Swap Out (4 page)

I plopped down on a couch in the store front, my hands laced behind my head and feet crossed on the armrest as I whistled “I’m A Little Teapot.” But it became infinitely harder to continue when I caught sight of what I had left in my wake. Because Zoe usually keeps the blinds of her office door window half-cracked, but from the angle I was at, I could see everything. She was sitting at her desk, her elbow propped on the wood and her chin resting in her hand as she looked over a calendar, but every so often, she was wiping at her cheeks.

I stayed there for another minute, just watching her and feeling like a prick because once again, I knew she was feeling like crap and I wasn’t willing to give her an inch of slack. I took a deep breath, then got up and loudly whined that I was bored. I went back to work, and no one said a word to me about it because they damn well know not to. Except one of them did come into the warehouse to tell me Zoe was leaving on some unknown errand, and I’m not gonna lie, it stung a little. But I let it go and had everything loaded up for the afternoon stages by the time she got back, although I’m not sure she even noticed because she didn’t even look at me. Instead, she was happy to relay all of her instructions through
Kevin
: a nineteen-year-old, steroid-addled, marshmallow-for-a-brain Grade A dipshit.

Four and a half hours of furniture moving, hardware exchanging and emergency rug swapping later, we were back at the store. And no sooner was I finished backing the box truck up to the warehouse than Kevin appeared, telling me Zoe wanted to see me in her office. Awesome. Just the way I wanted to finish my Friday. By getting fired.

I tried to keep my frustration in check when I walked in there, then shut the door behind me before casually sitting in the wingback across from her tall leatherback chair. She crossed her arms as she glared at me, and I kept my jaw locked shut while instead of Zoe ripping into me—something she normally has no problem doing—she suddenly sat forward, took a business card out of the display and wrote something on the back. Which turned out to be an address.

“Be there at ten o’clock tonight.”

I took the card she thrust at me, then I left. I went home, but I had way too much energy to just sit around and twiddle my thumbs so I went to a nearby trail and hiked for two hours, trying to clear my head. Realized too late I had been there longer than I thought and rushed home, took the fastest shower known to man and then hauled ass to the address on the back of the business card.

And now here I am, 10:22 and staring at Zoe’s car parked in the driveway of a chic little one-story in a neighborhood with probably a bitch of an HOA. I have no idea what’s waiting for me inside that house, but I’d bet my best climbing gear it’s not a smile and a lap dance. If I’m lucky, all she needs is a favor, like helping to move something heavy or maybe to handle the negotiations with a contractor if she’s remodeling. Could explain why she was being so weird in her office, like she doesn’t want to admit that she has no one else to ask. But honestly? I doubt it’s anything that simple.

I groan and pull my keys out of the ignition, smoothing my palm over the dashboard.

“If I die in there, you were a good car,” I say, then get out.

The street is silent and when I shut the door, it’s so loud it makes me twitch. I swallow, unable to shake the feeling I should be looking over my shoulder for snipers. It’s not a feeling I ever wanted to know again. But I make my way up her front walk, my skin tingling from the cool night air and I keep going until I’m looking at a door painted the color of blood, and my heartbeat slams into high gear.

I raise my hand, then change my mind and reach for the doorbell. But before I press it I can hear the sound in my mind like a preview: the optimistic tones delighting you to the presence of welcome company, and it just feels wrong. Instead I chicken out and knock my knuckles twice on her door, then hold my breath and wait.

Two seconds that feel like twenty, and then it opens, my boss nothing like her normal self as she stares me down with her hair in a high ponytail, wearing a long-sleeved V-neck shirt and a pair of jeans. I didn’t even know she owned jeans.

But apparently she does, along with a house and a whole bunch of furniture at least two grades better than what she uses in her business. And I know this because she moves aside and hesitantly, I step over her threshold.

“You’re late,” she says as she shuts the door, and I clear my throat.

“Yeah, sorry. Kind of lost track of time.” My eyes follow her when she strides around my left arm, tucking a loose hair behind her ear. And I’m not sure if it’s the tension that is rippling between us or just nerves and a fair bit of pride at being in her house for the first time, but I reach out and hook a finger through her belt loops, spinning her around to face me until her chest grazes mine. My thumb strokes her hip, my mouth curling into a grin when I dip my head and quietly say, “Although if we’re on some kind of a time limit, that could have been useful to know beforehand.”

