big news of your promotion?"
Jack used his Zippo to light the smoke, then took a deep drag. He tucked the lighter into the breast pocket of his jacket, staring out into space. When he spoke, smoke wafted from his mouth.
"She's really happy," he lied.
Well, maybe it wasn't a total lie. She'll be thrilled; Jack just hadn't told her yet, trying to figure out a way how to use the promotion to segway into the conversation about his reenlistment.
How could she expect him to savor the new title for only a couple of months before giving it all up?
If she's still as unselfish as he remembered her being when they first hooked up, she wouldn't expect him to give it up so soon. He just needed to make sure she thought the idea of another six years was her idea.
Easier said than done. Sometimes, she's not as gullible as he'd like. But after all, that is half the fun. Seeing just how far he could push her until she broke, ate from the palm of his hand. Some of Aubrey's strings were too easily pulled. Others, not so much; especially if she's already made up that stubborn mind of hers.
Jack flicked his cigarette, dropped to his knees, and packed up his gear. There was a heaviness in the air every one refused to acknowledge because they all knew the next time they packed their gear here at Fort Riley, they'd be headed to Arizona for desert training.
As he tucked away the foam ear-plugs, and smelling salts into a pocket in his vest, his hands trembled. It had been so heart wrenching, watching Aubrey breakdown into a blubbering mess in the car as they said their goodbyes, Jack wasn't sure if he was ready to do that again so soon.
"A buddy of mine who's at Fort Benning—" Davidson pulled Jack's mind back— "he told me something interesting. He thinks they're getting ready to re-open the app process—"
"Sergeant Napier!"
Jack's blood turned to ice when he heard Ryan Sullivan behind them. Was it too much to ask to not be interrupted every two-fucking-minutes?
"Yes, Sullivan," Jack twisted his neck, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
"Can you show us how to pack our molles again? None of us can get our gear to fit."
Jesus fucking Christ.
He's surrounded by idiots.
After all, isn't this what he wanted? Really, being sergeant was nothing more than a glorified pre-school teacher.
"I'll catch up with you, later," snickered Davidson.
Jack half-smiled to Davidson, standing up. He grabbed his molle and slung one strap over his shoulder before marching towards Sullivan. The words of ridicule weighed a thousand pounds as they sat on his tongue, locked and loaded to be thrown at Sullivan and the other three members of the team he commanded. But when Jack inched closer to Sullivan, he saw just how exhausted the poor kid was. That's when he swallowed every ounce of irritation. Sullivan had never been the type to come crawling to Jack when he tried something once and failed because it's too hard. The embarrassment of being a nuisance was written all over his face; a sentiment Jack was all too familiar with.
Ripping Sullivan to shreds, calling him and the rest of the team idiots and every other word in the book like Jack experienced when he was their age would not solve a goddamn thing. There was only so much information that could be shoved into their depleted brains until it became too much and started seeping out of their ears. Jack wasn't in the business of being an asshole just for the sake of being an asshole, unlike most of his peers. There was no point in leaving those under his command to fend for themselves and grow resentful of him because he left them vulnerable. Jack understood being in war was a team-sport, but he also wanted his men to be self-sufficient and in the position to never have to rely on anyone but themselves.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Sergeant. We were paying attention but after the march this morn—"
Jack would never say it out loud, but his respect for Sullivan grew tenfold. He'd taken the lead in asking for help, even when he well enough knew it wasn't going to end well for him.
Still, Jack couldn't have them knowing he was this soft.
"It's okay. I know, packing gear can sometimes use more brain cells than you're used to. I promise, I'll move a little slower this time."
Aubrey leaned against the doorjamb, staring at the unmade bed in their room.
The sheets and quilt were balled up and tangled, pillows were scattered. On his nightstand, the photo of them on the rainy Thursday afternoon they married—a mere three weeks after Aubrey turned eighteen, and many months before she graduated from high school—had fallen. Her inside-out panties sat in the middle of the floor from when Jack threw them over his shoulder sometime around two in the morning.
