too-large interior all alone.
He found himself experiencing a pinch of actual nostalgia as he turned onto the dark asphalt drive in front of the large, Georgian-style house. He should have stayed in touch. Let his father know more about his whereabouts and general condition. They were all each of them had left, after all.
He parked the Harley around the side of the house so as to perpetuate the surprise. When he put the kickstand down and hauled his duffel out of the storage compartment, he fought the urge to bolt again. Something about this place tugged at him, yet repelled him at the same time. So many memories, split fifty-fifty good and bad, although the “bad” were more like “God awful,” despite the fact of his family’s ultra-secure financial and social position.
Something he couldn’t really say for over half his friends, including his best buddy, Kieran Love. The two of them had been thick as thieves from first grade forward. But Kieran’s parents’ fortunes were dependent on the whims of the drinking and eating public, which could hardly ever be relied upon.
He’d lost touch with Kieran completely, the year his life fell apart and he’d run as fast as he could away from this place. He’d stayed that way—out of touch—which had made him a near perfect fit for Delta Force on some levels. Even though the Army preferred their Operators to be anchored by wives, kids, and stable home lives, he figured his father had made him sound good when he’d been interviewed by the assessment committee. He had minimal connections—a lone ranger, a rock, an island.
Squaring his shoulders and mentally tugging up his big boy pants even though the very sight of this house made him regress into his teenager mind on reflex, he headed up the short flight of steps. As always, the ever-present, huge concrete planters flanked the double-doored entrance. He stuck his finger down into the dirt of the one on the right, under the mailbox, smiling when he touched metal. The spare key spot, invented by his mother. Some things never change, he mused as he shook the dirt off it and replaced the tasteful summer flower arrangement he’d dislodged.
The sun came out from behind threatening gray clouds, hitting the back of his neck, making him gasp and sway, the memory of sun and heat, sand and pain, slamming into him almost as hard. He closed his eyes and put a shaking hand on the dark wood door, praying he could skip the daily migraine punishment. The world shimmered in front of him, morphing from the green of his boyhood lawn to the dull beige, the dusty browns and yellows of his years spent as a trained killer.
He’d literally left everything behind when he bolted after the funeral, heading blindly south, ending up in Georgia, crashing with an old friend, then getting up one morning and enlisting without a thought in his head as to the consequences.
“See a therapist,” Ghost had commanded him as he threw his kit into a duffel, realizing that everything he owned in the entire universe would fit into it now.
“Fuck that,” he’d quipped, tossing the bag over one shoulder, ignoring the clanging pain in his brain pan, the ache in his chest over leaving the one family he’d come to love and value—the family that had loved and valued him back.
Ghost had grabbed his arm, digging his fingertips in deep, making his point clear. Terry had ignored him. He could do that now. Ghost was no longer the boss of him.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and moved slowly as if to evade the twin monsters of migraine and memory, when he slid the key into the lock. After a few seconds, he realized that the thing wouldn’t turn. That the key he’d found still buried in his mother’s hidey hole, all these years after her ugly death from lung cancer, no longer fit the door of this house.
He pulled the key out, glared at it a second, then hurled it across the front yard with a curse. Dropping to his butt on the top step, he gave
He found himself experiencing a pinch of actual nostalgia as he turned onto the dark asphalt drive in front of the large, Georgian-style house. He should have stayed in touch. Let his father know more about his whereabouts and general condition. They were all each of them had left, after all.
He parked the Harley around the side of the house so as to perpetuate the surprise. When he put the kickstand down and hauled his duffel out of the storage compartment, he fought the urge to bolt again. Something about this place tugged at him, yet repelled him at the same time. So many memories, split fifty-fifty good and bad, although the “bad” were more like “God awful,” despite the fact of his family’s ultra-secure financial and social position.
Something he couldn’t really say for over half his friends, including his best buddy, Kieran Love. The two of them had been thick as thieves from first grade forward. But Kieran’s parents’ fortunes were dependent on the whims of the drinking and eating public, which could hardly ever be relied upon.
He’d lost touch with Kieran completely, the year his life fell apart and he’d run as fast as he could away from this place. He’d stayed that way—out of touch—which had made him a near perfect fit for Delta Force on some levels. Even though the Army preferred their Operators to be anchored by wives, kids, and stable home lives, he figured his father had made him sound good when he’d been interviewed by the assessment committee. He had minimal connections—a lone ranger, a rock, an island.
Squaring his shoulders and mentally tugging up his big boy pants even though the very sight of this house made him regress into his teenager mind on reflex, he headed up the short flight of steps. As always, the ever-present, huge concrete planters flanked the double-doored entrance. He stuck his finger down into the dirt of the one on the right, under the mailbox, smiling when he touched metal. The spare key spot, invented by his mother. Some things never change, he mused as he shook the dirt off it and replaced the tasteful summer flower arrangement he’d dislodged.
The sun came out from behind threatening gray clouds, hitting the back of his neck, making him gasp and sway, the memory of sun and heat, sand and pain, slamming into him almost as hard. He closed his eyes and put a shaking hand on the dark wood door, praying he could skip the daily migraine punishment. The world shimmered in front of him, morphing from the green of his boyhood lawn to the dull beige, the dusty browns and yellows of his years spent as a trained killer.
He’d literally left everything behind when he bolted after the funeral, heading blindly south, ending up in Georgia, crashing with an old friend, then getting up one morning and enlisting without a thought in his head as to the consequences.
“See a therapist,” Ghost had commanded him as he threw his kit into a duffel, realizing that everything he owned in the entire universe would fit into it now.
“Fuck that,” he’d quipped, tossing the bag over one shoulder, ignoring the clanging pain in his brain pan, the ache in his chest over leaving the one family he’d come to love and value—the family that had loved and valued him back.
Ghost had grabbed his arm, digging his fingertips in deep, making his point clear. Terry had ignored him. He could do that now. Ghost was no longer the boss of him.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and moved slowly as if to evade the twin monsters of migraine and memory, when he slid the key into the lock. After a few seconds, he realized that the thing wouldn’t turn. That the key he’d found still buried in his mother’s hidey hole, all these years after her ugly death from lung cancer, no longer fit the door of this house.
He pulled the key out, glared at it a second, then hurled it across the front yard with a curse. Dropping to his butt on the top step, he gave
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