She pushes my hand away and my eyes widen while hers narrow, and I feel my smirk start to fall when her bottom lip quivers.

She’s so fast, I don’t even see it coming.

One minute I’m looking at her, the next my cheek is burning and my eye socket feels like it’s exploding, my neck straining with the force of the whip from front to right under the unbelievable, Hulk strength of the slap she just blasted me with.

My eyes bulge as I test my jaw, my gaze dizzily trained on the carpet as my hand comes up to make sure my skin is still intact.

And as fast as she hit me I turn back to her, stunned but more livid than I can ever remember being in my life. She knows it too, because she takes a step back: her eyes watering as she lifts her chin at me.

“What the fuck was that for?”
I roar at her, and she flinches but still squares her shoulders.

But when she doesn’t say anything, just scowling at me, I have to clench my hands into fists to keep them still because
Christ
I feel like shaking an answer out of her. But I won’t.

So I stay still, and no answer comes.

I close my eyes, tell myself to breathe, but all I hear are her shaky breaths. I reopen my eyes, and Zoe looks as furious as ever, but she’s still silent.

“You have five seconds to tell me what’s going on before I’m out of here.”

I hold up my hand and spread out my fingers. I take them down to four, then three, two, and when she stays quiet I give my middle one as the last and then turn for the door.

“You’re a crazy bi—”

“I’m pregnant.”

I stand in the middle: between the certain past and unknown future, my body locked in cement and my hand just hovering in space, inches before it can touch the door.

There’s no way I just heard that word. It doesn’t exist.

Some words I know. Like stunned. Confused. Sorry. And afraid.

The last is the one I’m least familiar with.

Drill Sergeants screaming in my face as I stood as still as I am now, they swore it wasn’t real. It was only a disease: the detriment of the weak. It is an option I’m not allowed to possess, they told me. And if I
did
feel fear, the only kind I was permitted to entertain was that I would fail to do my duty. That I would bring shame to God and my country, because after having every tool made available to me and being reformed into a perfected assembly of warrior and savior that Jesus himself would aspire to, I couldn’t manage to save a life.

But for all they taught me, all the possibilities they prepared me for, all the ways they told me I could die except I wasn’t sanctioned for death until they gave me the green light, I’ve never been prepared for this.

When Zoe and I first started sleeping together it was condoms all the way, because that’s just how it works in today’s world. But one night I didn’t have another box and when the last one broke, she waved it off. Promised me she was on birth control and it would be fine, and I trusted her. It was only supposed to be that once. Except we never went back to condoms because it felt so much better.

I should have never let it get that far. I should have known better, protected her against me. But I was selfish, and greedy, and I didn’t. I have no idea where the gap happened, if she forgot to take it one day or the pill just failed, but I guess it doesn’t matter. I did this.

I didn’t say no, I’ve never pulled out, and now she’s pregnant.

I turn and look at Zoe, her tears free flowing as she stares at me, and nothing about her expression has me seeing the possibility of a future where she glows over the idea of being a mother. I don’t really blame her because I know she was never prepared for this either. But I don’t have a choice right now to be anything other than the man I was for six years: quick to adapt and to scan the defenses, detect the threats, then suck it up and do what needs to be done. Existential triage.

First and foremost, I need to calm Zoe down because as I stay still and silent, she shakes from head to toe as she cries: her arms twitching like she wants to hug them around herself, but she doesn’t. And for some reason, all I see in my head is a red light switching to green in the interior of the chopper, a man yelling over the sound of whipped air and distant gunfire that the mission is a go and to dive, dive, dive…

I walk forward and she backs away but it’s not far enough, and I pull her into me, hugging my arms securely around her as the heels of her hands drive into my chest, but I don’t let go. I lay my forehead to her shoulder when she breaks into a wretched sob, her knees buckling but she doesn’t drop because I have her and I won’t let her fall.

“How could you do this to me?” she whimpers, and I shake my head.

“I’m sorry.”