Aubrey tried to cross the threshold so she could clean up the aftermath of what happened earlier. She'd scrubbed the rest of the apartment clean, she was ready to tackle the mess in there. But every time she tried to walk in, it was as if there were some sort of force much stronger pushing her out. It wasn't demonic, per se, though it was something inhuman and sinister. Leaving that energy to grow and fester wasn't an option for her, and especially not good for Jack. He'd lock himself in there with a bottle of whatever liquor he got his hands on and drink alone, allowing the heavy negativity to feed the memories he tried so hard to bury.
In the past, whenever he'd have a panic attack which left a room in ruins, all Aubrey would do was clean up and move on as if nothing happened. That wasn't working, and it was time to change tactics. As she bent down and picked up the black contractor garbage bag, Aubrey opened it and kicked the laundry basket with the clean bedsheets she'd bought earlier in the day towards the bed. There was no amount of bleach or Pine Sol in the world that could wash away the beasts of the past. Maybe ridding their lives of the things they'd brought over from Kosovo would.
She heard Jack's maniacal laughter, taunting her silly reasoning. It seemed stupid on the surface, that throwing away their old bedsheets and replacing them with something modern was going to put an end to the havoc. What he needed was a good psychiatrist—or an exorcism—but when he refused to take responsibility for his wellbeing out of fear of being ostracized from the Army, this was the best she had to work with.
First, Aubrey stuffed the quilt and flat sheet into the bag. Then she ripped off the fitted sheet, and shook their pillows free from the cases before throwing those away, too. It was liberating to purge. Already, it was feeling better in there.
Every move she made after putting the white fitted sheet on was deliberate and precise. The flat sheet had tight, squared corners; the pillows were stacked; the fluffy black duvet started halfway down the bed and was tucked perfectly under the mattress.
When she finished, Aubrey opened the curtains and shut off the light. The bright sunlight flooded the room, showing off her hard work. She stood off to the side, wiping the beads of sweat rolling down the side of her face.
Seeing the bed made with such precision, Aubrey's cheeks grew hot. Her fists clenched into such tight balls, her nails left half-moon indents in her palms.
He wasn't even home, and here she was making the bed how Jack liked it. She was so worn down from the years of him berating her for not doing like they had taught him in boot camp it was second nature to Aubrey now.
She wasn't living her life—she's living his.
And he could take his squared corners and shove them up his ass for all she cared.
Tears bubbling in her eyes, Aubrey lunged forward. She tore the corners out from under the mattress and balled the duvet into the center of the bed, grabbing the pillows and arranging them how she's always wanted them.
Off the floor, she picked up the dirty clothes. She tied the garbage bag and then dusted the furniture. Instead of fixing the photo on Jack's nightstand, Aubrey left it facedown.
As she left the bedroom, she dragged the garbage bag behind her and left it by the door. She'd bring it down to the dumpster Sunday afternoon when she headed out to pick Jack up from base. Until then, all she wanted to do was chill and enjoy the time alone.
Opening the closet door, Aubrey sat cross-legged on the floor. She rummaged through the mountain of shoe boxes until she found the beige box of her precious Christian Louboutin's. Prying off the lid, Aubrey picked up the right pump and shoved her hand into it, pulling out a Ziplock bag with two joints nestled inside.
Her brother, Aleksei—who they affectionally called Sasha—slipped her four of them when she and Jack went home for Christmas. Being back in Gotham with her mother hounding her every second for grandchildren, her father and uncles trying to pull Jack into the family business, and Jack's nerves grated from the stress of seeing his family, bong rips in the garage with Sasha at all hours of the day was how Aubrey kept her sanity.
Tucking a joint into the corner of her mouth, Aubrey put the evidence of her delinquency away, and got up to fetch her lighter from the box of Frosted Flakes in the kitchen. Plopping down on the couch, she laid back. With the ashtray resting on her stomach, Aubrey lit up and took the first hit.
