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Tango Flynn from Springfield, Missouri. “Great, so you weren’t lying about your name or what state you were from.” I hand his
license back to him. “This doesn’t clarify more than your name.”

“Look. I can’t leave your side. No matter how difficult you make
this. I’ve agreed to this job, and it has to be this way.” He slides his wallet back into his pocket and crosses his arms over his chest. “If you want me to pretend I’m not here, I will. If you want company,
I’m here. Deal?”

I nod my head in agreement. “We’re making a deal, agreeing on me being your captive?”

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” he shrugs. “Want me to find a
replacement?”

“No, I don’t,” I say without thinking.

***

The never-ending day is finally coming to an end. He asked if I wanted him to grab me dinner from down the street, but I’m not hungry. Right
now, I want to pretend like he’s not here. My stomach couldn’t
possibly
compete with my mind, which is spinning in circles, trying to comprehend truths that have been hidden from me for so fucking
long.

I sit down at the edge of my bed and loosen the laces on my boots. I slip each one off and place them next to the bed. As I scoot
backward, my head finds the naked pillow, and it reminds me of how unsettled
I am here. The last thing I want to do right now is wrestle with sheets, but who knows who or what has occupied this bed before
me. I slide
off the bed and open my one lonely bag that I hadn’t finished
emptying. I wrap my hand around perfectly folded sheets and a blanket and place them over the mattress.

With slow, sluggish movements, I move around the bed, struggling to fit each corner over the rounded edges. I smooth the
fleece blanket over the top and make it perfect like Mom used to do. These sheets and blanket are my home. The smell, the softness and the warmth—they remind me so much of her.

I took them from Mom’s bed after she was transferred into hospice. It took everything I had to wash them, to purposely remove
her scent. But if I try hard enough, I can still smell her—the scent of vanilla and roses—the scent of a beautifully amazing mother. Each night when I bury my head into my pillow, I can feel her presence. I know this life
I’m living isn’t what she wanted for me, and if she ever knew how angry and miserable of a person I have become, it would make her
sick.

I sneak out of my room, hoping to avoid any more encounters for the night and lock myself in the bathroom to wash the day off my face. I take my pills in the same order I take them every night and
then look at
my reflection. How can I be left in a world where I can’t trust
anyone? Can I even trust
my
decisions? Was she thinking straight when she kept reminding me how trust doesn’t exist anywhere?

I brush my teeth then zipper all of my belongings back up into
my cosmetic bag. And with one last look at myself, I hit the light
switch
and cover myself with darkness. I take a deep breath and step into the hall where I hear Tango coughing again. He sounds like he’s in pain, so I reluctantly take a couple of steps toward his bedroom.
Does
he need
help?
When I peek my head around his door, I see him pulling puffs of air from an inhaler. Maybe he’s asthmatic? Although it seems
unlikely
that Dad would send me a guard who wasn’t the picture of perfect
health. I suppose he might not have known, though.

I knock lightly against his door. “Are you okay,” I ask tenderly.

I’ve caught him off guard, and he throws his inhaler into his bag. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Allergies,” he laughs.

“You must have pretty bad allergies,” I say. I take another step
in toward him, squinting at what’s on his face. It isn’t until I take a couple more steps when I realize he has a blood streak stretching
from
the corner of his mouth all the way to his ear. “You’re . . . ah . . . bleeding.”

He takes the back of his sleeve and wipes his face, seeming embarrassed. “Chronic cough. I’ve had it since I was a kid. Nothing to
worry about.” He keeps wiping at his face, but it’s already dry.

“Hold on.” I leave his room and go back into the bathroom where I grab a tissue and lightly soak it under the faucet. I return to his room and sit down next to him on his bed. “Here.” I press the tissue against his cheek and blot it around the blood-covered area. I
use my free hand
to hold his chin still in order to be a little more forceful with the stubborn dried blood. “Sorry, it dried,” I say. He watches me intently as I help him. The tough guy façade has softened, and his lips are
parted, appearing surprised at my kindness, I’m assuming. I feel bad for him. That’s all this is. At least, that’s what I’ll tell myself. Except, touching his face
is making my stomach spin and my heart swell. Feeling his rough stubble scratch against my palm is a surprising turn-on, which tells
me I have to let go. I have to walk away before something happens that we’d both regret.

His cheeks flush and he seems uncomfortable, so I take the hint and leave without another word.

Once back in my room, I lie down in my freshly made bed, allowing my mind to race, but mostly I’m contemplating the
difference between truth and trust. As usual, my thoughts don’t make it far before the awaited numbness from the Valium covers me like a warm blanket.

Visions of Mom’s auburn hair blowing in the beach wind soothe my loneliness. This world may have taken away everything I love, but nothing can take away my memories.

Mom always took simple enjoyment out of small things. Driving to the beach in Corpus Christi every weekend was all it took to keep her
happy. Krissy and I didn’t complain. It was peaceful. It was a break
from the disruptive clatter in our house of Dad slamming phones, speaking in different languages, and waking everyone up in the
middle of the night because he had to leave on another mission.

He was usually missing from the good parts of our life. We tried to carry on without him, and it was normal to us, but I don’t think it was normal to Mom.

They met in high school before his career. She told me millions
of times how he used to look at her, how she was his world. But after college, and some
governmental internships
as she called them, he joined the CIA. His world dissolved. The CIA was his world, his
family, and his life. I know he loved all of us, but he showed it in an abnormal way; a way civilians are unfamiliar with.

I feel my muscles release and my lungs loosen.
I miss you, Mom and Krissy
.