She cries harder and carefully, I lower us down to our knees, cradling Zoe against me as she falls forward: her hips a mile from mine, her hands being fisted into my shirt and her face hidden in my chest the only things keeping her upright. But I never let go, my touch steady but gentle as one arm crosses her back and enfolds her waist, my other palm cupping her neck.

Something about it feels like fate, and a warning.

I suddenly realize she’s gasping for breaths against me and it triggers a wave of protectiveness I’ve never known the equal to. My hand on her neck shifts so I can press two fingers against her pulse point. It’s too fast and out of rhythm, and it’s the only one I can feel but it’s not the only one that matters.

Fear.

This is fear.

I take her face in my hands and tilt it up until I can catch her eyes, my own pulse speeding when I see her eyelashes fluttering weakly.

“Zoe, I need you to try to calm down and breathe,” I say evenly, but it does nothing to soothe her panic attack and she faintly shakes her head no. “Yes,” I tell her, and her eyes droop closed. “You are stronger than this. Now open your eyes and yell at me!”

She tries but doesn’t get far, but I still manage to smile.

“Good,” I tell her, nodding. “That’s good.”

“I hate you,” she gasps out, and I swallow it down.

“Breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth, then tell me again like you mean it.”

Ire burns me through her strengthening gaze, and I’d wager my car that it has everything to do with the fact that I’m seeing her in such a vulnerable state when she’s always acting like she’s bulletproof. Because she shakily inhales, and then exhales, then says louder, slower, “I. Hate. You.”

I sweep my thumbs over her cheeks, wiping her tears away, trying to conquer the craziest urge to kiss her because she’s going to be fine. Everyone is okay, and I didn’t fail.

And the relief is so much I can’t help the corner of my mouth turning up. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Her eyebrow arches, and she pulls my hands away from her and sits back on her heels. “How about: I’m not keeping it.”

I blink and she’s gone, a sink running from what I guess is her kitchen and I’m still just sitting, the heels of my boots digging into my ass and hands resting idly on my knees, totally dumbfounded and unsure why.

I should have known from the moment she told me.

It never even crossed my mind as a possibility.

I slide my right foot forward until it’s flat on the floor, my body in a kneel I know from digging gear out of a duffel and changing tires. It’s a preparatory stance I always take before I wage war. This one, I don’t know how to win. I don’t even know if I want to.

I catalogue possibilities of outcomes, and I don’t find a victor. No matter how I play it out, I’ve already lost.

I stand fully, my limbs feeling alien as they try to decide if they should snap to a recorded attention or just dangle, because I am not that man anymore as much as I still am.

But deep down, maroon beret or not, I will always be me.

I walk deeper into the house, guessing my way out of her living room and into the kitchen where I find her, standing with her back to the sink and a dish towel in her hands. She glances at me, then looks away.

“You’re still here?” she says, her voice dull and flat.

I swallow and go to stand in front of her, but when she flinches I back up until I’m propped against the counter opposite her.

“I know it’s your body—”

“Damn right it is,” she snaps, and I grit my teeth.

“But this decision does not only affect
your
life.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.”

My brow furrows as I cross my arms. “Is there any chance of discussing this without you acting irrationally? Because I’m trying my best to be reasonable, and you’re making it impossible.”

“You want rational, reasonable? Great, so why don’t you tell me—since you’re so rational—exactly what we’re supposed to do?”

“I don’t…I don’t know.”

She throws a hand up in the air like a sarcastic victory. “There you have it.
You don’t know
.”

“What am I supposed to say?” I burst out, enraged. “I never even realized this was a possibility. How did this even happen?”

“Because you screwed up!”

“Me?” I yell back. “You said everything was under control!”

“So?”

“So this is just as much your fault as it is mine!”

She harshly throws the towel down on the counter.

I wince, then hold my hands up in surrender, my voice dropping. “I didn’t…” I blow out a breath. “This isn’t a
fault
, Zoe. It’s a…situation, but I didn’t mean to imply—”

“What? That you regret it?”

“I don’t regret it!”

“Well I sure as hell do!”

Air strangles in my throat at the look of detest on her face, and I ache in ways I never have before. There is no worse rejection than this. And all it does is piss me off to a place I know is dangerous, and I can’t restrain it.

