Lake of Tears by Mary Logue Page A

done in Afghanistan?

    Andrew stood on the edge of the woods by the county building and smoked a cigarette. It was the one he allowed himself every day. He had gone into the service a nonsmoker, but that changed as soon as he hit the ground in Afghanistan. Everyone smoked. Babies there smoked, as far as he knew. Once he got home he quit. It was hard, but he didn’t want the memories that came with lighting up a cigarette. Then, after a couple of months without a single butt, he started smoking a single cigarette a day. Maybe so he wouldn’t forget. Maybe just so he could taste that world again.
    He knew Watkins was right. He had no business going out with her daughter. Meg knew nothing of the world he lived in, had lived in, had pushed so deep into him that he wasn’t sure he would ever come out of it.
    But she was like a peach. The sweetest, ripest, best-smelling peach he had ever tasted. And she wanted to be picked. He could feel that energy all along her skin. They had come close last night. Pulling himself away from her was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do—but once he had felt where they were headed, he had scrambled out of the car and pulled her out for their walk.
    Things had calmed down then. They had sat on the very edge of the Maiden Rock and watched the barges coming up the river, the cars sailing by below on the ribbon of the road, and the trains threading through the trees. It had been good for him, sitting and talking about things that normal people talked about on a date—music, school, dreams. The way life used to be.
    Meg was a very smart kid. Seemed quite determined. She claimed she didn’t want to be a cop like her mom—she apologized, not like him either. She thought maybe a lawyer.
    “So like a super cop?” he had teased her.
    “You think?”
    “In a way. Just heavier artillery.”
    She had laughed, tossed her long dark hair, and said, “Oh, yeah, you with the military metaphors.”
    “Bother you?”
    She shrugged. “It’s different.”
    “Don’t you know any guys from school that went into the service?”
    “Yeah, I know ’em, but I didn’t hang out with them.”
    That statement hung in the air between them. He held out his hand to her. “I’m hungry. Let’s go get a burger.”
    The rest of the evening had been light, fizzy almost. Andrew wanted to sit across from her in a booth and watch her eyes catch the bar light forever and a day. Truly.
    He drove her back to her car parked by the Harbor View and got out to open the door for her before they could kiss again. Too dangerous.
    But she had grabbed him at her car door and they had sealed the night with one more kiss. There had been no talk of seeing each other again. There was no question of that, he was sure. He could hardly keep from calling her right now, standing smoking a cigarette and looking at the woods.
    He was flicking his cigarette off toward the trees when an arm grabbed him and swung him around.
    There was no time for thought, just action.
    Andrew rounded on the man and slammed a fist into him so hard he could feel the shudder of the body through his own.
    Then he remembered where he was and stared down at the young man crumpled at his feet.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, gulping in air, shaking. He reached down to help the guy to his feet.
    “What the hell?” The guy wouldn’t take his hand, crouched on the ground. He was about Andrew’s age, and wore a flannel shirt and jeans. His dark hair was long and pulled back in a ponytail. He stared at Andrew like he was a madman. “Why’d you do that?”
    “You startled me,” Andrew tried to explain.
    “So you slug me?”
    Andrew didn’t know what to say. They warned him something like this might happen, but he hadn’t quite believed it. “Jumpy. Just out of the service.”
    The man stood, his face tightened. “You’re Andrew Stickler.”
    “Yes, how did you know that?”
    “I’m Terry. You’re the guy I’m looking for.” Then he pulled his arm