My Dylan.

I don’t get my wish because the house is exactly the way it was the day before. It’s a fucking mess. Only now the place smells like beer—maybe because of all the empty bottles around the room—some on the floor, spilled over and soaking into our brand new carpets. They’re all facing the TV playing a car racing game on a PlayStation. A PlayStation we didn’t have yesterday.

I greet them quickly and keep Bacon in my arms as I make my way into the kitchen. I make dinner for myself, happy they at least left me something, and eat alone in the bedroom, wishing for a moment that I’d taken up any one of Sydney’s offers. When I’m done, I go back out to the kitchen, ordering Bacon to sit and stay in his bed so I can start to clean the mess they’d created. I clear every surface I can see throughout the house, swiftly moving around their lazing bodies in the living room and trashing what I can. Three trash bags later, I roll up my sleeves and start on the dishes. I’ve started doing it by hand for some reason—maybe because I find it therapeutic. That’s when Dylan decides to walk in, leaning against the counter next to me, his arms crossed.

I don’t speak.

Speaking seems to make it worse.

“I tried to use my bank card today. It got declined.”

My shoulders tense. Not because I’d done anything wrong, but because of his accusatory tone. I don’t look at him. Just continue with the dishes. “I transfer your wage into the mortgage to offset the interest.”

“So you don’t have to pay your share, you mean?”

I push down the lump formed in my throat. “No, Dylan. I still pay the same amount. Half, sometimes more.”

“Whatever,” he mumbles, pushing off the counter.

I drop the plate in my hand and finally face him, trying to keep my emotions in check. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” I tell him. “We can still access the money in our mortgage. I just thought it would be good to—”

“My mortgage, Riley. It’s my house.”

My jaw drops, just slightly, my eyes instantly filling with tears.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, pulling me into him. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

He’s angry one minute. Sorry the next.

Regretful one minute. Frustrated the next.

He’s a million different emotions wrapped in irritability.

“Did you hear me?” he asks quietly, holding me tighter. “Did you?” he asks again, a little louder, a little firmer.

I glance at the fridge longing for the alcohol stocked inside.

“Ry,” he says, trying to get my attention. “We’re going to take off. Head back to base.”

I switch my focus to him. “Now?”

He kisses the top of my head. “We’ve been waiting for you to get home so I could say goodbye.”

I try to contain my tears. Try to stay strong. For the same reason I kept all those letters to myself. For him. “Okay.”

Forty-Three

Dylan

There was a ceremony the moment we landed—one I hadn’t invited Riley to. I’d only be able to see her for a few hours before having to leave her again and a few hours wouldn’t have been enough. I don’t regret the decision.

The next day the debriefings started. Meetings and classes focused on making sure you handle your PTSD, make you aware that you’re on home soil and not to fucking kill anyone, and specifically, don’t fucking kill yourself.

My unit had a private class that basically went: What happened to Dave O’Brien was unfortunate, don’t let it happen to you.

It wasn’t until when Leroy, Conway and I were sitting around talking shit that things became clearer. At least for me.

“I’m not saying this to be an asshole, so don’t take it the wrong way, but obviously Irish was fighting demons. Ones we had no fucking clue about. All I’m saying is that it made sense he did it there, you know? The day before we were supposed to leave. If he’d done it at home, the military may not have covered his funeral costs and his family may not have been eligible for the death gratuity payment. Not for suicide. There’d be a shit ton more red tape and they’d probably have to fucking fight for it. Besides, this way, he gets to go home a hero,” Leroy said.

I requested leave the next day. I wanted it in time for the funeral but they couldn’t make it work. Now, two and a half weeks later, I finally get to see him.

* * *

I’d been to a military cemetery before. Once. With my dad. I was seven. I had no idea what it meant or what I was doing there. At that age, there were only two things on my mind. Why did Dad make me dress like him and why was every plot exactly the same?

Now, I’m older, a little wiser, but the relevance of those thoughts are still the same.

I follow the guard’s instructions until I find the fresh dirt sitting six feet above Davey’s dead body. My steps are slow as I approach, glass jar in my hand containing words I hope hurt him as much as he hurt me. After placing it in front of the white cross, I sit with him, in silence, because really? What else is there left to say?

* * *

Dave rarely spoke about his home life on a personal level. He talked about his brothers, the kind of kids they were and what they were into, and he spoke a lot about his mom. But never his actual home or the area he grew up in.

I don’t think anyone ever wants to admit they’re ashamed of their upbringing, so they kind of just choose to ignore the facts instead.

I did it a lot with Heidi and it sucked. Not because I was ashamed of my dad or brother or the way he raised us but given the way Heidi lived in comparison, I was definitely on the low end of the economic scale. I guess when you’re fifteen, you look at the world differently. She had a nice white mansion with both caring parents who’d spend money on her in a drop of a hat. I’m sure, if asked, my dad would’ve too, but we were raised to believe that material things weren’t important and what we looked like on the outside didn’t determine who we were on the inside. I’m not saying that Heidi’s like that, I’m just saying that the younger version of me was afraid I wouldn’t be enough for her, and that maybe the older version of me continued to believe that.

Maybe that’s where we went wrong.

The houses that line the roads leading to Dave’s become smaller and more congested, from single story homes to apartments to larger complexes created for public housing.

I drive around the block a few times, confused by the numbers until I finally find his complex. I park the rental on the side of the road and make sure I’ve locked the car. There are way too many buildings, too many numbers, and I find myself standing in the middle with absolutely no direction.

“Need help?” a female voice sounds from behind me.

I turn swiftly, trying to hide my reaction to the girl standing in front of me. She can’t be more than fifteen, wearing a crop top, no bra, cigarette in her mouth and the kind of devilish grin I’d seen from the classy females in the veteran’s bar.

I tell her the house number I’m looking for. She points to a building behind me. “Third floor,” she says with a thick Pittsburgh accent.

After thanking her politely, I make my way to the O’Brien’s door, remove my hat, and I knock.