Collateral (9 page)

enjoyed staring me down with amber

eyes and making me come, first

with his tongue, and then the magic

way only he knew how to do.

I wouldn't have used the word “love”

then, but I was well on my way there.

It would take several days of silence,

brooding about what our time together

actually meant, for the first real pangs

of love to strike. But as Cole tossed

his things into his backpack, this little

voice kept whispering, “God, you're

going to miss him.” And when he

went to pee before leaving, I slipped

one of his T-shirts back out of his

pack, stashed it beneath a pillow.

I wasn't exactly sure why then, but

later, when my bed seemed terribly

big and lonely, Cole's shirt, still smelling

of him, brought comfort. And when

he finally had to say good-bye, a river

of emotions—sadness, joy, regret,

hope—permeated our last kiss.

I couldn't make it last long enough.

When he turned away, he left me breathless.

Threads the desert

landscape, splinters

desolation,

an artery of life

blood,

silver-blue. And carried

in its tepid flow,

a promise of one

more tomorrow,

each apricot dawning

soaked

with hope for the young.

History is an unkind teacher.

The elders are wise

and well beyond

dreams

of glory, riches,

or gentle death. Enough,

in a war-tattered land,

that thirst does not

ravage

the throat. Enough

that, bellies taut

with the valley's slender

abundance,

children sleep through

the night.

Cole Gleason

A romantic. Probably because

no evidence of anything even

remotely resembling romance

existed in the house I grew up in.

Maybe, if I think way, way back

to my pre-kindergarten days,

I might catch a glimpse of Mom

and Dad kissing. But holding hands,

or whispering sweet nothings?

Nope. Not even a vague memory

of such things. I'd see them for

what they were on TV or in movies—

fiction. In high school, boyfriends

were more about status than happily

ever after. Relationships came.

Relationships went, and not only

for me. It wasn't that I didn't like

the idea of falling in love. But I settled

for fleeting passion. And then I met

Cole. And Darian met Spencer, and

their overriding love for each other

was contagious. The difference being,

mine and Cole's has grown. Matured,

even. Theirs seems destined to wither.

To say it has already folded up

into itself, passed away. But if

Darian really believes she's in love

with someone else, she can't still

love Spencer, too. Can she? I curl

my legs under me, watch her refill

our drinks. Glad I'm staying over.

I'm fuzzy-headed and an artificial

warmth snakes through my body.

I wait for her to hand me the glass

before asking, “Who is it, Dar? Tell

me about him.” She sits on the far

end of the small loveseat, close

enough so I can see her eyes.
His

name is Kenny, and I met him at

a support group for military

spouses. Not the one here on base.

Too close to home pasture and all.

I nod, feeling like an idiot, or at

the very least, a semistranger.

“So, his wife's in the military?”

Her turn to nod.
Air Force. Intel.

I guess Tara loves it. It “fulfills her,”

she told Kenny. Sad, for her family.

What is Darian thinking?

“You mean, they've got kids?”

Yep. Well, one. She's fifteen.

Wait. Fifteen? That makes

her mother at least, what?

Thirty-five? “How old is Kenny?”

Don't freak, okay? Forty-two.

Seriously? What the hell?

A Daddy fetish, or what? “Dar . . .”

I know, I know. He's old enough

to be my father. He's also smart

and sweet and stable . . .

“Stable? I hate to point this out,

but he's sleeping around on his

wife.” Which brings me straight

back to Dad, and Darian gets it.

He's nothing like your dad, Ash.

I mean, it's not like your mom

was traveling the world, gathering

intelligence for the U.S. of A.

Not like she left you behind for

your father to take care of while

she was off playing spy. It was

Tara's choice to leave, not Kenny's.

Please don't judge him. Or me.

To judge. Not my place to worry,

really, except infidelity rarely turns

out well, and last time I looked,

Darian was still my best friend.

“I'd just hate to see you get hurt.”

Hurt? A little fucking late to worry

about that now!
Her jaw tightens

and her violet-blue eyes flash anger.

Want to know what hurt is? It's . . .

Her words puncture the space

between us, fangs, but I want to hear

the rest. “What is it? Tell me, Dar.”

She considers. Shakes her head.

Maybe someday. But not tonight.

Tonight is supposed to be fun.

Wait. I know . . .
She gets up, rushes

down the hall to her bedroom.

When she returns, she's wearing

red flannel pajamas. She offers a blue

pair to me.
Get comfy. Then we can

play What If?
Our old sleepover

game. She goes to switch out CDs

while I heard toward the bathroom

to change, a little reluctant about

her plan. What If? was a blast when

we were in middle school. I'm not

sure it's such a great idea tonight.

One of us asks a “What if”

question. The other promises

to answer truthfully. When

we were kids, the questions

were simple enough. Dar:

What if the hottest guy in school

tried to kiss you?
She knew

I was petrified my first kiss

would totally suck, and guessed

my answer: “I'd run the other way.”

