I don’t sleep. I can’t. I’m way too fucking excited. I told Riley we were leaving in a week. Well, two weeks of debriefing on base and then I’d come home to her. I lied. We leave tomorrow.

I wanted to surprise her.

She fucking hates surprises.

Apparently the other boys aren’t as excited as I am because they’re well and truly passed out for the night. Everyone but Dave who told me he was taking a piss over—I look at my watch—over an hour ago.

Sometimes, especially at night, “taking a piss” means “jerking off” so there’s a little leeway in how much time should pass before worry should set in. An hour, though? That’s way too fucking long. Even for Dave and The Desperate Housewives.

I get out of bed and slip on my shoes, before grabbing the 9mm and stepping out of the tent. I look around, trying to listen to the faint voices yards away, but I don’t recognize any of them. Then I head to the toilet blocks, my eyes on my surroundings. It doesn’t take long to find him sitting in a chair by himself. He’s got his gun in one hand, piece of paper in the other. Slowly, I walk toward him, hoping not to spook him. “That’s a long ass piss,” I murmur, sitting on a chair opposite him.

He looks up, his eyes a complete contrast to mine. “Sorry, Lover. Didn’t know you’d be waiting up for me,” he says, using his weapon to scratch the back of his head.

I get more comfortable, ready to spend the night talking with him. Maybe it seems stupid considering everything I have waiting for me at home, but I’ll definitely miss Dave. Actually, he’s the only fucking thing I’ll miss about being here. “I couldn’t sleep,” I tell him.

He gives me a half-hearted smile. “Yeah man, I bet you’re excited to get home to your girl.”

“Yep,” I admit, unashamed. “She’s going to lose her mind when she sees me. More than the last time.”

“You didn’t tell her you were coming?”

“I said I’d be home a week later than planned.”

“She hates surprises. You know that?”

“I know that. How the fuck do you know that?”

He shrugs. “We talk.”

“You talk?”

“A little.”

“About?”

He chuckles, his eyes focused on the ground. “Girl stuff, Banks. Mainly what it’s like to be bottom.”

Shaking my head, I tell him, “I was thinking after things get settled for us back home, we’d love to visit you. Meet your mom and your brothers.”

He looks up and for the first time, I don’t see Dave the barely-man forced to be here. I don’t see a scrawny, cocky Irish kid whose words are laced with constant jokes. I don’t really know who I see. “You okay?”

“Mike sent me an email.” He lifts the piece of paper in his hand, his gaze returning to his shoes.

“Yeah. He’s second oldest, right?”

Nodding and kicking at the dirt, he says, “My old man got out of jail early. Came right to the house. Beat the shit outta Mom. Lucky school was on otherwise my brothers…”

“Jesus Christ, Dave.” I lean forward and swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m fucking sorry, man.”

He’s silent for so long I think he’s fallen asleep. Then he inhales deeply, his eyes moving to mine. “I don’t fucking know…”

“Know what?”

“Anything,” he says, dropping his head again. “I don’t fucking know anything, Banks. I thought I did, but I don’t. I thought I was doing the right thing—enlisting, deploying, taking care of my family, at least financially, and I thought it’d be enough but it’s fucking not. I’m fucking here. They’re there. I couldn’t stop it from happening and there’s this ache…” he says, a sob forcing its way out of him. His head bobs as he sniffs back his tears, tears twenty-one fucking years in the making. He holds his gun, barrel pointed to his heart. “…right in here. This pain I can’t fucking take anymore. It’s like fear and anger and fucking hurt and guilt. The fucking guilt is the worst!”

“Dave, man, you can’t have known—”

“I should’ve been there!”

“But you were here,” I remind him.

He ignores me. “And now I have to somehow go home and face them. Face my brothers and my beaten mom and know that they fucking hate me because I’m here, fighting someone else’s war when there’s already one in my own fucking home.”

I watch him stand and begin to pace, every single justified emotion coursing through him.

Fear.

Anger.

Hurt.

Guilt.

“I fucking failed, Dylan!” he shouts, spit flying from his mouth.

“Shut up. You did—”

“I can’t fucking go home, man. I can’t face them.”

I stand up, panic clear in my words. “You can stay—”

“I can’t!” He looks up at me, his tear soaked cheeks reflecting the moon… his childish innocence portrayed in his loud cries. “I don’t know…” he says again.

I take a breath, and then another, my entire body shaking. “Know what?” I whisper.

His shoulders square, his lips pressed tight, he looks right in my eyes.

Then he lifts his gun.

My stomach drops.

My hands reach out.

And I don’t know what’s louder—my shout of his name or the gun going off—but I’ll never, ever, forget the sound that follows.