Chapter One
Unsent email messages-saved to ZOE folder
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
When I’m ankle-deep in the barren sand, all I dream about is the cool South Florida sea. But when I’m home, my feet in the surf, I can’t forget hell. I’ve only been back in Iraq a week since Christmas and I miss you so much already. I regret not being able to swim in the ocean with you. Or fish on the pier. Talk, like friends. Lovers. Thing is, my chest was scabbed over from an “assist” mission that I still can’t explain. I sure as hell couldn’t talk about it without—well, nothing says Merry Christmas like a melt down over the spiral ham and scalloped potatoes. Doc Loomis says we need to deal with what we’ve seen. Talk it out. Journal. I’m not much for keeping a diary. I don’t want you to know, Zoe, how ugly this shit can be, but you are my best friend. So, I will tell you, in emails that I will never send.
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
The second week of the new year feels much the same as the old one. We got this private that is so fresh out of boot camp he jumps at every smattering of gunshot like a cat walking on firecrackers. His youth and inexperience could get him injured, or worse. If he’s still around in a few months, then maybe I’ll remember his name. The frontlines are shifting, Zoe, as we get closer to Mosul. Imagine a sea of camouflage canvas tents and white PVC pipe. There was so much I wanted to tell you when we Skyped yesterday but I couldn’t. The empathy you have for me weakens me when I need to be strong. Bullet proof as I search for bombs and destroy them. We are not officially at war, yet the compound comes under attack almost every day. We are permitted defensive fire but in Operation Inherent Resolve, the coalition is all about building a stronger, independent, Iraq. The Defense Department says one thing but the reality on the ground is different.
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
Sorry I missed our Sunday Skype date. Had a rough day in one of the smaller villages. Snipers hunkered down on top of the buildings, shooting at the Humvees as we searched for Islamic State sympathizers. One of the civilians had warned us that there were insurgents hiding among the rubble of homes. The innocent Kurds don’t believe that we soldiers want to help them rebuild. I feel their stares as we offer tools and food. Do they find it ironic that we are trying to patch what we’ve broken? What does freedom mean to them? There are still bands of Islamic State insurgents shooting at us—we must defend ourselves with another act of violence. Or die. One of the privates got tagged in the arm—flesh wound. He’s going to stick it out though he could go back to the states. The heaviness of my thoughts is a burden but sharing them like this actually does help. Not going to tell the doc though.
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
The sound of shooting echoes in the distance. It seems that there is always shooting. I can’t sleep so I think of you. My first memory is when you came off the pier with your brother demanding your fishing pole after you’d dropped it in the ocean. I’d rescued it for you but instead of saying thank you, you wanted the pole back to see if I’d broken it. Sun-kissed skin, short spiky black hair—you didn’t come up to my shoulder—but damn, you were feisty. Hot pink bikini and loose denim shorts that showed your belly button ring. I remember the way you laugh, Zoe, with your head tossed back and both hands over your stomach, really laughing, and it saves me from the encroaching darkness.
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
Skyping gets harder and harder. I see your impatience for answers to questions that you are too thoughtful to ask. Knowing you, you’ve probably read the handbook on being an Army wife with a man overseas. You deal with things head-on in a way that makes me so proud. I can’t tell you what’s wrong, so I tell you about the stars at night. How many miles I ran on the treadmill in the recreation tent. How the food in the mess tent tastes like a salt lick. I’m kicking ass in Call of Duty. I know you would listen to me, but it is not your responsibility to carry the darkness that is growing in my soul. The Colonel says we need to find a place in our head to put all this so that we can stay in the moment. A soldier who isn’t paying attention to the “now” is a dead soldier. I had to demolish a building today that wasn’t safe—which meant the family living in it had no place to go. The Kurdish man’s impotent anger, his wife’s quiet acceptance of bad shit happening being a part of life, the big-eyed toddler crying. It sticks in my mind. Another mark against me. I gave them time to get their things. Food rations. The baby still cried.
I wonder why you ever loved me. In the darkest part of night, I can hardly stand myself. Things I’ve done and seen, they are consigned to a locked box. If you knew these secrets you would not love me anymore. How could you? I can’t.