***

It’s been three days of awkwardness between Tango and me, but I’ve kept myself busy with my head buried in my laptop, stalking Reaper for the most part. We’ve ordered pizza the last three nights and have
eaten in our own bedrooms, by ourselves. He took me back to the shooting range yesterday and sat and watched as I shot. Maybe he didn’t want to embarrass himself again. Well, that is if he was actually telling me the truth about his lack of shooting skills. I’m
starting to think it might be easier to stop acting like such a cold bitch, but that means I’d have to be nice to him . . . and that might make things awkward again. I’m stuck here with him for who knows how long, so I kind of need to figure out how to survive this somehow.

I tuck my ego into my back pocket and walk into the living room where his eyes are locked on his phone. This was a bad idea. I can still walk back to my room. But it only takes a few seconds for him to
realize I’m standing here staring at him like an idiot.

“What’s up, Carolina?”

 I shove my hands into my pockets and roll back on my heels. “Sooo.”
Never mind.
Don’t do it, Cali. You’re crossing the line.
If I could punch my sub-conscious right now, I would, but it’s clear my mouth has a mind of its own tonight. “Want to have dinner with a friend?” That sounded as ridiculous as it felt. He’s laughing, probably at my feeble attempt to break the uncomfortable silence between us.

“Is this like a truce?” he asks.

“Whatever,” I respond in a Cali-like-manner, being careful not to give him the wrong impression. “I need to get out of this apartment
tonight.”

TANGO

MAYBE SHE’S COMING AROUND.
Maybe she’s going to make
this a little easier on me. I hope so, because I’ve had too much time to think over the past few days, and things are starting to catch up to
me. Memories, realizations—the fact that I’m not a Marine anymore. The fact that I’m only a nobody.

Maybe the burn in my lungs has gotten worse because I’m sitting still. It’s like it caught up to me because I let it. The doctor
warned me it would happen, but I tried to put it in the back of my head, knowing I’d deal with it when the time came.

I’m scared. And if I ever said that out loud to any of my Marine brothers, they’d whack me upside the head. But in truth, I feel like a child left in the middle of nowhere without any knowledge on how to find his way home. The world seems like such a big place when
you
have no one and nowhere to turn. It almost feels like the world is
caving in, warning me it’s done with me, and it’s time to go.

But I don’t want to go.

I’m not done with this world.

CALI

“Whiskey sour,” I shout to the bartender. I lower myself onto the sticky wooden barstool and steal a napkin from the bar tray full of sliced fruits and olives. I spit my gum out and crumple up the napkin in my hand.

“I’ll just have the whisky,” Tango calls out.

“IDs?” the bartender asks.

I slide my hand into my back pocket and retrieve my license—or the license I’ve claimed to be my own. He studies the picture on the card and looks back at me. “You color your hair?”

“Yes,” I respond, fisting the already crumpled napkin into a tight
wad. I had my hair dyed blond when I had this ID made, but that was when I was fun, bubbly and outgoing. It was four years ago before my life started going down the shitter. I wouldn’t make a good blond these days.

“Nice.” He hands the card back to me and studies me for a
moment. “Do you go by Sam, or Samantha?”

“Samantha.”

“Well then, Samantha. One whiskey sour coming right up.”

Tango looks over at me and cocks his head to the side. “A fake? You’re twenty-two.” I know how old I am, and I know I don’t want anyone to know who the hell I am.

I shrug. “So, what’s the problem?”

He shakes his head and laughs softly. “Whatever floats your boat.”

The twenty-something-year-old bartender hustles around behind the bar, combining the ingredients to make my drink. The people sitting around us are shouting orders at him, but it appears he’s working the bar himself. The crowd seems to be swarming in
like a school of fish,
which means our space is becoming more confined, and our stools
are
slowly merging together. I glance down at my watch and realize it’s five-thirty. Work just let out, and everyone’s stopping in to forget
about their long day.

I ordered a plate of nachos and declared it to be my dinner, and
Tango ordered a plate of buffalo wings and declared it his. Now here we are both sitting in silence, eating and drinking as if we’re
complete strangers, which as of a week ago, we were.

We’re both on drink number four, and I’m hoping he starts talking as I’ve learned alcohol driven interrogation typically works
the best. I
tap my fingers curtly on the bar top, and my chin drops into the
palm of my resting arm. I’m officially bored and getting buzzed, which is not a good combo.

“Am I boring you, Samantha?” Tango teases, nudging his
shoulder into mine.

“Not at all,” I raise an eyebrow with a hint of mischievousness. Time to drag in the bait.

I wave my finger in the air, calling the bartender’s attention.
“Two shots of Absolute,” I say emphatically.

“You’re freaking nuts, girl.” Tango’s words are beginning to slur. But I think mine are too.

The bartender places the two shot glasses down in front of us and stops to wait for the show. I curl my fingers around the cool
glass and
throw the clear liquid into the back of my throat. The burn warms my insides and tickles my nose. The rush is instantaneous as the feeling of bubbles float up into my head. This is the moment I love—the moment my pain briefly disappears. The moment happiness
comes naturally.

Tango shoots the shot into the back of his throat. His expression doesn’t change, and the burn doesn’t seem to affect him. Of course.
He slams the glass down on the table and grunts, “Good shit.”

Maybe now he’ll start talking.

His eyes look glossy, and I’m thinking the alcohol is starting to do its job. He sits quietly for a few minutes, staring straight through the bottle of Jack perched on the back bar in front of him. I wonder
what’s on his mind, and I wonder how many fucking shots it’s going to take to make him tell me what is on his mind.