TAG (34 page)

My lungs are burning so badly it feels as though I ran miles in near freezing temperatures. A knife slicing into my chest would be a more desirable sensation. Coughing is becoming my best way at sucking in enough air to survive, but with the coughing comes more
blood. I’m only twenty-four, but I’ve used up more of my lungs than I was apparently allotted. All I wanted to do was protect and serve. I did.
Then I end up with a death sentence and a bunch of realistic
nightmares. Saying life isn’t fair is such an easy way out. It’s as if life takes some
people by the neck, strangles the air out of them, kicks them in the face and throws them to the wolves. Is this karma? They didn’t tell me karma would be the death of me. They told me I might not come
back
from war. They told me I would die with honor if that happened.
But no one knew I’d make it back and have the rug ripped out below me and then die without honor.

This shit isn’t working on me. I can feel my insides closing in, disintegrating and shutting down. If that’s what’s happening, I can only hope I die in my sleep. I slap my arm over my forehead to
conceal the dim white light hanging over my head.

I suppose if it’s going to happen, I’m ready now. I look up to the ceiling and close my eyes. “God take me to where the sun is always shining, to where love doesn’t die, and to where war won’t haunt my living memories.”

CALI

SASHA’S ARMS
around my neck cause me to burst into tears. We
hold each other for what seems like an eternity as we stand in the middle of an empty dirt parking lot. The faint lights of a run-down burger shack flirt with the broken glass bottles that pepper the
ground below. “Ready to go home, Cali-girl?”

If home is where the heart is, Tango should be there. But he
won’t be, so I’ll probably never find my home again. I nod my head and she loops her fingers through mine, squeezing ever so tightly.

I clamber into her old beat up Cherokee and pull the seatbelt down over my lap. She starts the engine and the pop music
immediately fills
my ears. I must have flinched at the sound because she hits the
volume button and shuts the music off. “Start talking, girly.”

“Reaper is gone and Tango is gone.” What else is there to say, that I actually could say?

“What happened to Tango?” She doesn’t care about Reaper, and
why should she? All anyone would need to know is that he’s gone, and everyone should feel instantly safer knowing that asshole doesn’t exist among us anymore. “Um. He was pretty sick it turned
out. Didn’t make it back.” The words cause a tearing sensation to rip through the middle of my chest.

I feel the car jerk to the right side of the road, reminding me of when Tango did the same thing, when he wanted to kiss me. My lips won’t ever know of something so wonderful again. I will not let
them.

She keeps her hands wrapped around the steering wheel, assumedly contemplating what to say to me. She knew I was falling for him. She knows I don’t fall for people, and now I’m telling her
that he didn’t make it back in a way that sounds like I’m telling her he went to go buy a cup of coffee and never returned.

“What do you mean he didn’t make it back?” She finally looks at
me with nothing but utter concern within her beautiful blue eyes. I shrug my shoulders and turn my head to look out the window,
avoiding her sympathetic stare. Her warm hand covers mine and she tugs on my wrist to pull my attention away from the darkness outside.

“There really isn’t much to say, Sash. He’s gone.” I bite on my top lip, hoping it will stop my chin from trembling. I’ve spent the last three hours being strong, and I can’t just let it all go now. I have
to maintain this super power of not showing my true emotions. Because right now, my true emotions are pulling me back to the same place where Krissy’s death pushed me. I pull my hand out of Sasha’s grip and
turn my wrist over to admire the heart with wings—my reminder of why I’m supposed to want to live. I close my eyes and imagine Krissy telling me to be strong. I have to be strong for her. I have to
continue on for both of us.

We’ve been driving for a while down a long dirt road. She really moved to the boonies, and I can’t blame her. “You live pretty far out here, huh?”

“Yep.” She rolls open her window a bit and looks over at me briefly. “Your dad okay?” She knows she shouldn’t ask, but she also knows we’re in a car in the middle of the fucking desert with no listening ears.

“My dad is fine.” The second we landed, he told me had some
stuff to do. I gave him Tango’s phone number since I have his phone, but I know I won’t hear from him anytime soon. It’s nothing new. Dad was meant to be a man on the run. Who knows, maybe he’s turning himself in. Maybe that’s what he should do.

“Hmm,” she responds.

My mother is alive too
. I wish I could tell her that part—although, that might be a little harder to explain.

We pull into a dirt-covered driveway, which appears to be an extension from the dirt road. A small red ranch house residing in the middle of nowhere somehow looks to be the perfect spot for Sasha. This girl can make anything look beautiful. A dozen little lights line the dirt driveway all the way up to her front awning, which shadows
over a tiny porch. Two wooden rocking chairs sit perfectly on each side of the white screen door. And the front door, which I can now see is a tattered wooden slab—is wide open. “You leave your door
open while you’re gone?”

She giggles a Sasha giggle. “No, silly, Landon must be home.”

“Landon?”

“Oh gosh, I forgot to tell you—well, I guess technically I didn’t forget to tell you. It all sort of happened over the past couple of weeks. Remember the guy I sort of told you about?” A couple of
weeks? That is not the Sasha I know. “I think you’ll like him.” Her smile warms my cold heart.

I remove my pack from the back of her trunk and pull it over my
shoulders. The thing feels so light now compared to the heaviness within my heart. I follow her into the house and the aroma of
something
delectable instantly overwhelms me. I smell spices—fresh garlic, rosemary, and basil. It smells like Mom’s old kitchen.