The smoke burned, tickling her chest and the back of her throat as she exhaled a cloud. While she coughed, the apartment filled with a sour, earthy stench. She'd have to air the place out before Jack came home, but that was the last thought on her mind before taking another drag. This one was deeper, and she held it in longer, which made her cough far more than the first time.
This was the only way she could relax nowadays, the Xanax doing almost nothing to mellow her out enough. She wished Jack didn't have a worry of random drug-tests under his belt. He was far more open to the idea of natural relaxants, not the pills the Army doctors pushed on him.
One last hit, Aubrey dropped the joint into the ashtray and set it on the table. She rolled onto her side, hugging the throw pillow to her chest, and closed her eyes.
It didn't take long to start feeling the effects. Anxiety melted away, making room for the euphoria to settle in. The sharp edges of her world softened, becoming less deadly and more welcoming. She could breathe again.
Finally, on the cusp of a nap, Aubrey jolted awake when the house phone rang in the kitchen. Frustrated, she groaned and rolled off the couch, mumbling every step of the way. Without bothering to look at the name splashed across the caller-ID, she answered.
"Hello?"
"My, my." It was Jack. "What's got you all twisted? Did the commissary not have your Twinkies in stock again?"
Ooh… Twinkies.
"I'll have you know," she said, moving to the pantry to fish one from the box she broke into while driving home, "they had them in stock. You calling me is what has me all twisted."
Aubrey held the phone to her ear with her shoulder as she ripped into the package and took a bite. It never tasted sweeter.
"Can't say I blame you. Every time I see it's you calling me, I wanna throw my phone against the wall."
"Funny; you and I have that in common. Why are you bothering me? Don't you have work to do—or do my tax dollars pay for you and your friends to sit around, drink coffee, and gab like middle-aged women all day?"
"Your tax dollars… now that's a good joke. Remind me again, Ms. Mikhailov, when is the last time you paid taxes."
She swallowed her bite of Twinkie. "Ya nyeh govoryu po-angliyski."
I don't speak English.
Aubrey heard him chuckle, and then the flick of his Zippo. "Your papasha has taught you well."
"You have, yes."
"Goddamn, Aubs." Jack breathed. She bit her lower lip and leaned against the counter. Hearing him sound like he's in a better, playful mood made Aubrey smile. "We're, uh, we're headed out, cupcake, so I was just calling to say goodbye. I'll be home before you even have a chance to miss me."
Aubrey cleared the lump in her throat. The last phone call was always the worst. "Who said I was gonna miss you? I've got the entire bed to myself for a weekend, and I don't have to fight you over what movies to rent."
"You saw I put the numbers for the Red Cross, and the barracks on the fridge, right?"
He ignored her jokes, and the strain in his voice grew thick, which only made the hole in Aubrey's heart grow deeper. Jack was trying just as hard as she was to hold it together.
She glanced over to the fridge and saw the scrap of paper tucked under the Pizza Hut magnet. "Yep, I added it to my phone just like you told me to."
"Good girl. If anything happens, call your dad first because God only knows how long it'll take the Red Cross to get a hold of me out in the middle of fucking nowhere."
Before the first tear fell, Aubrey wiped it away. "I will. I miss you already, Jack. Please, please stay warm."
"I promise I'll do the best I can."
"That's all I ask."
Strolling back into the family room, Aubrey curled into the corner of the couch.
"Take care of yourself, yeah? Don't do anything too crazy."
Aubrey nodded and told him he had nothing to worry about. She didn't trust herself to say anything more, afraid if she did the tears would start and he'd hang up on her.
"We're loading up in the Humvees, so I've gotta go."
Aubrey wanted to scream. She hated this weird tension between them, like they were strangers trying to force a conversation. It was awkward, and she was nowhere near high enough to be dealing with this shit. The quicker they ended this failure of a call, the sooner they could get back to their respective lives.
"Be safe; I love you, and I'll see you on Sunday."
"I'll see you Sunday… Hey, Aubs—I, uh, I love you, too."
