Collateral (3 page)

to assail me with advice. As her daughter,

it's my prerogative to take it or leave it.

When it comes to Cole, I mostly ignore

what she has to say, and completely shun

Dad's sage wisdom—
I don't understand

why you want to commit to someone

whose entire life is following orders.

Dad doesn't care much for rules, except

for the ones he makes. He's brilliant,

but hated school, and could never

have worked for someone else. He never

had to. In college, he became obsessed

with technology, way down to nano

level. His crazy scientist inventions

have kept us living well, especially out

in the country, a very long commute

to the Silicon Valley. Dad is impatient

with conventions, or silly things like

my longstanding desire to teach.

Stupid
is actually what he called it.

Too little pay, and even less respect.

My liberal arts BA, according to Dad,

was,
A serious squander of time and

money.
I figured it gave me options.

Dad says it just proves I'm wishy-washy,

and maybe he's right. I chose an MSW

over an MFA. Social work seemed like

the right direction at the time. But writing

and teaching call to me, too. Which explains

why I'm taking poetry as an elective.

“Creative expression as therapy” was

the explanation I gave to my advisor.

I have, in fact, encouraged the veterans

I've worked with at the VA Hospital

to write as a means of sorting through

the scrambled thoughts inside their heads.

A few showed me their ramblings. I could

fix their grammar. But not their memories.

The writing seemed cathartic.

I might use that as my thesis,

if I get that far next year. I went

for a three-year program, hoping

to give myself a little breathing

room. I talked Dad into paying

for it, so I guess it's fair he's a bit

pissy, especially because he also

agreed to let me quit my part-time job.

I loved working at the preschool, but

it didn't pay very well, and it crowded

my days. And a couple of incidents

made me question why some people

have children. A certain mother made

me a little crazy. Jacked up my stress

factor, not to mention blood pressure.

Parents like her are why the world

needs social workers. Poor, little Soleil

deserves better. Every kid does. Dad

says I can't change the world. Maybe

not. But I'm damn sure going to try.

I suck it up, put distraction away,

and try to jump into writing my paper.

I kind of love most poetry, though

I do prefer writing it to dissecting

some of it, especially Chaucer. He is not,

as the English (Old, new, or anywhere

in between) might say, my cup of Earl

Grey. Still, I manage almost three pages

on his contributions to the
Oxford English

Dictionary
when my cell signals

a new text message. Happy for

the interruption, I go ahead and

investigate, discover it's from Darian.

HEY, GIRL. A BUNCH OF US ARE GOING

OUT ON SATURDAY NIGHT. WANT TO

COME WITH?
Some best friend.

Zero communication for weeks at a time,

then she invites me out with a “bunch”

of her new pals. Military wives, none

of whom I know. The ones she hangs

out with. Works out with. Goes out

with, more often, obviously, than

she does with me anymore. I suppose

I should be grateful she thought about

me at all. Part of me is. And part

of me wishes I had a valid excuse

to say no. But I really don't, and how

would saying no make me a better

friend than she's been to me lately?

Anyway, I could use a few hours away

from here. Out of this apartment,

and into the land of drunk living.

I text back:
SOUNDS FUN, BUT I HAVE

TO BE CAREFUL OF MY CASH. LOOKS LIKE

I'M FLYING TO HAWAII NEXT WEEK
.

She, of course, knows why. Which reminds

me:
HOW'S SPENCE?
Her husband,

and Cole's good buddy, has been

in country for several months. Behind

the wire, at some uber-protected

Afghanistan airfield—wherever they

keep the helicopters that need a little

tweaking. Spencer is a self-proclaimed

master copter mechanic. Darian's answer

is slow to come. In fact, I'm just

about ready to believe she has put

away her phone when:
OKAY, I GUESS
.

WE HAVEN'T TALKED IN A FEW DAYS
.

Spencer should have fairly easy access

to a computer, if not a phone. E-mails

and even Facebook are rarely prohibited

when a soldier is safely behind the wire.

Communication, the brass believe,

is the key to harmonious long-distance

relationships. You're not supposed

to give away any really important

information, of course. Nothing

the enemy could use to his advantage.

But discussing family or work or school

(on this end) and what to put into care

packages (on the other) are encouraged.

Connection to home and loved ones

helps keep a warrior grounded in

a reality that doesn't revolve around

war. Except when the current battle

happens to involve someone at home.

When I ask Darian what's up with Spence

and her, she responds:
WE HAD A FIGHT

LAST TIME WE TALKED. SAME OLD BULLSHIT
.

Wish I could jump straight to her defense.

But there's a lot I don't know about her

at this point. And a lot more that I suspect

myself. Once, I could have come right out

and asked her if she was sleeping around.

Darian and I have been best friends since

the fourth grade. We used to tell each other

everything—confessed big secrets and little

lies. San Diego State was a shared dream,

mostly because, growing up in Lodi, the idea

of moving south and living near the ocean

seemed akin to heaven. We were stem-to-stern

California girls. Funny we fell in love with

heartland guys. Spencer is a corn-fed Kansan.

