Falling Harder (17 page)

Trace and Garrick were put on trial for their crimes and
each shipped off to juvie for a plethora of charges. Even through Trace had
acted in my defense, I’d never even been called as a witness in his trial.
Whoever was presiding over his case clearly didn’t see him as anything but a
bad kid who’d finally gone too far. I wonder if he’d even stood up for himself,
or simply accepted his time?

As much as it pains me to admit, I have no idea where any of
them are today. I’ve never tried to reach out, never poured through Facebook or
Google looking for signs of them. What would be the point? I’ve spent the last
decade building a new life for myself out of the ruins of the old. I’d have
nothing in common with any of them anymore. And feeling the chasm between my
experience and theirs would be far too painful to even think about. No...it’s
better to let them exist in the past, young and as pure as they ever were.

Though, to be honest, I probably owe them a collective
“thank you” for jumpstarting my career. Once I was taken away from the Daniels’
home, I threw myself into school like never before. I’d always been a good
student, but for the last two years of high school you couldn’t have pried my
nose out of my books with a crow bar. After seeing how royally the justice
system had screwed my innocent foster brothers, I was determined to devote my
life to standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.

Once upon a time, I thought that law and order were black
and white, clearcut and absolute. But that was nothing more than a youthful
delusion, one that’s been utterly dashed by years and years of law school.

Turns out that mock trial is a whole lot different than the
real thing, I learned that well enough. After spending my last two high school
years with a quiet, conservative family in the suburbs of Illinois, I was
accepted into the University of Chicago. I slaved away all through undergrad so
that I could achieve my long-held dream: getting my law degree from
Northwestern University. My acceptance letters to U Chicago and Northwestern
will forever be enshrined in a very special shoebox under my bed.
Sentimentality is, after all, my fatal flaw.

My time at those schools changed my life, and not just
because of the education I received. Arriving at college meant that I got to
choose who I wanted to be all over again, how I wanted to seem. I didn’t have
to be the demure bookworm anymore. I could be anything, do anything, make an
entirely new life for myself at last.

I can actually feel my pace quicken as I recall that
sensation of freedom. When I arrived at the University of Chicago, I was
surrounded by people I had never met, people who knew nothing about me. I
realized that I could be as vague about my life as I wanted. None of my new
friends had to know about my traumatic past.

No one needed to know about the handful of foster homes I’d
lived in, or the young love that had led so quickly to tragedy. No one needed
to know that I had buried my parents or watched a man die right in front of my
eyes. To my new classmates, I could just be Nadia: the smart girl with a travel
bug and big dreams.

My entire undergraduate career was spent rebuilding a new
identity for myself. I studied hard, and partied hard as well. I accepted the
attentions of guys when they were interesting, but I never made the first move.
I travelled abroad as much as I possibly could, and learned that seeing the
world was all I hoped it would be.

I visited Spain, Argentina, Russia, and China—and that was
just during undergrad! I finally parted with my virginity on my trip to Buenos
Aires, to a local man I met at a nightclub. I learned, thanks to him, that sex
wasn’t something I had to be afraid of. Sex was a wonderful thing that I was
allowed to enjoy. It wasn’t something that anyone could expect or force from
me. It was amazing to feel the years of shame and guilt I’d associated with
sexuality fall away with each partner I took. Not that I’ve slept with a ton of
guys—but each one has taught me something new about what it means to be a
sexual being.

A wicked grin crosses my face as I wonder what I might learn
from Gerard, should anything arise from our flirtation. As I turn back toward
home, my mind is filled once more with daydreams of him. I only hope that his
occupation as a kiddie shrink won’t dredge anything up inside of me. I’ve
learned to repress my past emotions pretty well, thanks. And I’d like them to
stay that way.

My long blonde ponytail snaps in the warm breeze as I dash
back to my apartment. Days that begin with a nice long run always end better,
I’ve found. Glistening with hard-earned sweat, I make my way back upstairs to
shower before heading into the office. Even without a blockbuster case in hand,
I still have plenty to do.

As I step out onto my floor, something bright on my
apartment door catches my eye. There’s a sticky note message waiting for me
there: a hastily scrawled phone number with the initial “G” beside it. My
dashing neighbor must have snuck back up here and left me his digits. I pocket
the note, not even bothering to put the number into my phone. I don’t call
guys, after all. At least not to begin with.

Carly’s belting out some Top 40 hit in the shower as I make
my way into the apartment. I roll my eyes, only half seriously. If someone had
told me when I was sixteen that I’d be living with a girl like Carly when I
grew up, I would have called them a dirty liar. Carly’s the exact sort of
person that I envied like crazy, as a kid. She’s got the perfect red hair, the
perfect button nose, the perfect Jessica Rabbit figure. But more importantly,
Carly’s got the perfect big family—with the home on Martha’s Vineyard and the
St. Bernards and the yearly Christmas card photos. In a word, everything I
never had and always wanted.