Sitting on the couch and elbow deep in a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos, Aubrey licked the bright red dust off her fingers. Her attention was glued to the television, unable to find interest in anything other than binge watching Law and Order for the better part of the day.
She relished in the alone time, determined to soak up every ounce of peace and quiet until Jack came home.
Hearing a knock at the door, Aubrey turned down the volume on the television. She didn't expect any visitors; Sasha was in Moscow smoothing out a snagged business deal for their father, so the chance of this being one of his surprise visits was slim-to-none. When the echoing knock flooded the apartment again, Aubrey got up and headed to the door. There was a baseball bat resting in the corner, within arm's reach if she was unlucky enough to need it.
Unlocking the deadbolt, she kept the chain latched and opened the door. Her heart jumped into her throat; she slapped a hand over her mouth and closed the door. As fast as her hands allowed, Aubrey unlatched the chain and re-opened the door.
A beautiful bouquet of pink peonies in one hand and a bottle of merlot in the other, he smiled his usual smug way. Aubrey couldn't remember the last time she saw him in civilian clothing, let alone a charcoal wool-blend business suit. The tie was loosened, and he undid the first couple of buttons to reveal the chain of the St. Michael medal he always wore.
"Well, if it isn't Danny Baker," crooned Aubrey. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Baker took a step inside the apartment.
"I'm at Fort Riley on business for a couple of days, so when I found out Jack's stationed here, there's no way I could head back to D.C. without stopping by to say hello to my favorite lovebirds."
Baker's Brooklyn accent was still thick as ever, despite not having lived in the borough for the last sixteen years. The mocha tresses were a lot shaggier than the last time she saw him, though it still looked clean cut and professional. He'd also put on weight since he left the Army, not too long after he and Jack finished their last tour.
Regardless, Baker looked happy and healthy.
She wished she could say the same of Jack.
"You just missed him. His company left for FTX this afternoon—" she gestured to the flowers— "but I'll make sure he gets those when he comes back. Can't make any promises about the wine, though."
"Always such the smartass. Some things never change," he muttered. "I know he's gone. I saw him all geared up getting into a Humvee when the meeting I was in broke for lunch. The flowers are for you."
When Baker held out the bouquet for Aubrey to take, there was no stopping the fluttering in her belly. No one's bought her flowers before. She always bought them for herself.
Aubrey took hold of the vibrant green stems, hoping that when she dipped her head to inhale the sweet and rosy aroma, it hid the furious blush seeping into her cheeks. She hated how Baker sometimes made her feel this way—like an infatuated schoolgirl with a crush on the school's most attractive teacher.
"They're beautiful. Thank you."
Baker half-smiled, reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, threading fingers through the soft strands. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. This time Aubrey caught the menthol-y vanilla and oak notes of his faded aftershave.
He still wears Aqua Velva.
Some things never change.
Snapping back to real-life—not the fantasy of what-could-have-been—Aubrey nudged her chin towards the kitchen.
"Are you hungry? I'm sure you're tired to hotel food, and the delectable chow choices you have on base. If you want, I have cabbage rolls I can reheat."
Baker lifted his arm to hike up the sleeve of his jacket to glance at his watch. It was all for show, trying to make it seem like he hadn't blocked out the rest of the night to spend with her.
"Yeah, I could eat."
Aubrey headed to the kitchen, waving her hand to signal Baker to follow. Setting the flowers on the counter, she grabbed a vase from under the sink. After filling it with water and sprinkling in the food, she cut the stems. From the corner of her eye, she saw Baker shed his jacket and hang it on the back of a chair before searching through the drawers for a corkscrew.
"You said you're at Fort Riley on business." Aubrey broke the silence. "Would that business by chance have anything to do with what's going on in the Middle East?"
Baker popped the bottle of wine, and she pointed him toward the glasses. He grabbed two and poured.
"If I told you, you know I'd have to kill ya."
Aubrey would have laughed if it weren't for the fact he wasn't joking. Taking on a civilian job with the Defense Intelligence Agency after leaving the Army, Baker's work was just as classified as if he worked for the CIA.