Or, from me: “What if your

parents got divorced? Darian's

answer, in eighth grade:
I'd

help Mom find a nice man.

In high school, the game got

more complex. Freshman year,

Dar:
What if Matt tried to put

the make on you?
Matt was her

new boyfriend. I'd crushed on

him for over a year, and she knew it.

As I considered my answer,

it occurred to me that if things

were reversed, I wouldn't be going

out with my best friend's crush.

In that moment, what I really

wanted to say was, “I'd tell him

let's do it right here. And then,

let's do it where Darian can't help

but see us.” Okay, the closest

I'd come to doing “it” was actually

enjoying my first kiss. So when

I said, “I'd deep throat him and

walk away,” I meant I'd tease

my tongue down his throat, zero

follow-through, because Dar

was my BFF, and I'd never mess

with that. I swear, I had no idea

“deep throat” could mean oral sex,

but it did to Darian. Game over.

It took several days to convince

her of my naïveté, and only after

she forgave me did I pause long

enough to think that my best friend

really should have known me better.

I hope for the best, return to

the front room, where Darian

and the Dixie Chicks are singing

“Cowboy Take Me Away.”

“Been a while since I've listened

to
Fly.
” It was our favorite album

in seventh grade. We even thought

we might be the next Dixie Chicks—

Darian taking lead with her fine,

clear voice and me on guitar, doing

harmonies. We drove our parents

nuts, practicing over and over.

It's the perfect lead-in for our

game.
What if,
Darian asks,
we

would have put together a band

and gone on the rodeo circuit?

We figured that was the easiest

place to break in. Plus, Dar's dad

could give us rides to events. I mull

over my answer. “If we'd actually made

it on the circuit, you and your father

would either totally hate each other

by now or we'd be so rich and famous,

he'd insist on being our manager.”

She laughs.
Pretty sure it would

be the former. Or maybe both.

Who knows? Okay. Your turn.

She waits while I think of a question.

I sip tequila, relish the crawl

of heat. “What if you hadn't broken

up with Carson Piscopo?” They were

everyone's idea of the perfect

couple for almost two years. Dar

smiles.
I'd be living in a trailer,

chasing a pack of kids around

while Carson sucked down beer.

“He did like his Budweiser, didn't

he?” Not so unusual, of course.

The majority of the football team

overindulged, as do most Marines

I know. Then again, any soldier

worth his MREs deserves to relax

when he can, with whatever. High

school jocks? Not so much. Jeez,

I'm showing my age. Dar clears

her throat.
What if Cole was around

all the time? Like, if he wasn't a Marine.

Would you still love him as much?

What a weird question. “Well,

of course. Why wouldn't I? I don't

love him because he's a Marine.

I love him . . .” Damn. I almost said

in spite of it, and that isn't right,

either. It's such a big part of who

he is. “If he was around all the time,

I'd have sex a lot more often.”

But now it's time to get serious.

This was her idea, but I'm ready to play

tough. “What if you never met Spencer?”

Then you wouldn't have met Cole.

“That's not what I mean, Dar.”

I know. Okay. First off, I wouldn't

be living at Camp Pendleton.

Probably not even in San Diego.

Grad school was never in her plans.

I'm not even sure a degree was.

She went to college to leave home.

“But would you be happier?”

She shrugs.
Who knows? Things

would be different, that's all.

Anyway, happiness is overrated.

“You don't mean that. What if . . .”

Hey!
she interrupts.
It's my turn.

Um
 . . . As she contemplates her next

question, the Dixie Chicks launch into

“Goodbye Earl,” a song about two friends

who feed poisoned black-eyed peas to

the ex-husband whose fists put one

of them in intensive care. So long,

Earl. The song is half amusing, half

scary as hell. Darian listens for a few

seconds, then finally asks,
What if

Cole got drunk and hit you?

She looks at me so earnestly, it spins

the tiny warning lights inside my brain.

“That would never happen. But if

it did, I'd make sure it would never

happen twice. I'd . . .” What? Have him

arrested? Poison his black-eyed peas?

Or would I, just maybe, chalk it up

to the alcohol? The bigger issue is,

“Are you talking from experience?”

Her face flushes. She starts to say

something. Closes her mouth.

Shakes her head.
Just wondered.

There's more there. A lot more,

I'm guessing. “Darian, you'd tell

me if somebody hit you, right?”

Yeah, sure. Of course I would.

This game is getting old. One

more round, then I'll call it quits.

“What if Kenny left his wife?”

Good question. What if I told

you he's already decided to?

I want to support my friend. Want

her decisions to be sound. Why do

I think those two things are opposing

forces? “Would you please stop

the coy routine? What's going on?”

Look. I haven't totally made up

my mind, but I'm thinking about