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
One of the stolen US Humvees the Sunnis rigged as a suicide bomb crashed into the base yesterday, taking out the rear quadrant. Five soldiers were injured. Happened at night. The background shooting noises I’d gotten used to became screams of pain. We had the fires out immediately. I helped prep the men for evac to Baghdad and the hospital there—snipers hidden in the dark were shooting at our birds. I put on the NOD (night optical device) and grabbed my M4, shooting back. This war that isn’t a war is messing with my head. I want to be one of the good guys, Zoe. But in order to do that I have to be a bad ass. Shoot to kill, that’s the word down the line from the Colonel. So I do.
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
I am so sorry about your dad, Zoe. Greer was like a dad to me too. Damn it. I can only imagine how you feel. I sent flowers—hope they got there on time—but I can’t leave.
Things here are getting hot. The more we press toward Mosul, the more persistent ISIS is—car bombings, IEDs, rocket propelled grenades. Playing defense while pushing ahead. The Germans brought in the Milan—an anti-tank gun, well, missile launcher, that’s slowed down the Humvee suicide bombs. Mosul and Raqqa are the insurgents’ last stronghold and Colonel says he needs experienced soldiers. At this point, the battalion is all I can think about. Lost two in my unit to a sniper hiding in the hillside today. I’m not sure how the Department of Defense is doing the body count…I read a report where they’ve admitted to three dead soldiers since 2011. We’ve had three dead just this last week. I guess we aren’t going home fast enough for them—the enemy. They call us the invaders. Who is right? War is screwed up. To be clear, I am proud to be an American. I am proud to serve my country. It is a sad truth that sometimes peace can only be won by taking the lives of others. I hope you can forgive me. You’ve become my light, yes. My conscious. My Zoe.
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
Today’s mission is to ride two miles ahead and clear a small nameless village so that we can demolish the buildings and locate any undetonated bombs. Then give the Kurds the tools and resources to start again. We set up a tent compound for the misplaced refugees fleeing Mosul and the towns around the area. ISIS has decimated the country with no thought to her poor people. It sickens me how many innocent are maimed and left to starve to death. There are no crops, no farmers, no commerce. ISIS has set the oil wells on fire, which adds thick black smoke to the atmosphere. They’ve bombed a sulfur factory, poisoning the air and streams with toxic fumes. I understand the Colonel’s insistence that we make what they have habitable. But trying to force this barren land to produce so that the Kurdish people can survive would take a damn miracle. The environment is hard enough. Add constant warfare to their suffering? All I can think about as I see these families staying together despite the hardships is your family. Zoe, your dad created a tight-knit clan. I want to come home so badly when this is over. But I feel dirty. I know I don’t belong. What would you see if you looked closely at me? Don’t look. Don’t look.
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
It’s been a month since our last Skype. Two weeks since my last email about the beauty of the desert. I lied in that email. I loathe the desert. The stench of oil fires, the stink of sulfur seems to stick to my skin. Black smoke coats everything from the canvas tents to the Humvees. I know I’m breathing that shit in. Colonel handed out gas masks a few days ago when it was real bad. I hate this Operation Inherent Resolve. It’s a quiet, shadowy battle that feels like an ugly secret. I hate the constant barrage of need. The refugees, wounded and tired. Hungry. Hopeless. Them as well as me. I suck it up, because that’s what you do. Beats being dead, right? Not according to the general that bit it last week. Set to retire but decided death was a better option. It makes my head spin, dizzy. I’m glad you don’t have to actually listen to this, Zoe. I imagine you floating in the pool, a drink in one hand and a book in the other, wearing that big straw floppy hat. Happy. It doesn’t escape my notice that in the vision I am not there.
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
A lucky strike took out our recreation tent. All we have left are the sleeping tents and the mess hall. The supply convoy was shot at so we are supplementing food with MREs until the next one comes. Nothing tastes good, anyway.
All I can think about, Zoe, is your disappointment in me. You didn’t hide your tears when I said I was sorry about your dad—I like that you aren’t the kind to pretend to feel what you don’t. Six years as an Army wife, with me overseas for most of it, is a long time. Military marriages like ours end up in divorce for a reason. I’d hoped that because you live with your family you wouldn’t be lonely. You deserve more from me, your husband. I understand if you want to be free. I’ve lost the memory of your smile. All I see are your tears. I have never wanted to cause you pain—and I am powerless to help you. To make you feel better. Instead, you’re taking care of everybody. I used to hang onto the image of home, where you are. The dogs, your brothers. Your folks, even Grandma. I worry that I don’t deserve you. I’ve been thinking. My happiness should not come at the cost of yours.