Arranging the flowers in the vase, Aubrey moved it to the breakfast bar, turning back to the fridge to grab the containers of cabbage rolls and tomato sauce. She made him a plate, then popped it into the microwave. Baker handed her the glass of wine, and she took it with a thank you.
"Throw me a bone here, Danny." Aubrey took a sip. "Are there gonna be any deployments?"
Baker rested his hip against the counter, loosening the Windsor knot even more. He took a gulp of wine, one big enough to empty half the glass. By how he stared straight through her, Aubrey figured it out.
Her heart was in her throat, and the sting of tears rimming her eyes caught her off guard. She believed Jack when he told her the possibility of a deployment was slim, and now she was the biggest fucking fool.
"He's done in seven months! They—they can't send him over there when his separation date is so clo—"
"Be real," he interrupted. "You saw it happen to me in Bosnia. Now that Jack's in the First Division, he's looking at… a year of involuntary extension. Maybe."
Aubrey set her wineglass down and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. When she dropped her arms back to her sides, Baker was staring at her with sympathy. "Fuck. Another nineteen months of this shit? I—" her voice grew thick, and it was difficult to force the words out over the painful lump in her throat— "I don't know if I can do it."
Baker set his glass down, too, taking a small step towards Aubrey. He wrapped her in his arms, cradling her head to his chest.
Aubrey froze. It was odd, uncomfortable, being swathed in such a way by another man who wasn't Jack, her father, or her brother. She rested her hands on his sides, hesitating before curling her arms around him.
It was a warm, friendly, comforting hug. No more, no less. Something she didn't know she needed.
"This'll be nothin'," whispered Baker. He nuzzled his nose into her hair. "He'll go to Fallujah, fire his rifle a handful of times, and spend a majority of his nights playing poker and tossing a football around."
She mumbled into his chest, "I wish you were going with him. Keep his head straight, stop him from doing anything stupid."
"He doesn't need me anymore; kid did my job without battin' a fuckin' eye. Jack'll be fine, Aubs, and so will you."
Fighting back more tears, Aubrey sprang from Baker's arms when the timer on the microwave chimed. She grabbed the piping hot plate—the searing heat of the thick ceramic not even fazing her as she grabbed a fork, knife, napkin, and set everything down at the table.
"I'm holding you to that," she said.
"Wouldn't have said it if I didn't think it was true." Baker sat down, wasting no time digging into the first home cooked meal he's had in weeks. "But, if you start feeling like a recluse when he's gone, you know you've always got a place to stay in D.C.. I'll take you to the museums."
Aubrey stayed standing, drinking her wine. "I'm not sure how thrilled your wife would be about me crashing with you guys. She doesn't like me very much. Especially after the Army Ball in Germany, when you and I spent half the night dancing."
"That's her fault for not taking the stick outta her ass. We were all fuckin' hammered that night."
"Yeah, I could barely walk straight myself, and I ended up practically carrying Jack back to our room after you decided it would be a good idea to do shots of Jäger."
"When in Munich." Baker shrugged. "I still can't believe we got him out on the dance floor. He was breaking out those booze-moves to It's Raining Men."
"People don't give him enough credit," defended Aubrey. "I know he's Mr. Serious whether he's in uniform or not, but he knows how to let loose and have fun when it counts."
An energy shift in the room gave Aubrey the chills. There was something peculiar in the way Baker slowed his chewing, pointing the knife at her as he swallowed.
"I don't think you give him enough credit either."
She furrowed her bow, polishing off the rest of the wine in her glass. Aubrey didn't know if she should be insulted over such a ridiculous assertion. Who the hell did he think he is, saying that to her?
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It's nothing personal." Wiping his mouth with the napkin, Baker sat back in the chair. "I know you're high school sweethearts and all, but I feel you don't know how much of a badass motherfucker Jack is."
Rolling her eyes, Aubrey snatched her pack of cigarettes off the top of the fridge and lit one. She quipped, "Please—enlighten me on how much of a badass motherfucker my husband is."
