She blushes and smiles self-consciously. “Thank you, Livi.” Since arriving in Crescent Bay a few years ago, she’s become a real pillar of our small coastal community; she and her husband Tate are always in the thick of it.
“Are you and Tate coming along to the Founders Street Fair this weekend?” I ask, busily sorting construction toys and blocks into the correct storage bins.
“Yes! We can’t wait,” Jess replies excitedly. “Do your mom and dad have a stall again this year?”
“They do. They’ve been working solidly for the last few months getting ready,” I say, not even trying to hide the pride in my voice. My mom and dad run their own bespoke carpentry business, making everything from small decorative carvings for mantelpieces to entire handbuilt kitchens. Dad and his small team of carpenters make all of my mom’s beautiful designs, and she’s commissioned some incredible pieces for the Founders Street Fair this weekend.
“Well, I can’t wait to get my hands on one of her pieces. There’s a spot in our dining room that’s in desperate need of something beautiful,” Jess says, scooping Cami up off the floor while trying to liberate the bunny from her chubby fist. This causes the baby to scrunch up her cute little face and let rip a squeal that puts my teeth on edge. “I think that’s my signal to take this little princess home to her daddy. Have a super weekend, Livi, and I’m sure we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You too, Jess,” I call over the incessant sound of her daughter’s cries. I quickly finish tidying up my classroom so I can start next week on the right foot and then head home to my little apartment.
When I came back from college to begin my job at Crescent Bay Elementary, my dad insisted that I move back home. At first I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, especially after four years of freedom in San Francisco. But when I returned, I found the lower third of our family home had been converted into a self-contained one bedroom apartment with its own entrance and a private deck overlooking the trails that lead down to the beach. After some fraught negotiations, I agreed to move home, but only if they allowed me to pay rent at the going rate. My dad still tuts every month when I leave my rent check on their kitchen table but he doesn’t make a fuss.
I know it comforts my parents to have me close. Especially since my last few years at home before school, I wasn’t doing very well. I was an awkward, gangly teen when my brother was killed in Afghanistan. I hero-worshiped him and when I heard the news of his death I just had no coping mechanisms other than to throw myself into training for triathlons. Pushing my body to its limits allowed me to shut off the part of my brain that couldn’t process his death. I refused to talk about it. I refused to listen to anyone who mentioned his name.
Then, just before my senior year of high school, I injured my ACL and because I couldn’t work out, I was forced to face my grief head on, and believe me when I say it wasn’t pretty. After many sessions with a family therapist, me and my parents worked through it together and we came out the other side a much stronger family unit.
Thinking about Pete on the drive home has given me the urge to run, so when I get home I forgo popping in to see my parents and instead head straight to my apartment, where I change into my running gear, and jog down the steps toward the beach. The sun is just beginning to set, and the beach is sparsely dotted with dog walkers and surfers enjoying the final waves of the day. I stretch out my legs and hips before I put my earbuds in, set my running playlist and jog up the beach. My mind slowly clears as my sneakers slap against the hard-packed damp sand, and I begin to lose myself in the repetitive action of running.
But despite my best efforts, my brother’s face continues to swirl in front of me, and the feelings of anger and loss pushes me faster and faster. The lack of information pertaining to his death still haunts me. We tried tirelessly to get more from the Navy but that was a dead end, some shit about National Security and the facts surrounding the mission being classified at the highest level. So in desperation I reached out to the only other person who could tell me what happened to my brother: his best friend Jake. But he hasn’t returned any of my emails or calls since the funeral. Six years of radio silence and I have no idea why—why he just cut us out of his life like we never existed. I need to know why.
Chapter 3
Jake
The first cup of coffee of the morning is always the most satisfying. I’m sitting in my enclosed courtyard, surrounded by tall bamboo and the whisper of the waves just beyond the tree line. The courtyard is a little sun trap, and it warms my skin in a very pleasant way. The Pacific was fucking freezing this morning, the water in San Diego is like a warm bath compared to the chill this far north, even through my wetsuit. The coffee slowly starts to warm me up, and I begin to mentally prepare myself for the rest of the day.