Captain Brayden Hamilton ate his high protein power bar in four bites then tossed the wrapper into the trash by the canvas door of the mess tent. He peered outside the flap at the charcoal smudged sky, and then checked his MTM titanium watch. It could do everything from tell time to translate languages but he loved it because Zoe had given it to him at Christmas. “Looks like late afternoon, not eight in the morning.”
“You want another one?” Major Peters pulled a slim silver package the size of a candy bar from his camo uniform breast pocket. His fellow coalition member was from Great Britain’s Special Ops and had pocketed three in addition to a breakfast of oatmeal and toast, with a cup of coffee. His close-cropped red hair and pale freckled skin reminded Brayden of Prince Harry. “I never thought I’d miss the powdered eggs, mate. Next convoy is Wednesday, God willing.”
Brayden wiped his thumb and finger together to get the apple cinnamon from the protein bar off. “I’m good.” Lately eating was something he did for nutrition, to get by. It was as if the suffering around him had burned out his taste buds and turned everything to ash.
Peters joined him in looking out of the long canvas tent toward the blackened sky. “Bastards fight dirty. Setting fire to the oil wells to cause a smokescreen. And the sulfur.” Peters plugged his nose and groaned. “Rotten eggs.”
“I guess when you have no exit plan to survive the war you don’t give a shit about the harm you’re causing to your own lungs.” Brayden pushed past the flap and crossed the six foot wide packed dirt path to the opposite row of tents and stood outside the officer’s “lounge”—an eight by ten canvas square with two desks, two computers and spotty Internet. “I’ve got some correspondence to catch up on,” he said, thinking of the email he’d write to Zoe. Doc Loomis had been right about purging what he’d seen—it helped to keep the depression at bay.
“Wi-Fi working?” Peters asked. “I thought it was out.”
Brayden never sent the emails, but Peters didn’t need to know that. “No biggie. I can send it later. Once we do.”
“You tell that pretty wife of yours hello from me,” Peters said with a teasing wink.
Brayden had been Skyping a few times when Peters had walked by which was how Peters and Zoe had cyber-met. “I don’t think so.” He couldn’t joke about Zoe flirting with someone else, not even a pasty Englishman. “Hey, if you see Private Allen, send him to me, would you? He’s got to wear his chin strap the right way, or it does no good.” The lightweight advanced combat helmet was formulated specifically for the desert. “I’ve warned him a couple times.” Brayden had six years under his belt, and Peters ten. They’d witnessed horrific disfigurements from the ISIS mode of warfare.
Peters gave him a thumbs-up. “Are you heading out to Rifka?”
The small village, like the hundreds along the way to Mosul from Baghdad, was full of undetonated bombs. They had to get the innocent Kurdish civilians out to clear the town before going in. It was a job that got harder for Brayden to do. The folks were frightened, they fought the soldiers because they had no place else to go—which was why Brayden had implemented the tent housing for them to stay in until the process was done. Usually took two days, maybe three. He shared the MREs and made sure they had clean water.
He buried the bitter memory of a mission gone wrong. “Yeah. Leaving in an hour?”
Peters left with a lift of his hand and a swagger down the path toward the plow vehicle used for clearing roads. Ten up-armored Humvees, artillery-fire scarred, were parked next to military trucks by the front gate. This forward operation base was roughly the size of a football field with four crow’s nest lookout points about fifteen feet high in the corners—north, south, east and west, and surrounded by mesh and steel Hescoe barriers.
The village of Rifka was one mile east and the only other sign of civilization. Nothing grew here, Brayden noted. The area was rocky, ruined by previous oil fires and decades of environmental warfare. Scrub brush. Desolation.
Major Peters turned left and out of Brayden’s line of vision before Brayden ducked into the tent. Alone, he powered on one of the laptops. Another good thing about writing via email to Zoe was that he could always log in to his private account and save the emails to a folder, no matter what computer he was on.
Not sleeping more than a few hours at a time was his normal—but he’d trained for this situation. Always halfway listening for an attack, prepared to rise swinging in defense of his life. Dreams of failure and loss had followed him into his waking hours and he had to shake it off.
He logged on to his email, found the ZOE folder and opened it up. Brayden stretched his fingers over the keyboard as if preparing to play a concerto.