Baker got up and closed the void between them. He took a cigarette from Aubrey's pack and she handed him the lighter. While he took a drag, Aubrey sensed he was deep in thought, trying to formulate the words into an idea she'd understand.
"So, we were in Tuzla with the Russkies, right? One night, me, Martinez, and Wilson ended up going out on a patrol with one of their units. We ended up in crossfire…" Baker stopped, shaking his head. "It's hard to explain. It's one of those you-had-to-be-there things, ya know."
Aubrey blew smoke above their heads, eyeing him. "Tell me."
Baker rolled his shoulders. He didn't talk much about tours either.
"We radioed back to command for support because there was no way we were getting out there without backup, and we waited for like an hour behind this building that was just hollowed out from all airstrikes. Just as I was about to throw a Hail Mary and suggest we make a run for it, here comes a fucking convoy of tanks headed in our direction, with Jack sitting on the front of the leading one. His arm hooked around the barrel, cigarette in his mouth, rifle in one hand, a bottle of rakija in the other."
Baker didn't have to say anything more for her to imagine it. An overwhelming sense of pride filled her, but there was also no denying the one sentiment she hadn't felt in a very long time… jealousy.
She wasn't jealous in the insecure, childish way when she was a senior and other girls tried to climb Jack like a tree when he came home to visit her on leave. What shook Aubrey to the core, forcing sharp claws of bitterness into her heart, was coming face-to-face with the reality that men like Baker—the ones who'd been thrown into the bowels of hell with Jack—were the ones who knew him on the intimate level she'd never get to experience.
What kind of fucking bullshit is that?
She put in the work attempting to glue the pieces of his former self back together, and in return all Jack did was push her away.
Setting her glass of wine aside, she put the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray. She grabbed a rocks glass from the cabinet, fished out a bottle of vodka from the freezer, and poured three fingers. When Aubrey took a sip of the chilled, syrupy liquor, a sublime burn tingled in her chest, belly, and face. Holding the glass to her chest, she moved her gaze to Baker.
"He won't tell me anything about what happened in Bosnia." Taking another sip, she licked a bead of vodka from her bottom lip. "He's shutting me out. And no matter what I do or say, he just acts like none of it ever happened."
Baker took the glass from Aubrey, pouring himself a shot. He tossed it back before pouring another.
"That's because his mind never left. Some guys… they never get over that shit."
Aubrey snorted. "You did."
Tilting his head to the side, Baker pursed his lips.
That's debatable.
"Bosnia—yes. I got over that," he mused. "But Desert Storm; let's just say that's an entirely different story. All you can do is give him space and time—remind him you love him, and that you're here. When Jack's ready, he'll come to you. Once he's out and acclaimed back into civilian life, that's when it'll happen. Right now, he's just doing what they have trained him to do; push it down and pretend there isn't an issue even though I guarantee you he thinks about blowing his brains out at least three times a day."
"So, I just have to put a smile on my face and let him keep treating me like shit?"
Aubrey brushed off the guilt for ignoring Baker's blunt assertion about Jack's struggle with his inner-demons. But there was only so much she could do. Feeling guilty over Jack struggling to hold on to the last shreds of his life wasn't her burden… right? Especially after he's refused time and time again to accept the help she and his doctors offered.
Except, it is her burden; that's what marriage is about. There was no way of knowing if Jack felt the same, but for Aubrey, her love for him was genuine, and for that reason she'd never let go of him no matter how hard he fought back.
The moment those words left Aubrey's mouth, she wished she could shove them back in. It was beyond unfair to throw Jack under the bus like that. The scrunching of Baker's forehead was the first give away of his concern.
It was hard for Baker to digest what Aubrey said.
"He's—he's treating you like shit? How so?"
Aubrey swiped the glass of vodka Baker poured off the counter, drinking it. "He's not. We're just going through a rough patch is all. Every couple has those—we do fight, despite you assholes thinking otherwise."