And Cole's a Wyoming boy. Both were raised

gun-toting, critter-hunting, Fox News–loving patriots.

They met in basic training at Camp Pendleton,

became instant friends. We connected with them soon after.

Darian and I were roomies then,

sharing an off-campus apartment.

She grumbled a lot about school.

About feeling shackled. About men—

the ones she'd been dumped by,

the ones she couldn't seem to find.

One Friday she seemed ready to lose

it, so I suggested a night of drunken

revelry. “Who knows?” I prodded.

“Maybe you'll find Mr. Wonderful.”

We chose an Oceanside hotspot, too busy

for the bartender to give our fake IDs more

than a quick glance. We ordered margaritas,

found two seats at a table not too close to

the speakers pounding base-infused music.

I didn't notice Cole and Spencer walk

in. But Darian did. She nudged me.

Hard.
Check it out. Hot Marines.

Military issue was not my type,

at least I didn't think so then. I did

have to admit, however, that whatever

hoops they'd been jumping through

had left them buff and bronzed.

Which one do you want?
she asked,

as if hooking up with them was in

the bag.
I kind of like the dark one.

Spencer swaggered. That's the only

word I can think of to describe the way

he moved. “Cock-sure,” my grandpa

would have called it. Definitely more

Darian's overhyped style than mine.

Cole, I wasn't sure about. He carried

himself straight up and down, stiff

as a log. He looked deadly serious,

until he smiled, revealing a hint

of something soft—almost childlike—

beneath his tough infantryman veneer.

Some things are meant to be, it seems.

I mean, we weren't the only women

in the club. There were way too many

vampires—girls hoping to hook up

with a military sugar daddy. Someone

whose paycheck would see them

through when he was sent away.

I didn't know about them then,

but it didn't take long. That night,

they prepared to swoop in on Cole

and Spence. Except, there was Darian.

Darian, though, is flirt enough for

two. Not to mention, bold enough

to move in before the vampires

could reconnoiter.
I'll be right back.

She walked straight up to the bar,

insinuated herself between Spencer

and Cole, ordered drinks, even

though the ones we had were barely

half gone. Then she turned and

looked Spencer square in the eye.

My friend and I want to thank you

for your service. Next round's on us.

It wasn't a question, and one minute

later, I found myself thigh to thigh

next to this quiet guy with intense

topaz eyes. It wasn't love at first sight

or touch or whatever. If it had just

been the two of us there, he would

have been vampire bait. But our

BFFs hit it off immediately. I was more

than a little jealous of the chemistry

between Darian and Spence, even

though helping her find Mr. Wonderful

was supposedly my plan from the start.

I'd never experienced that kind

of instant attraction, however. Not even

with Cole, who I found cute enough,

but rather aloof. In retrospect, I was (am)

much the same way. It took a while

to warm up. Not like we had much in

common, at least not on the surface.

But with Spence and Darian crawling all

over each other, Cole and I could either

stare off into space or attempt conversation.

Despite all the pretty vampires eyeing

him, he chose to take a chance on me.

For me, never the first girl

in any room who men zoomed in on.

I'm slender, and pretty enough

in a serious way. Just not what

you'd call eye candy. I didn't dress—

certainly didn't undress—to impress.

I'd had boyfriends, even semisteady

ones, but none worth giving up

dreams for. I wasn't exactly a virgin.

But neither was I looking for sex,

and I suppose that showed.

I had been called an ice queen

before, but though I didn't realize

it right away, something inside me

thawed that night. It was a slow melt,

like Arctic ice beneath high polar sun.

Maybe it was how Cole kept his eyes

locked on mine, instead of scanning

the room for easier prey. Maybe it

was the way he talked about home—

the stark beauty of Wyoming.

I swear, you can see straight into

forever. No damn buildings to get

in the way. And the sky is the bluest

blue you ever saw. You will never

look up and see gray, like here above

the ocean. Not even if a storm's blowing

in, because then the prairie sky turns

black and purple, like God balled up

his fist and bruised it.
He paused.
What?

Mesmerized, that's what I was, but

I didn't realize my face showed it.

“Uh, nothing. It's just . . .” I couldn't

not say it. “I hope this doesn't insult

you, but you're a poet.” I half-expected

him to get pissed. Laugh, at least.

Instead, he smiled.
Why would that

insult me? I write a little poetry every

now and then. Hell, the first time I got

laid was because I wrote her a love

sonnet. We broke up over the limerick

I wrote about her, though.
He laughed

then, and so did I. I have no idea

if any of that was true, but in the years

since, he has written poems for me.

Hopefully, he hasn't squirreled away

an Ashley limerick to break out one

day. But the revelation that this

country-bred soldier could find poetry

in his heart and inspiration in the Wyoming

sky touched me in a way no boy had ever

come close to. Not even the ones who

had straight-out lied and told me they'd

love me forever. Poetry doesn't lie.

Turned out, Cole was feeling a little

homesick. His mom had just come