Dear Soldier Boy (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

[email protected]
Sent 1/30/16

[email protected]

Dear Matthew,                                                                                    

Yes, I took ten days to write you. Ten days. I’ve done a lot of thinking over the last week and a half, and I’ve done a lot of things too. I’m sure you have as well. I was driving, and I saw a mere second difference that could have cost a lot of people their lives. Car crashes happen every day, and usually, they don’t affect me like that moment, but for some reason, it did. Because, I thought, that is probably what you deal with every day. It really shook me up thinking about it, and you, and the reality of your situation. I know I joke about a lot of things, but your safety is not one of them. I wish you weren’t there. Not only so that you could maybe be here with me, but I wish you weren’t in harm’s way. It hurts knowing about the possibilities of you being injured. I can’t—and won’t—imagine anything worse than just an injury. I mentioned before how I don’t like to follow the news. But now I am. Every day, I check the reports hoping that I don’t hear your name. It’s like I have an addiction to C-SPAN.

I won’t ask about the incident, and this will be the only mention of it. If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here, always.

Now, on to timing. You’re right, timing can often be everything or it can be nothing. Sometimes, you might find the right person, but because of “timing,” it seems like it can’t work. But that theory is for those people who really don’t care enough to want it to work. To make it work. And yes, relationships, no matter what, are work. I’m not a naïve child who has no idea about the real world or even love.

So, you aren’t the only person who has been suggesting I date. Millie and Liz know that I’ve been writing you and apparently are also on Team-Not-Going-To-Happen, which, by the way, seems to be a little top-heavy, if you ask me. But that’s fine. I don’t mind being alone on Team Maybe.

Anyway, after another major meeting at the Pentagon last week, one of the guys in the meeting asked if I wanted to grab something to eat. I thought he wanted to talk about our project and things like that. But then he suggested sushi and asked if he could pick me up. I hesitated for a minute, because I’m sure you know why. But, then I said sure. After all, I do like sushi, and my social life has definitely been lacking. I could use a fun night out if that was what it was to be.

And it was fun. This guy, Mark is his name. He’s good looking, and even in our tense and difficult meetings, he always seems to lighten the mood and make some sort of joke, which breaks the tension in the room. I like him. Honestly, I’m not sure what could even be possible to not like about him. On paper and in person, he has all the makings for a great guy. A catch even. We’ve been in these meetings for months now, but this is the first time he’s asked me out.

I was a little nervous about going. But I poured myself a glass of wine as I got ready and put on some music to help my nerves. Sushi requires some effort for an outfit, so I wore my navy cocktail-esqe dress. If you want to see a picture, I took a selfie and posted for my Facebook profile. I actually posted the pic for you. Isn’t that silly? But anyway, I did.

Mark was on time and took me to one of my favorite Sushi restaurants, Momiji. We sat on the deck, and it was a bit chilly. Mark offered his jacket, which was sweet. But the heat lamps were on, and with the added sake, I didn’t need it. Besides, how cute is it to be wearing a man’s jacket on a date? Exactly, not. Instead, I opted for the sake and the laughs to warm me up. We laughed and laughed, and I had so much fun. And I was glad I went. I was. Really.

As we were saying good night, he asked if he could come in, and I said no. Not because I didn’t want to, because believe me my bed has been empty for a looooooooong time. But that’s just not something I do. Despite my never-ending jokes, I’m not a one-night-stand or hook-up kind of girl, which is why my bed has been empty for a long time.

Anyway, Mark walked me up to my door and leaned in to kiss me. And I let him. His lips were nice, and he must have used a breath mint, as his taste was refreshing. I closed my eyes as we kissed and then I had to pull away. Why? Why would I pull away from this good-looking guy whom I just had a fun date with?

Because even with my eyes closed, I knew it wasn’t you, and I couldn’t continue on. Mark looked a little despondent when I pulled away. He probably could sense that something wasn’t right. I said good night and that was it.

So, let me ask you something, Matthew, you want me to continue falling for you and also be open to the idea of another man? I’m sorry, but that just isn’t possible.

You can end our letters and I will be sad. Heartbroken even. But I can’t write to you and keep my eyes open for the possibility of someone else. That’s not the way I work. It’s not a part of my genetic make-up.

I’ll leave this up to you. I think I’ve stated my feelings enough for you to make the decision. There you go Soldier Boy…that’s your mission.