Even she didn't believe her own lie.
Tugging the glass out of her hand, he set it back down before resting his hands on his hips. Baker's mind was racing, trying to make sense of everything. The Jack he knew didn't have a vile bone in his body—a man who avoided confrontation and trouble. Jack was a bit… emotionally sensitive, sure, though it was hard to imagine anything else.
But then again, a decade and a half in the military, Baker had seen the most respectable soldiers turn in the biggest bastards to walk the planet. No fault of their own.
She didn't deserve this, nor did Jack.
"What's going on with you two?"
Aubrey was way too high for a conversation like this. She needed to take control, and she needed to do it fast.
"I said, nothing. Drop it—please."
Her words were sharp and clear, laced with a warning Baker didn't heed. This wasn't something he could drop, like it was some playground tiff which would sort itself out if ignored. The statistics weren't in her favor, and he liked Aubrey too much to let her become one. If something sinister was happening in this apartment, Baker would straighten it out.
Rather, Baker would straighten him out.
"What," he started, slowly, "is going on with you two?"
Aubrey jammed her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt. She huffed with raw annoyance—mostly with herself for so stupidly saying something in the first place—and looked up to the ceiling.
Why wouldn't he just fucking drop it? All this conversation did was make her feel like a teenager. Bringing back the memories of when her father interrogated her about her relationship with Jack after Jack accidentally gave her a black eye.
"Nothing is going on. Like I said. It's just a rough patch."
"A rough patch is not nothing. You can be honest with me." Baker treaded carefully. Getting Aubrey to open up to anyone other than Jack was close to impossible. It required a specific formula. "I never told anyone about what happened when Jack was in Serbia. That secret is between you and me, and anything you tell me right now will be that way, too." He watched her throat undulate as she swallowed hard. There was a cold shift in the air that made Baker shiver. The deep blue drained from her eyes; her expression turning apathetic. "Please, tell me what's going on. I just wanna be sure you're okay."
She shook her head at him as if she had no idea what he was talking about. Then she smiled—wide and radiant. When she spoke, her voice was light and cheerful. Breezy.
"You need sleep, Danny. You're losing your mind. Jack and I are doing great."
Baker's heart shattered. It was as though he was talking to a completely different person.
Had he read the situation wrong? Did he read too much into what she said?
He was dumbfounded as Aubrey poured more vodka. She put the cap back on the bottle and shoved it into the freezer. Baker sat in on too many interrogations at CIA black-sites to not recognize what was going on. He wouldn't let her play him for a fool. This conversation was far from over.
When she started walking away, Baker reached out and grabbed her arm. The glass slipped out of her hand, and vodka splashed all over the floor.
She jerked her arm out of his loose grip, putting them both up in front of her face.
"Holy shit, Aubs."
That was all Baker needed for the truth to backhand him across the face.
Jack rested against a tree truck scarfing down a tepid MRE.
The package read spaghetti and marinara, but who knew if that's what it comprised.
Shoveling in another bite, he took in his surroundings. It was dark; the tangerine sun long since slipped behind the horizon. Bare branches swayed in the wind, and the chill in the air bit through the thick layers. He smelled the impending snow, which only made Jack miss home more. The faintest smile ghosted his lips at the teasing vision of Aubrey and how cute she must look snuggled up in her ridiculous fleece onesie pajamas.
Still, no matter how much he longed to be curled on the couch with her, he was right where he loved being. Freezing his ass off far away from civilization, eating Army noodles and ketchup with only war-games to look forward to for the next several days.
Off in the distance, he spotted a few members of his squad. They were laughing, playing catch with a rock they'd found. Jack remembered what it had been like to be them. Nineteen, twenty years old, when the biggest responsibilities were not fucking up the simplest tasks, keeping the barracks clean, and making it to formation on time. They seemed at ease, ignorantly so, not having a clue about what was about to hit them.