A ginger-blushing lamp perched on a worn oak coffee table lights the living room. It is surrounded by a set of mismatched couches that all somehow complement each other perfectly. The
room itself smells like fresh bread, the scent of a warm home. The scent of love. It calms my nerves and comforts me in a way I wasn’t sure I could be comforted right now.

“I’m home!” Sasha shouts into the kitchen. “I have my girl
back.” She wraps her thin arm around my neck and squeezes tightly while placing a wet kiss on my temple. “Come meet Landon.”

TANGO

A light above me flickers on, forcing me to squint from the harsh burn. I’m scared to open my eyes. I’m scared to acknowledge that what I wish is only a hanging bulb might be my light calling me
from above. The pain in my chest isn’t quite gone, but it’s not as severe. Would I feel pain if I were dead? Maybe. What if the enemies whose lives I ended
are waiting in front of me when I open my eyes? What if I’m
surrounded by flames?

A frail soft-skinned hand is resting on my forehead, though, and I force my eyes open, avoiding my fear of seeing
the light
.

“What are you doing in here?” My voice comes out surprisingly strong considering the way I felt last night.

Her voice, so soft and pleasant—she speaks slowly. “They’re
letting me visit with you.” When I look around, I see I’m still lying in the same place I fell asleep. With moments to focus on what’s going on, I feel a stinging sensation on my left arm. I look down to see what the
cause of the pain is, and I see a number of tubes and wires
connecting me to machines.

“Testing,” Alice says, acknowledging my confusion. She extends
her arm out toward me and shows me a number of bandages covering her skin. “They want to keep us for eight months. And if we make it through that period of time, they’ll release us. They said
that’s how long it will take to do all of the necessary testing. I’ve made it three
years, so there’s hope for you too.” She sighs softly. “There is a bright side to this . . . if everything turns out the way they’re hoping,
they
might be able to push this treatment to become regulated. And I’m sure you can understand what that might mean for the general public.” She squeezes her hand around my wrist. “This isn’t for nothing after all.”

“Oh,” is all I’m capable of saying.

“What did you do before you became ill, dear?”

“I was a Marine.”

She sweeps her hand through my hair, and it reminds me of my own mother’s touch. “You’re a good man, Tango.”

“No, I’m not. When I found out I was dying of cancer, I had my
parents notified that I had died in the field. I’m actually quite the opposite of anything good.”

“You were trying to save them from going through more pain?” she asks. She understands why I made that decision. I wasn’t even sure I understood why I made that decision, or if it had any point to it.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I was trying to prevent.”

“In my book, that makes you a good man.” She stands up from the edge of the bed I’m lying on and looks down at me with a smile. “They gave me a few minutes to come in and see how you were, but they asked me not to stay long. I promise I’ll be back when I can.”

CALI

IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS.
Sasha let me move into her spare room and I promised her I’d find a job as soon as possible so I could help with rent. I’m depressed and miserable. I think about him every second of the day, wondering if he’s dead or alive, and Mom too. I
keep his phone on the
nightstand, wondering if he might ever call it. I keep it charged. I keep it alive, wishing
he
was that easy to keep alive. I pull the phone from the table and turn on the display. I just realized he took the
password feature off of his phone at some point after I saw Chelsea’s message to him. Not sure why I didn’t think of it until now, but I’m thinking he did it so I’d trust him, which makes me hurt even more.

My thumb accidentally hit one of the apps and a notepad pops
open, displaying a note addressed to Chelsea, his sister. Normally I wouldn’t read something so personal, but I don’t think he’s coming
back, and I don’t really think he’s even alive anymore.

The note reads:

Chelsea, I should have told you sooner, sis. I’m dying. Not
from
a bullet, or a hand-to-hand combat fight, not from an
explosion or a knife. I’m dying from lung cancer. It came on suddenly and left me no time for intervention. It is the real reason why I’ve done what I’ve done.

To everyone else, I died a couple of months ago, but you have been the only one to know the truth, and I’m sorry to put you through this twice. As it
seems, life has had its plans for me. I ran from the bullets that were chasing me in the field. I fooled them. I fought hard and I cheated death while I watched others who weren’t so lucky. But as it turns out, it wasn’t the physical enemies I should have feared, it was the enemy within my body that would have the final shot.

Chels, I heard someone say something once that made me understand your situation. I want you
to live for both of us. I want you to be happy for both of us. I want you to find a good job, settle down, and give Mom and Dad lots of grandkids.
Live the life we both should have lived.

I’m thinking today might be it for me. I love you for constantly thinking about me. Even though I couldn’t
respond to your text
messages, I’ve always been thinking about you, Mom and
Dad. I love you, and I miss you.

Love, Tyler

While wiping my tears then clinging my free hand to my chest, I
scroll my finger over the text and click copy. I paste it into a new
message
with Chelsea’s phone number attached. At the beginning of the
message, I write:

Hi Chelsea--you don’t know me, but I knew your brother. He
had taken a job, which involved working with me.
Unfortunately,
I’m not sure where he is now, but he left his phone behind. I’m not sure if he’s alive or—you know. But I found this message on his phone, and I think he would want you to have
it.

I am so sorry for what you’re going through. Your brother was an exceptional man and he loved you and your parents very much.

If you ever need anything, please feel free to call his number. I will do whatever I can to help you.

Best, Cali

My text message spreads across six different comment boxes
because it is so long. I can’t imagine the look on her face when she sees this
number show up in her message box. I can’t imagine the pain she will feel when she finds out he’s either dying for real this time or worse, already dead. She is the only person on this earth who has had to experience the death of her big brother—twice.