When I arrived late yesterday afternoon, I was pleasantly surprised to find my little beachfront cottage pretty much as I left it four months ago when we went overseas on our last deployment. I had to clear up a bit of debris from the last storm, and one of the shutters had come loose, but other than that it was in good shape.
Feeling determined to get my day started, I drain my coffee and strip off my wetsuit which I leave to dry over the railing surrounding my small wooden porch. I shower and dress, grab my wallet, keys and helmet and ride into town, trying hard to squash the anxious feeling I have about possibly bumping into someone who recognizes me. I want to go under the radar as much as possible while I’m here.
But as I get closer to the center of town, I begin to see diversion signs and notices that Main Street is closed for some sort of festival. I curse loudly inside my helmet and park my bike up near one of the barricades that closes off the bottom of Main Street to traffic. People walk past me in a steady stream and when I pull my helmet off and stand next to my bike, I hear the sound of the high school band playing in the town square.
Fuck my life. If I didn’t need groceries so badly, I’d go straight back to my cottage and wait until tomorrow. The other option would be to ride twenty miles to the big Walmart, but I’m here now. As the twist of anxiety in my gut ramps up to DEFCON 1, I stash my helmet in the storage box on the back of my bike and slip into the flow of foot traffic heading up Main Street.
It feels really weird to be back in Crescent Bay after so long, and all my senses are on high alert, even more so than if I was patrolling in Kabul or Baghdad. I’m not expecting to step on an IED or take enemy fire, but at any moment a face from my past could step out of Dreams Bakery or the hardware store and start asking all sorts of questions I’m not prepared to answer.
What I do for a living is not something you just casually drop into conversation. People know I left town as soon as I could after graduation to enlist in the Navy, but they have no idea that I’m now a highly trained member of SEAL Team 3. I mean, how the fuck do you tell people that your job involves what most people would consider cold-blooded murder? I’ve made peace with what I do for the Navy by keeping a tally of the lives I take against the lives my team saves—political hostages, women and children held against their will because of some fucked up ideology. There’s nothing glorious or sexy about my job. It’s very hard on my body and my soul—–and it's not something I would want to chat about casually on the street. In my experience, people have already formed an opinion of what type of person I must be, what morals I have. I can practically hear them thinking that I must be a little "off" to do what I do.
If only they knew to what extent this job has turned me into a cold-hearted son of a bitch. I’ve learned to keep everyone and everything I once held dear at a safe distance, not just for their protection but for mine, too.
So as I move through the crowds, pulling the collar of my leather jacket up around my ears, I pray I don’t bump into anyone I know between here and the grocery store.
As I round the corner onto the town square, I see the rows of stalls set up for the street fair, selling everything from fresh produce to little handmade trinkets. It’s much busier here, so I manage to blend in with the crowds and move quickly toward my goal.
I’m within steps of entering the grocery store when I hear my name called out in a voice as familiar to me as my own.
“Jake Hartman!”
Goddamn it!
My heart seizes in my chest, reminding me that it does still beat, and I know there’s no use in trying to ignore that voice. The woman who owns it would chase me barefoot through broken glass if she had to, so I take a deep breath and prepare to face a woman who I’ve been ignoring for six painful years.
“Jake? Is it really you?” Sheila Masters stands before me, looking exactly like I remember her—–tall, elegant, black hair streaked with white but still pulled up into the tidy bun she’s worn it in since I was a kid. Her face is more lined than I remember, but the wrinkles that appear around her eyes as she smiles at me are so familiar I feel like crying like a little kid.
Before I answer her, she pulls me into a firm hug. At first I resist, my body rigid and unyielding. But as her familiar smell and warmth seep into me, I relax and let her hold me, allowing myself just a few moments of comfort before I pull away and lock that shit down.
“Hey Sheila,” I say, taking a long step backwards and stuffing my hands deep into my pockets. “Good to see you.” I shift my gaze awkwardly, trying to avoid eye contact in case she sees into my soul and finds the truth I’ve been trying to hide from her and her family.