Even though she’s my best friend in the world, Carly doesn’t
know anything about my past. Not the foster homes, not the criminal activity,
certainly not the deaths that seemed to happen all around me as a younger person.
As much I hate to think it, I’m afraid that knowing all those things would
change her opinion of me.

Carly may be a modern woman in many respects, but her
privilege makes it hard for her to empathize with those less fortunate, on
occasion. I’ve heard her say some pretty lousy things about the kids I try and
protect through my work, even if the comments are passing and innocuous on the
surface. If she really knew what my life had once been, before I managed to get
free of it all...I’d worry that she might be through with me for good. It’s not
a pretty thought, but it keeps me cautious about sharing details of my life
with her. It’s better that way, in the end.

“I need the shower, Katy Perry,” I shout over my roommates
shower time rendition of “Firework”.

“I was just about to hit the key change,” Carly whines,
turning off the water.

A wave of steam hits me as she scurries out of my way, her
fiery locks wrapped up in plush towel. If I’m the more athletically toned type,
Carly’s got the supple Marilyn Monroe curves down to a science. We’re neither
of us skin, naturally or by practice. Carly and I love nothing more than
sharing a good bottle of Pinot Noir and a feast of Thai takeout after a hard
day at work—and hard days at work are what we do best.

“All yours,” she chirps.

“Thank you kindly,” I say, stepping past her.

“Seriously?” she says, placing a hand on her hip, “You’re
just not going to say anything about Mr. Heartthrob and his oh-so-sexy sticky
note?” 

“I guess he wasn’t all that discreet, huh?” I grin.

“I just happened to be bringing down the recycling when he
stopped by,” Carly says, “Caught him red-handed. Note-handed.”

“You think I should see where it goes?” I ask.

“Why the hell not?” she says, “I mean, did you see him? He
looks like one of those princes from the Disney movies. And that ass? Good
God
, Nadia...”

“I know, I know,” I laugh, “That’s the way I was leaning,
too.”

“If you don’t take him, I will,” Carly winks, “Be
forewarned.”

I laugh as she makes her way into her bedroom, but something
about her tone sets me on edge. Carly can be a little competitive when it comes
to the men that wander across our paths. There were certainly a couple of
incidents during law school when her jealousy would rear its ugly head and
truncate some affair of mine before it took off. So far, her relationship with
Jesse has kept most of those flare ups at bay. But I’m always on guard, when it
comes to flaunting my flings in front of Carly’s face. It’s chicks before dicks
anyway, right?

The hot water feels wonderful on my fresh, sweaty skin.
Lathering up my long brunette mane, I wonder what case will land in my hands
next. I’ve had a fairly successful run of taking down jerks who do unseemly
things to kids, but that’s not the only thing that I ever do. I’ve handled
murder cases, domestic violence, you name it. And so far in my career, I’ve
never had the misfortune of having to go against my own values to prosecute the
way I have to.

Never have I had to defend the dignity of guilty person, or
condemn someone I knew to be innocent. I’m sure the day will come when I’ll
have to make those tough decisions, but so far my professional life has been
all about going after bad guys. I’ve been able to lock up assholes and keep
good people free. Lucky me, I guess.

I scrub down and dry off as quickly as I can, letting my
hair dry in its natural pattern of loose waves. My parents died before I ever
got to quiz them about our heritage, but whatever the hell genes I inherited
have at least given me hassle-free hair, clear skin, and chocolaty brown eyes.
Of course, I would trade all that to be able to know my parents as an adult,
but I suppose one can’t have everything.

Eyeing myself in the mirror, I wonder what my parents might
think of their little girl, all grown up. They both came to America from some
far off Eastern European country with hardly any money to their names and a
shaky grasp on the English language. It’s impossible to imagine what my life
might have become, if they hadn’t passed away so soon.

Would I have pushed myself as hard in school? Would I be a
successful lawyer, or something less spectacular? I can imagine being happy
with a less ambitious career if I had a family to invest in, but I guess I’m
just not meant to have that in my life. Good thing I’ve become an expert at
silencing my biological clock. By the age of 28, you either cultivate that
skill or spend all your free time looking at cute baby pictures on
Pinterest—and I don’t have any free time to spare.

As I’m heading out the door, my stomach flips unexpectedly.
I stop short, steadying myself against the doorframe. As ever when I’m feeling
scared or uncertain, my hand flies to my charm necklace. I can’t account for
the sudden feeling of foreboding that’s taken hold of me, but I know how to
deal with it. My fingers close first around the compass charm my parents gave
me as a child, and then around the tiny golden map that Trace gave me just
before we parted ways.

“You OK?” Carly asks from the kitchen.