To: Zoe Clark-Hamilton
From: Captain Brayden Hamilton
Woke up this morning realizing that I might lose you. Really lose you. And it would be my fault for not being a good husband. Talked to the Colonel yesterday about a military without combat—he must have heard something in my voice because he took me aside after dinner in the mess hall. He told me that if I was serious, then after we are through here in Mosul then he could check around for me to possibly transfer. He’d give me the recommendation needed to go wherever I want. He said Spain is awesome. Would you come with me, if I asked, to a different country? A peaceful country? Zoe, I feel like I have a very tenuous hold on my perception of the world. Right and wrong. War, not war. You are what matters to me most but I fear that I am poisoning you with the darkness in me.
Maybe you don’t want a husband, or this husband? I won’t blame you, Zoe. I just want you to be happpppp—.
The reinforced canvas top of the officer’s lounge was blown upward by a sulfurous blast from some sort of mortar fire. Brayden stilled like a panther in the scrub. A second barrage of gunfire sprayed the dirt road in front of the tent, hitting the canvas with a peppering cadence. Brayden leapt from the chair and it fell backward as his hand slipped off the keyboard of the laptop. He pulled his Beretta 9mm from the holster and strode toward the opening of the tent.
Sirens and alarms sounded from each of the four posts. Brayden looked around for the most immediate danger. A third round of gunfire came from the west side of the compound and the sharp shooters returned fire from their elevated position on the crow’s nest. He put his helmet on and waited for quiet before inching around to study the lounge.
The officer’s tent had been peeled back like a can of sardines, the top layer dangling over the side, a camouflage tongue.
Private Bob Allen rushed toward him, his bootlaces loose which made his boot heels scuff along the dirt. The rest of his uniform was impeccable, including the helmet. Peters must’ve had a talk with the kid already.
Allen had Brayden’s M4 in hand as well as his own rifle. He passed it over, safety on. “I figured you might need this, Captain.” Maybe nineteen, Allen had apple cheeks, big baby blues and brows so blond they didn’t count.
“Thanks.” Brayden headed for the Humvees, Allen right behind him. Peters sauntered out of the tent that housed the coalition’s group weapons, carrying a duffle bag of ammo, his rifle in the opposite arm. He’d piled rifles, grenades, and RPGs to pack inside the Humvee for Rifka. Scuff, scuff. “Tie your boots, private.”
“Yes sir.”
The guard on the northern tower shouted down, “Shots fired from the trenches behind the trees.” The enemy fought in sporadic surprise attacks. They might be done here, only to pop up and shoot from somewhere else in another hour or two. They were persistent but unable to do lasting damage to the coalition’s compound, even as it moved slowly forward. “I don’t see anybody else.”
Brayden looked for shadows in the angles of the barren hills. Silhouettes that caught the corner of your eye. He’d learned to never fully trust that the attack was over. The Sunni liked to catch a man with his pants down.
The waiting was hell. Brayden scanned the area outside the compound as he joined Peters and three dozen men by the Humvees.
The guard from the south shouted an alarm. “There, by the road!”
“Let’s go,” Brayden said.
“Give the bastards a taste of some morning M4 in their breakfast,” Major Peters agreed. His red eyelashes had been singed months ago in an explosion and were just now growing back.
“What if it’s a trap?” Private Allen asked. The kid’s eye ticked.
Brayden holstered his handgun and slid the strap of his rifle across his shoulder. “Our vehicles are bigger. Badder. We have more soldiers and more ammo. We’ve got to clear Rifka before we move on to Mosul.”
“Private, pay attention,” Peters said, his gaze hard. “We can’t afford to let the enemy regroup behind us, okay? Which means we go through each shithole pile of rubble. We have to dismantle any stash of weapons we find, any threat that could allow those ISIS bastards to rise again. Got it?”
Private Allen gulped and shifted his weight, his knuckles white on his rifle.
The danger was another part of life to be compartmentalized. Brayden adjusted his rifle strap so it didn’t pull against his neck. “You’ll be fine.”
Shots riddled the crow’s nest behind them and the guard returned fire. The sharp tang of gunpowder hung in the air. The gray morning. Smoke-tinged clouds. “I count five,” the guard shouted. “Sneaky bastards.”
Brayden accepted he was at war no matter what the Pentagon said. Shit! The computer. Brayden headed toward the officer’s tent. “Be right back.”
“Wait!” Peters called.
Already hot-footing it down the dirt path, Brayden never saw the missile blow up behind him. He felt the heat from the explosion at his heels, then had the sensation that he was flying.