“You want to be honest?” I say menacingly as I step towards her, and she crosses her arms when I stop close enough that she has to lift her chin to keep sight of my eyes. “I don’t love you. I doubt I ever could. Never have I met someone as selfish, manipulative and downright cruel as you are. But whatever villain you want to make me out to be, you remember that I’m the one fighting for the life of—”

“Don’t…” she whispers, but I continue.

“Of
our kid
, Zoe.” I place my palm on her stomach and she tries to push me away, but I’m leagues stronger than her and she doesn’t stand a chance. “And as much as I wish this could’ve happened with anyone else, it didn’t. I have to live with that, that it’s
you
.”

Tears slip down her cheeks, her bottom lip trembling, and I shake my head.

“But you,” I drawl out, “you are damn lucky. Because
I
have a soul, a conscience, and you can deny it all you want, but I am ten times the person you are or could ever hope to be. But maybe, just maybe, you could try to fucking act like a decent human being and at least
consider
doing the right thing.”

“You’re right,” she breathes, but her tone is all confidence and it scares the shit out of me. “My soul is
dead
, Luca. My heart is black. I’ve done things you could never even conceive of and maybe, just maybe, I’m sparing you from a lifetime of paying for a mistake you don’t want to admit to making. Because it is
me
.”

I look down at her, nauseous and not at all sure who I’m seeing.

“You ever consider that?” she asks, and I harden my gaze at her.

“No.”

“Then welcome to enlightenment.” She smiles and it makes me want to vomit.

“Tell me,” I say, grasping her shoulders and damn near begging. “Tell me what you did.”

She slowly shakes her head. “Nope.”

“You can’t scare me, Zoe.”

She lifts her chin, her lips sensually wrapping around the whispered word, “Boo.”

“I’ve killed people.”

She tilts her head, batting her eyelashes at me. “So have I. Who knew we had so much in common?”

I growl and push myself away from her, running a hand through my hair as I pace.

I have no fucking clue what to do.

There is no handbook on how to navigate this. No training. No rules.

I stop.

I turn back to her, the devil she’s presenting blurry around the edges because she’s not good enough at it, this game she’s playing. Because her hands are gripping the edges of the sink behind her, but her pinkie is trembling. I shake my head disappointedly, then step close enough that I can drape my hands around her neck, Zoe unaware I’m finding I was right: her pulse is racing, even though she’s determined to stare at me like she’s indifferent.

My expression softens and I tilt my head, my thumbs sweeping tenderly over her jaw as I lean in closer. Just until my mouth grazes hers.

“I know you’re still in there,” I whisper, and she steals my breath when she sucks in hers. I shift back just enough so I can see her eyes. “Somewhere, there is the woman that I care about. One who laughs, and smiles at me, who blushed the first time I brought her coffee.” I tuck Zoe’s hair behind her ear, and when her eyes close, I know for the first time tonight who I am speaking to. “And when she’s ready to talk to me, I’ll be ready to listen.”

I press a kiss into her forehead, feeling her shaking under my hands and lips, and then I let her go. But instead of leaving, I walk calmly into her living room. I sit on her couch, my elbow propped on the imported silk of the armrest and my head leaning against my fist. My left ankle balances on my right knee, and for the first time since I was eleven, I’m praying. For an answer. For a tunnel. For any path, any at all.

Sometimes, there’s peace in desperation. A clarity of thought. Sometimes, you can see all the right turns and wrong turns, and they are one and the same. The good is the bad. Sin and redemption share the same face, and it’s the one of the woman crossing in front of me, sitting slowly as if the movements ache.

She takes the chair cornered to the couch, and my fist unfurls as my arm lengthens, hand extended towards her. She hesitates, then places her palm in mine and the corner of my lips pulls up as I close my fingers around her smaller ones.

“The first time you left after we were together, I was ready to sign my soul over to the devil if it meant you’d come back.”

Her mouth twists and she leans forward, not letting go of my hand but covering her face with her other. “You realize that’s exactly what you did, right?”

“Nah,” I drawl, squeezing her hand. “The devil’s not that generous.”