In a handful of weeks, the news would break that they'd be headed to Iraq. Guys like Ryan Sullivan would take their ten days of leave to go home. Spend as much time as possible with their families and friends, get their dicks wet one final time for God knows how long. Then they'd be taken by the bus-load to the nearest Air Force base where they'd climb into a C-17 airplane, which would take them right into Hell.
For fifteen months—thirteen, if they're lucky—they'll do the best they can to stay alive.
And after it's all said and done…
… who the fuck knows.
A molle backpack hitting the ground beside him tore Jack from crawling too far inside his mind. He didn't need to look up to see it was Davidson who joined him. The Privates were too intimidated to get any closer, and the other NCOs kept their distance for reasons Jack couldn't care less about.
"How does that taste?" asked Davidson.
"Like shit." Jack forced down the last bite, then took a swig from his canteen to wash away the sour aftertaste. The cool water coupled with his chilled insides made him shiver. He muttered, "It's freezing out here."
Holding a steaming MRE in one hand, Davidson unzipped his thick winter jacket and reached in with the other. From the pocket, he pulled out a flask and handed it to Jack. "That'll keep you warm."
Jack clutched the aluminum flask in his hand, glancing up to make sure there were no prying eyes on him. The last thing he needed was to get caught drinking on the job so soon after tying up the last loose end of his alcohol-related arrest. It wasn't the first time he's taken a nip while out in the field, be it was the perfect way to warm up or calm the last of the jittering nerves before taking that first step into chaos. So Jack couldn't figure out why it was so difficult for him to unscrew the cap and take the goddamn shot. Everyone did it, and truth be told, no one trusted a man in their unit if they passed up the opportunity for a taste.
He was overthinking the entire situation—that's it. He didn't want to do anything that would fuck up his promotion before Aubrey even had the chance to—quite literally—punch the new insignia onto his chest.
Aubrey.
God, he missed her.
And if she was here right now, she'd tell him to stop being a little bitch and take the fucking drink.
He smiled at the thought.
Unscrewing the cap, Jack took a swig. It was cheap bourbon, the shit he would steal from the liquor store when he was seventeen and didn't know any better.
To each their own.
Fighting back the urge of cough, Jack handed Davidson the flask. "Earlier you were saying something about a buddy of yours at Fort Benning…"
Jack didn't want to sound too eager or clingy, but his interested had been too piqued to let go of what Davidson had been brought up. He had an inkling of what it was, and this opportunity was something Jack had been waiting far too long for to just ignore.
"Oh, yeah, that's right." Davidson put the flask away and took another bite from his MRE. "They're opening up the application process for RASP pre-screening—"
Jack stopped rummaging for his Twix.
RASP.
Ranger Assessment and Selection Program.
A destination that Jack dreamt of, but it always seemed so far out of reach ever since he dropped out of airborne school for infantry. Giving up his dream was the single dumbest thing he's ever done for love.
Every time he brought up the idea to Aubrey about joining a wing of the special operation forces, she never failed to shut the conversation down. Her father had been in the Spetsnaz during his tenure in the Red Army, for fuck's sake. Why the hell was she trying so hard to keep him from growing; become the best of the best?
Maybe she didn't have as much faith in him as she claimed to.
"—wasn't sure if that's something you'd be interested in," finished Davidson. "I could never figure out why you've been wasting your time with the bottom-of-the-barrel shit when you've got the brain to be climbing the ladder."
Because Aubrey's a controlling bitch—that's why he's stuck where he is. Miserable and always dreaming of what-could-have-been if he hadn't let her grab him by the balls when they were teenagers.
He's done catering to her feelings.
It's not like he gave a shit how she'd react if he went home on Sunday and dropped the bomb on her about applying to become a Ranger. This isn't her decision to make; it's his and his alone. He's the one putting a roof over her head, food in her goddamn belly, and giving her the financial freedom to buy three of the same sweater because she needs different colors for different seasons. If Aubrey has a problem with the way he replenishes the checking account, then she can drag her spoilt-brat ass back to her mobster daddy's house.
He's the head of this household.
He calls the shots.
She's just lucky to be along for the ride.