Not paying attention, asshole, he thought grimly. First rule of survival.
He landed hard on the packed dirt, face-down, unable to catch a breath. Panic rushed through his body and he forced himself to take stock through the intense pain pinging each pissed off nerve on his left side.
He tasted blood and the jagged edge of a broken tooth against his tongue. Couldn’t move. Stunned, or worse?
“Captain?” Private Allen dropped to his knees on the right, in Brayden’s limited line of vision. “Oh, shit. Major, he’s hurt. Bleeding.” The words were muffled but Brayden heard them. Thought of Zoe. Zoe’s tears. Couldn’t cause her pain.
Peters grabbed Allen by the back of the jacket and hauled him up. “Get the medic.” He pushed Allen out of Brayden’s view before getting down on hands and knees to peer into Brayden’s face.
Peters’ lack of eyelashes made his eyes round, like an owl.
“I feel sick,” Brayden said. Tried to say. The strap of his helmet pressed into his cheek as he lay on his side. Blood trickled down his lip.
“What the hell were you thinking, old man?”
“Zoe.”
Peters patted Brayden’s body down, starting at Brayden’s head, the chest, the torso. Legs. He started to turn Brayden over, the look on his face melding into that neutral expression a soldier wore when the news wasn’t so good. Peters stood and Brayden stared at the brown toes of Peters’ boots.
“Medic’s coming,” Allen yelled. Brayden attempted to turn his head, but couldn’t.
“Come on, Private. Can’t wait. You’re about to learn how we do it here in the desert.”
Brayden felt himself being flipped over and agony like he’d never known made him gag. Black spots dotted his vision. Allen’s fear was easy to read as he swallowed convulsively, trying not to look at Brayden’s side.
“Put your hand here,” Peters’ instructed, forcing Allen’s attention to where it didn’t want to go. “Like this.”
The pressure of Allen’s hand against his hip pulsed and Brayden cried out. Allen didn’t let up. “There’s so much blood,” the kid muttered.
“Shut it,” Peters said in a hard voice. “Stay with me, mate.” Peters looked Brayden in the eye, forcing him to be aware. Present.
He’d been injured before. Shook it off. This was very different. Brayden wet his lips, the coppery blood sliding down his throat. “Zoe. Don’t tell her I’m hurt, man.”
Peters rocked back on his heels. “What the hell?”
“Don’t.” Waves of white hot pain threaded through him and he swallowed against the surge. Ice cold followed. “She doesn’t need to know.”
Brayden stared into Peters’ face. The guys had an unspoken pact. He’d rather go home in a casket than too broken for life outside the military. Wives and families could never understand the constant pressure of a combat soldier. Peters’ jaw clenched.
Allen, kneeling at Brayden’s side, lifted his hand as the medic ran up then dropped to his knees next to the private. Brayden felt the rush of blood pump from his body in an odd pulling sensation.
“Put your hand back, Private!” Peters shouted. “Jesus. Rookie.” Peters’ clutched Brayden’s shoulder. “You hang in here, understood, mate? I’d hate to have to console your wife.”
Brayden knew Peters was teasing, knew his friend was trying to keep his own shit together.
“Hurry up, man,” Peters barked at the medic. “Give him something for the pain.”
Brayden let his eyes flutter close as whatever the doc shot into his body faded everything toward black. “Zoe.”
Zoe numbly hung up the house phone in the kitchen. Outside the window a half-acre of manicured lawn was surrounded by native palm trees and hibiscus bushes. The pool was shaded by an old oak her dad had rescued from the lumber yard. An 8 by 10 shed painted the same tropical blue as the house took up the left corner.
Mitzy and Moe, their two spaniel mixes, tugged a rope between them as her brother Alex put the riding lawn mower away. Large headphones protected his ears. As if he felt her gaze, he looked up toward the kitchen window and lifted a gloved hand in a half-hearted wave. She waved back, but quickly dropped her hand to the counter and turned to hide her face.
Dad’s Empire. Looked good on the surface, but it was crumbling.
Tears blurred her vision as she focused on the ceramic tile floor. Tan and white squares became a Rorschach blob of beige.
“Who was that on the phone?” Grandma Clark asked as she thumped her cane into the kitchen. “Isn’t this your day in the office?”
Zoe swallowed and forced a smile. “And good afternoon to you, too, Grandma. I came home early, that’s all.” She wished she’d stayed at work. Why hadn’t he called her cell phone? Had he been planning on leaving a freaking message? She pressed her hands to her stomach as it churned.