Truly,

Vivian

P.S. I get that you aren’t the person you were before you went to war. How could you be? But, perhaps you should realize that I “met” the guy you are right now. I know we each show each other our best sides via emails, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of the possibility that you might have faults, because guess what, I do too. I’m not perfect, and I know despite how amazing you sound, that you aren’t either. And that’s okay. In fact that is perfect.

Care Package 3

Dear Matthew,                                                                                                   January 21
st
,

I decided that, even if you didn’t write me back anymore, I wanted to send you something for Valentine’s Day. I’ll just pretend in my mind at this moment you will be writing me back, that way I don’t sound sad and pathetic.

I’m not sure what I’ll be doing on Valentine’s this year. Maybe I’ll buy a dozen roses for myself and pick off the petals to the tune of “he loves me he loves me not.” I sure hope I end on a “he loves me,” as it would be really depressing to be alone with a “he loves me not” ending.

Maybe I’ll buy one of those ridiculously large boxes of chocolate, take a bite out of each one, and fill myself with chocolate. Then I’ll top off a bottle of wine and sing “All By Myself” like Bridget Jones. That would truly be classic.

Ha! No, I won’t do any of those things. I’ve already got plans. Valentine’s Day is on Saturday, and I scheduled myself for another race. It’s a 5k again. No matter how hard I try, I don’t think I’m ready for a 10k. Maybe I won’t ever be. Anyway, it’s called the Cupid Kiss 5k. At the end of the race, Cupid will kiss you when you cross the finish line. So, I will, indeed, get a kiss on Valentine’s Day. How romantic right?

Anyway, enclosed are some more chap sticks, because I’m guessing you need more. I varied the flavors this time. One is as close to Nutella as possible, but remember, it’s not really edible, it just smells good.

The cliff bars are because you like to climb mountains, which is obviously why you chose to go to Afghanistan.

And I know it’s silly, but I traced my hand on the red paper for your actual valentine. That way, you could technically hold my hand. And yes, I kissed the paper with lipstick on.

You never guessed what the third picture was that I sent you. So, I decided to have it enlarged and made into a puzzle. Here is the first piece.

And finally, I’m not sure what your music listening situation is like, so I’ve enclosed an iPod with its charger and a special soundtrack just for you. I hope you enjoy.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Matthew,

