Chapter 5

Liza bangs her hip into the door frame as she hustles into my room, balancing a large heavy box in her arms. "I can't see where I'm going. If I trip over something, you're in trouble," she threatens with a laugh. She dumps it on my bed beside my feet, huffing as she stretches her arms. "How many favors did you have to call in to get this box?"

"All of ‘em." Which is the truth. Four days ago, I called a buddy on base whose wife has a cousin who works in the office responsible for keeping track of the personal items stored by deployed soldiers. He explained to her about my promise to Brian to make sure his mom never saw what was in his stuff before they shipped it to her. Overriding policy, she allowed Liza to pick up the box for me, with strict orders that I return it the next day, just like it never happened.

"It's a good thing I had an extra uniform in my locker. I was covered in dust. Do you know how many boxes I had to sift through to find his?" Liza complains.

"Thank you. Seriously," I stress. "This means… everythin' to me."

She sighs loudly. "I'm happy to do it. I mean, how can my need to eat lunch compare to breaking your deathbed promise to your bestie?"

I give her a grateful smile and reach for the box, but I can only bend so far before I tighten muscles that make pain shoot through my leg.

"Sit back and let me help you," she insists, pulling out her surgical scissors from her pocket to cut through the tape on the box.

She opens the flaps, but I stop her. "Liza, I can't let you look through this box."

She huffs. "Seriously, Marsh? Do you know what I went through to get this? And now you won't even let me see the goods?"

She has a point, but I just can't. I have no idea what I'm about to discover, but whatever it is, it's private. It's Brian's secret, and I don't have the right to share it with anyone, at least not until I know what it is.

"Sorry, not sorry. You gotta go, but thank you for all you've done."

"And all I still have to do to return it," she points out, pushing to her feet. "I guess I'm gonna go chart. I wish you would have saved me from it."

"I'll make it up to you," I call out as she slips through the door. How the hell am I gonna make it up to her? Unless she wants a cup of red Jell-O, or a lemon ICEE , I'm shit out of luck in the gift department.

Using my metal grabber stick, gifted to me by the PT department, I stick it in the box and pull out whatever's on top—a file folder full of paperwork. I sift through the pages, but it's all useless. Just a bunch of bullshit forms and contracts. Next, I pull out a black velvet pouch full of challenge coins he'd earned over the years. A stack of old photos from his junior high years and a Dallas Cowboys jersey. Reaching into the box again, I come out empty. Whatever it is, it's too heavy for the grabber to pick it up. I take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs, grunting against the pain in my leg as I reach forward to pull it out. It's a bright blue plastic box, and when I open it, my eyes go round with shock as I spy the head of a silicone cock, bigger than mine, which is saying something. It's the same bright blue as the discreet packaging, complete with a set of balls and a suction cup base. I'm reluctant to touch it because I know where it's been, or I can guess, so I close it back up.

Is that what he didn't want his mother to find? Why would he even have a dildo? It's not something straight guys typically use, although they're missing out. I tip the corner of the box toward me and spy an old cigar box at the bottom. Again, I hold my breath and grunt as I reach for it.

"Fuck, that hurts!" I breathe out as a sharp pain stabs my leg.

The cigar box isn't heavy, but the once-colorful label is worn with age. Did it hold sentimental value to him? I've never seen him smoke one. I open the lid and immediately freeze. Naked pics of some dude's ass. My heart spikes with adrenaline. I feel wary, almost as if I'm about to uncover a hidden truth I might not want to discover. But Brian trusted me with this secret, whatever it is, so I take a deep breath and sift through the rest of the contents. There are at least a dozen Polaroids of this guy—all naked shots showing off his dick and his ass. It's a really nice ass, if I'm being honest.

With my heart in my throat, I replace the pictures and pick up the stack of letters. I have a feeling I already know what they're gonna say, but I unfold the wrinkled paper, anyway.

Dear Bri,

I miss you, baby. Bad. Our last visit was too short. But I'll never forget it. Hopefully, these pics will keep me on your mind until we're together again. Let me know when you get another leave, we'll plan something unforgettable.

Yours always,

Drake

Bri? Drake? Something unforgettable?! What in the ever-loving fuck have I uncovered? The rest of the letters are more of the same—basically love letters describing their ‘good times' and secret trysts. And I know for a fact they were secret, 'cause Brian never mentioned a guy to me. I would have remembered that. The last two times he had leave, he told me he went home to Fort Worth, Texas, to visit his mother. So, either he lied to me, or this Drake dude lives in his hometown.

I drop the letters in the box and rub my chest where my heart is starting to burn hot. I feel like I've been gut-punched. Who the fuck was Brian Biddell? Because the guy I thought I knew doesn't match up to the man I'm uncovering in this box. He's been my best friend for three and a half years. I know all his secrets, or at least I thought I did.