“Feeling okay? Flu’s going around.” Grandma sat at the kitchen table—a rectangle oak slab with benches that held four folks on each side, and two arm chairs at the ends. She took the helm and rested her cane across her knobby knees, visible in the denim shorts she wore with her pink tank top.
“I just have a little bit of a headache.” Zoe pushed two fingers between her brows at the pulsing ache. She’d come home from Clark Electric to grab some Advil after a tense call with the auditor regarding their dad’s taxes. The only reason she’d been here to answer the phone.
“Well, who was it?”
Zoe went to the cupboard, got down a juice glass, and filled it with water from the refrigerator door. “Brayden.” She hadn’t heard from her husband in months. Zoe pressed the glass to her lower lip and sipped the cool liquid. She’d worried night and day about a call like this.
“Brayden?” Grandma got to her feet, pushing the chair back. “Well, now, that’s a surprise.”
Turning slowly to face her grandmother, Zoe gripped the glass. Surprise did not quite describe her emotions. “Yes.”
“He’s still in Iraq?” Her grandma shuffled her slippered feet across the tile and put a soft hand on Zoe’s wrist. “What’s wrong, Zoe? You’re shaking.”
“He’s coming home.”
“For a visit?”
The glass slid an inch from her grasp. “He’s been injured.”
Her grandmother took the glass before it fell to the tile and placed it on the counter. “Oh, honey. How bad?”
“He said he’s okay.” But Brayden would say anything to make her feel better. Tell her not to worry. Always thinking he knew what was best.
Her grandmother led her to the bench. “Didn’t give you any particulars?”
Zoe looked at the platinum wedding band on her left hand and sat down. “Not really.” Why hadn’t she been informed that he’d been hurt? Why was she just now hearing that he’d been wounded? Shouldn’t his wife have made the contact list?
Her mind flooded with questions she’d been too shocked to ask when on the phone.
“Well, what did he say?” Grandma set Zoe’s water glass on the table.
Brayden’s low-toned voice had emerged as a ghost from the past. Communications between them had dwindled to the occasional email and a monthly letter with pictures that read like a promotional brochure for Army Life. Travel, see the world, learn a new skill, embrace the adventure!
So busy juggling the business after her dad’s death with keeping the bills paid and the five person household running, Zoe hadn’t allowed her failing marriage to take center stage. Brayden’s words of greeting, as if no time at all had passed, hurt deeply.
Hey, Zoe. I’m doing some physical therapy in Cali.
Injured bad enough to need rehab and she was just now finding out?
“He didn’t say much.” She sipped, then coughed. Her throat was too tight to swallow the thin liquid. I’ve got some time before going back. Wondered if I could see you?
Almost two months since his last communication. She watched the military news and knew that something was going on overseas. Why hadn’t he called? Or just come home? His words made him sound like a stranger. How bad had he been hurt?
“That’s inconsiderate.” Grandma took her seat at the edge of the table, her elbow as bony as her knees. “He should have let you know. Is he coming here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She could call back, but…
Anger simmered and Zoe clasped the tangible emotion. Anger had gotten her through high school Spanish though Mrs. Cortez plainly stated she’d preferred teaching Zoe’s more apt older brothers. Anger had gotten her through her apprenticeship as an electrician despite the field being dominated by men. Anger had kept her from bawling at their dad’s funeral while the rest of the family fell apart.
“It would be nice to know what’s going on.” Her grandmother reached for a napkin from the center of the table as a coaster for Zoe’s still-full glass of water.
“It would.” Zoe was learning to roll with the punches, too. That sometimes there were no answers. No fixes.
At twenty-eight, her “baby of the family” days were long gone. She could diagnose and fix a faulty line. Rewire a house. Do maintenance calls and answer the phones at Clark Electric. And now that Dad was dead, well—she’d learned to do the accounting, too. Was it any wonder she wasn’t a good wife? She breathed deep to keep the panic at a manageable level.
Grandma tapped Zoe on the shoulder. “Hey, are you listening to me?”
“Sorry Grandma.” Zoe focused on Grandma’s clear brown eyes and loving face. The silvery purple hair that puffed softly around her ears. “What did you say?”
“I said,” she said in a loud, concise tone, “did you tell Brayden that you want a divorce?”
“Grandma!” Where was the Advil?