Vivian

Chapter Twelve

From:
[email protected]
Sent: 2/13/16 22:59
To:
[email protected]
Dear Civilian Girl,
You
are killing me.
Damn it. What am I going to do with you?
I tried not writing to you after your last
letter because, you’re right, just writing to you is stringing you along. That
is not what I want to do. At all. I don’t want to mess with your head or your
life. This can’t work between us, so I decided to not write you back. I knew if
I wrote back, you would write back and you would be you and I would have to
write back again because you’re you and I have developed an addiction to you,
which is better than your C-SPAN addiction but my detox is going to be a hell
of a lot harder. The more we write, the
harder it gets. So, I decided not to
write. Clean break. Cold Turkey. Just like a drug.
But damn if I can stop thinking about you.
Do you have any idea how frustrating that is? I have amazing willpower (despite
the incident with the Nutella). When I say I’m going to do something, I do it.
I just do. Whatever it takes, no matter how gut-ripping the experience, I do
it. Damn it, I once ran 50 miles just to prove I could do it. Not writing to
you was going to be easy. I wish I could express how easy it was supposed to
be. Damn it. Can you tell I’m still pissed? At myself, by the way, not at you. I
mean, I would prefer you were not as sexy and funny and smart. Damn you're smart. Who knew that was a turn on? I certainly didn’t. But there you are. Smart
is sexy—spread the word.
Did I ever tell you why I go mountain
climbing? I probably didn’t, because it’s not something I’m proud of. It’s
because I hate heights, but I won’t let fear win. I didn’t realize I was scared
of heights until Ranger School. I mean, I knew I wasn’t a fan, because no sane person
is, but I didn’t know I was piss-your-pants scared until the first week in
Georgia. On the third day, there is a water confidence test. You have all your
equipment on, your backpack, your rifle, everything. You have to climb 35
feet in the air with no safety harness and make your way along a log. There is
nothing to stop you falling—a lot of people do. But if you fall, you fail, and
I don’t fail. Once you make your way to the middle, you work your way down a
rope. It rips your hands, but you don’t let go until you reach the Rangers
plaque over the lake and you are given permission to drop. And then, the fun
part starts (Ironics font needed). Your equipment makes you heavy. It drags you
straight to the bottom. It is dark and you can’t see what you are doing, but you
act on instinct. You get everything off you so you don’t die.
Well, I was standing at the bottom, waiting
for my turn to start. My heart was slamming against my ribs. I couldn’t
breathe. I thought I might pass out, but I just kept my eyes straight ahead,
waiting for my name to be called. Then I heard a splash, and then screams, and
my RI shouting. His face was white. He dropped the megaphone and ran to the
water. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Panic like you have never felt,
the kind that freezes you in place and makes you fight against it just to move, took over.
Skinner, I think his name was—I can’t
remember anymore, I never saw him again—had fallen into the water. We had been
briefed on how to fall if we lost our balance, but when it happens, you forget
your training—well, he did, at least. He hit the water wrong and broke his neck.
We heard later that he lived, but he was paralyzed.
Anyway, they pulled him out of the water,
strapped him to a board, and loaded him up. As soon as the medic pulled away, my RI
called my name. I didn’t know if this guy was dead or alive at that point, but it
was my turn to do the same thing that just took him down.
Bear in mind, if you
hesitate, you’ve failed. You can’t stop to psyche yourself up in a warzone. You
just go. So what did I do? I bent over and threw up. Vomit everywhere—on me,
my shoes, in the water. It was over. I felt my chance slipping away. I was either going to
pass out or throw up again. My heart was beating too fast. I was dizzy. My vision
started to go black around the edges. I closed my eyes and I saw the board with
the names of the soldiers who'd died in Ranger School—27 men in total.
And then I remembered the beginning of
training, the promise I made to myself—I would either die or I would pass,
those were my only two choices. 75% of men drop out or fail during those nine
weeks, but I was not going to be one of them. So, I wiped the vomit off my mouth
and  I did it. I did not look down. I just did it.
So, why am I telling you this? Certainly not
to impress you, because nothing kills the illusion of bravery more than a grown
man throwing up on himself. I'm telling you so you understand that I don’t
give in. If I set my mind to something, I do it. Always.
Until you.
So what happened?
Allow me to tell you another story that
will paint me in an equally unflattering light. I was doing a pretty good job
at not thinking about you. I stopped reading your letters. They were in a box, under my cot, not in my pocket anymore. Well, I might as well say it, I finally had some alone time to use the lotion you sent me. And you were there. You were all I thought about. You in that dress. You smiling. You saying outrageous things. It was you touching me. You were with me. And yes, I should be freaking you out now, because who in the hell admits this to a complete stranger?
Turns out, I was doing a piss poor job at
forgetting you. There is no forgetting you. Trust me, I have tried. So, there you
have it. I can’t stop writing to you, so you need to stop writing to me, because
this isn’t right. This isn’t going anywhere.
If I haven’t given you ample reason to end
this right now, and possibly take out a restraining order, let me break it down
for you further—you are right to be scared.
I might not come back from this tour or the
next. There is every possibility that someone would knock on your door to tell you
I’m dead. That is the reality. I won’t sugar coat it. Can you live with that? Never
knowing if this is the day?
I told my brother about you after I decided
to stop writing. Told him everything I know about you. You want to know why?
Because if I die, I want him to be able to let you know. I need you to know
that. I can’t bear to think about you not knowing.
While we are on the subject of my brother,
I asked him to find your home address for me. I knew if I Googled you, I would learn where you worked and who your partner is, and I
promised you I wouldn’t. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I couldn't stand the
idea of you having another shitty holiday, so I asked him to send you chocolate
(Sees) and roses. I spent 20 minutes researching what every color of rose means
because I didn’t want to give you the wrong message. I didn’t even know different
colored roses mean different things. Luke explained they did and asked me which
color to send. I decided to play it safe and send a dozen yellow, because those
represent friendship. But then I thought, “Screw it,” and I sent another
dozen-orange. Any guesses what orange represents? Desire.
Yellow and orange. That pretty much sums up
what I feel about you—friendship and desire.
So, there you have it, Vivian. This is going
absolutely nowhere, but I can’t let you go. Where does that leave us? I
really have no idea. Anyway, I hope you have a nice Valentine’s Day. And again, I've
said too much.
Love,
Matthew