Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
“I was especially moved by the horse soldier bronze sculpture,” he went on. “I think they named it America’s Response Monument…? Do you know of it?”
I nodded with a dip of my chin. Not many knew of the story behind it.
“I’m sorry.” That was the third time he was apologizing. “It’s clearly very personal to you, and here I am bringing it up.”
“It’s fine.” I meant it. “You know in movies and documentaries how old veterans are talking about battles? Every kid has a grandfather who ‘goes on and on about the war.’”
He nodded hesitantly.
“It’s because part of a service member will always stay behind on the battlefield,” I said. “I reckon most New Yorkers think about that moment every day, even if it’s just fleeting sometimes. But that day turned every New Yorker into a service member. And some will never wanna hear about it again. Some will find any moment to relive it, to talk about it.”
I was torn between the two. When I became old and gray, I was sure I’d sit on a porch somewhere with my brothers and hound kids with our stories. Because it felt nice to visit myself in those memories, tragic as they were. It was like visiting an old friend’s gravestone. My brothers and I had gone through a drastic change twice in a short period of time, and we had left pieces of ourselves behind in more than one place. As had thousands and thousands of others.
Archie watched me with caution, undoubtedly knowing how sensitive the topic was—or could get. “You couldn’t have been old back then.”
I smirked faintly, impressed. He was drawing conclusions.
“I’d just turned eighteen,” I answered.
When he flicked a quick glance at the tattoo on my neck, I knew I was right. And so was he.
“Yes, I enlisted for that reason,” I said. “A recruiter back then didn’t even have to make a pitch. A whole generation was murderous, my brothers and me included. We come from a family of firefighters and cops.”
We had enlisted the day after the president had declared war. Except for my two younger brothers; they’d followed in our footsteps as they became legal.
“You all became Marines?” he wondered.
“Yep.” I still remembered when we arrived at Parris Island in the middle of the night and saw the yellow footprints on the ground. We’d been too furious to be scared. Fuck. I cleared my throat and exhaled a chuckle. “Okay, now we can change the topic.”
“May I just ask one more question?”
Shit. “Sure.”
“It doesn’t bother you to be here?” he asked. “I mean, with all the flashing lights and sudden noises.”
Sweet of him to think about that, but no. A carnival air rifle bore no resemblance to a machine gun. Fireworks couldn’t be compared to the rapid fire of a Warthog’s cannon. To me, anyway. I had plenty of buddies who wouldn’t set foot here.
“If I never see a desert again, I’m good,” I said. “But I rarely experience any PTSD-related issues anymore. Haven’t had a nightmare in years. And as you can guess from my flawless display at the shooting gallery, I have plenty of recent experience with guns and rifles.”
He flashed a sexy smile that reached his eyes, and I detected a pinch of relief too. Maybe because my transition from the heaviest subject imaginable to a lighter one had been as stunning as my marksmanship.
“I find it quite charming that a big, bad Marine strolls around carnivals to win top-shelf prizes at shooting galleries.”
Charming, huh? I could only agree. “I’m charming as fuck.” I slid the empty ribs platter aside and tucked into the chicken. “I still gotta get my hands on one of those giant KitKat bars.”
Archie chuckled.
“What about you?” I asked. “You’re not a Marine. You sound almost British. And you came to Winchester because of a series of bad decisions.”
He smiled and scraped the last of his mashed potatoes from the cup. “My sisters call me a dreamer—and not in a good way. I start out with so much ambition, I study my ass off, and then I quit somewhere in the middle because I’m not getting anywhere fast enough.”
“I hear you, you’re a millennial.”
“Ouch!” He laughed and reached for his beer. “But yeah.”
I grinned.
“I’ve studied psychology, education, American history, horticulture, culinary science, fucking woodworking… That was an interesting time in my life. French, English, and let’s not forget the class I took on the history of pop culture.” He ticked each thing off his barbecue-glazed fingers, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “To this day, I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I start a new job at a bakery next month, which will pay off my student loans by the time I’m two hundred years old.”
I shook my head in amusement and got started on my second beer.