You're a fucking hypocrite.

I knew him about as well as I let him know me. I never told him I like guys just as much, if not a little more than I like girls. I kept that to myself. So why am I blaming him for having secrets? The same exact fucking secrets I have?

Shit! All that time wasted. I could have been honest with him and he with me. Why did I think I couldn't trust him with the truth? Why did he think he couldn't trust me? We're so fucking dumb. I snort, thinking how he would laugh with me about this if he knew the truth.

I wonder if this Drake dude knows Brian died. Damn, is that supposed to be my job as his best friend to inform this guy? Do I have to write him a letter or call him up and tell him that Brian is never coming home again?

I set the box aside and fall back against my pillow with a sigh, letting my head roll toward the window. Suddenly, I feel exhausted and empty, just like every time I think of Brian. Will it ever stop hurting this much?

Liza comes to take the box, and for the next two days, I sleep pretty much nonstop. The sadness of my grief has given way to depression, and I just feel numb. Tired and heavy and totally uninterested in participating in my life. She tries to cheer me up by sitting on the end of my bed and talking to me about the mundane aspects of her day, a funny incident with a patient, her best friend's drama, how she had to chuck the blue dildo into the biohazard bin and hope no one figured out it came from her, but I couldn't care about a word of it.

That's her life, not mine. I don't have a life anymore. I have nothing but the pain in my leg and the hole in my heart where my best friend used to live. My friends are on the other side of the world, my mother lives three states away and isn't able to visit, and I've lost the ability to fend for myself. I feel like a useless fucking leech, like a boil on the ass of humanity. I have nothing left to contribute. I'm just a resource suck and a depressing one at that.

Liza pushes her way into my room, banging her med cart noisily against the door frame. She dumps a handful of glossy brochures on my tray table. "I brought you riveting literature to keep you awake."

I scan the titles, snorting. ‘ Help the VA help you .' ‘ Physical therapy unlocks the door to your future .' ‘ Be your best self - a guide to avoiding opioid addiction .' And my favorite, ‘ TriCare cares .'

"Absolutely riveting," I mock in a deadpan voice.

"You know, I've got a whole bookshelf at home. I could lend you some titles that are actually riveting," she suggests.

"Like?" I've never been a big reader. There just wasn't time for it. I prefer more physical hobbies. But now that I'm stuck upside down on my ass, why the fuck not? I haven't got anything better to do.

Liza shrugs. "I read mostly romance, but I'll see what I've got."

Great, my life has been reduced to reading medical brochures and Harlequin romances. Shoot me now. If only I had my paracord, I could hang myself and end my suffering.

"Don't give me that look, marshmallow," she chastises. "I'm trying to do you a favor. Reading spicy sex scenes has got to be better than educating yourself about the opioid trap."

There's that nickname again, marshmallow . She's been using it for the last few days, trying to cheer me up. It's fewer syllables than Specialist Marsh, and she swears that I'm soft and gooey on the inside, despite my misery.

"Fine, bring me your trashy smut. Now get out. I'm taking a nap," I grump.

"When aren't you?" she snaps, placing my pill cup on the tray table.

I glare at the stack of books on my tray table. Some are worn and some look brand new. Loving Emma by Raquel Riley, A Fair Warning by Dianna Roman, Fighting the Lure by Katherine McIntyre, and a book on origami. Leafing through the back covers, I skim the blurbs. Fighting the Lure is an MMA book about two chicks, a sister's best friend trope. Kinky . Actually, that explains a lot about Liza. Loving Emma says it's about a taboo relationship between an older man and the young girl he adopts. What the fuck is she into? I return it to the stack and grab the book on origami, the safest bet.

I pass two hours learning the ancient Japanese art of folding paper until a man enters my room holding a medical file. I assume it's mine.

"Specialist Marsh, I'm Tony Soliel, the physical therapist assigned to you." He glances at my chart. "I see you've been with us for almost four weeks now. Time to start getting back in shape."

I'd laugh if I found it even remotely funny. But it's just sad. "I don't know what you're expectin' of me, doc, but there ain't much I can do laid up in bed with two broken legs."

"I understand that," he laughs. "But there's still plenty we can do. You know, patients on bedrest lose up to five percent muscle mass each day, and you can lose up to forty percent of your strength in the first week. I've got a list of simple exercises we can start with to strengthen your core and your back and arms. You can do them right from the bed."

Fuck. Not only am I an invalid with two broken legs, but now he's telling me I'm gonna get fat and flabby while I'm waiting to recover. Can my life suck any harder?

Embrace it. That's what we say in the Army—embrace the suck.

"Whatever, just tell me what you want me to do." Then I can get back to my nap and folding my little fucking papers.