“Yeah...” I say slowly, “A, uh...goose must have walked over
my grave or something. I don’t know. Too much coffee, maybe?”

“Whatever,” she says lightly, “Let’s split a cab downtown,
yeah? You should arrive on public transportation after your big victory.”

I let her persuade me, and we zip downtown in style. My office
is the first stop, and as I’m stepping out onto the curb, I hear Carly giggle,
“Knock ‘em dead, tiger!”

Her goofy encouragement keeps me smiling all the way up the
elevator—all the way up to the twenty-third floor, where the law offices of
Brewer, Roberts, and Santos await my arrival. I push open the frosted glass
double doors of the office and find the receptionist, Kayleen, smiling up at
me. She’s a perpetually wide-eyed girl in her early twenties, and reminds me a
bit of my old foster sister Conway...well, maybe an innocent version of Conway,
anyway.

“Good morning, Ms. Faber,” Kayleen says breathlessly.

“Kayleen, you’re allowed to call me Nadia,” I remind her.

“Yes Ms. Faber. Nadia,” she grins.

I walk past the reception desk, puzzled by Kayleen’s excited
demeanor. But as I turn the corner into the main lobby, my curiosity is
satisfied. The entire office has assembled, around an elaborate cake with the
words
Congratulations, Nadia!
scrawled across the top. The three
partners of the firm—Ed Brewer, Allen Roberts, and Martin Santos—preside over
the offering like the three Wise Men themselves. As soon as I appear, the
entire office begins to clap and cheer. I feel like some ancient hero,
returning from a bloody crusade. Which, I suppose, is a decent way to sum up
this last trial.

“We’re very proud of the work you’ve done,” says Mr. Brewer,
a fit silver fox in his mid-fifties.

“Things are looking very good for you at this firm,” agrees
the red-faced Mr. Roberts.

“I couldn’t agree more,” smiles Mr. Santos, the youngest and
most handsome of the trio.

I smile through the accolades and attention, but for some
reason I can’t shake the lingering feeling of impending change. Maybe I’m just
nervous about what my latest victory means for me at the firm. I decide to go
with that, even as my heart tells me otherwise. I look on as my congratulatory
cake is cut, and try to tell myself that I’m perfectly content with my life as
it is. Surrounded by so much excitement, it’s easy to convince myself that I’m
happy too. Even if that fact is only mostly true.

A huge slab of red velvet cake is shoved my way, and I
happily dig in. I suppose that some aspects of my life could be more
complete...but at least there’s a gigantic cake here to fill in some of those
missing pieces.

Chapter Two

Trace

Safe and Sound

I wake up gasping for breath, my body drenched in a cold,
panicked sweat. My eyes dart wildly around the still-dark room, searching for
something that will anchor me in the present. All around me, the sounds of
sleeping men fill the air.

Relief surges through my body as I realize that I’m safe and
sound in my bunk. Well, as safe and sound as someone can be in the middle of a
war zone. The gore and horror I’ve just wrenched myself from were nothing but
nightmares, nothing but the products of a mind rattled by too much time in
combat.

But
not for much longer
, I think to myself, rolling onto my back with a
sigh. Once the hot sun rises above the desert, my final day in Afghanistan will
have finally begun. True, I’ve had two “final days” here before—this is my
third and last tour. This time, it truly feels like something is ending.

Stateside, they’re talking about “bringing the boys home”.
People across America are waiting with bated breath for their sons and
daughters, their husbands and wives, their mothers and fathers to return to
them for good.

No one’s waiting for me. I’ve got no home to go back to. But
I’m shipping off, all the same. After three tours fighting a war that just
won’t quit, even the shambles of my old life have me feeling nostalgic. And
when prison and squalor look good in comparison to the life you find yourself
living, then something has truly got to give.

The faintest hint of daylight begins to creep across the
wide, cloudless sky. I know that I’ll never be able to get back to sleep, now.
The others will be up at the crack of dawn—I might as well get a head start.

Stifling a groan, I pull myself to sitting on my humble bed.
I’ve never been one to accumulate personal belongings, and that’s no different
over here. After all, no one’s sending me care packages from the states. I
haven’t got a wife or kids whose pictures would look nice on the wall. It’s
just me, my bed, my gear, and my gun. I’ve grown up to be a simple man of
simple pleasures.

I glance at the nudie calendar someone thought it would be
funny to pin up. Today’s little box is scribbled in with one simple word:
“Home”. It’s funny. After almost thirty years on this godforsaken planet, I
still have no idea what that word means. I got close to figuring it out, once,
but that time in my life is long gone. Closed up tight. My buddies here wonder
why I’m so damn good at being a soldier, why I’m never plagued with
homesickness or doubt. Well, that’s the truth of it—home is a concept I’ve
never been able to grasp. And try as you might, you just can’t miss something
that you never had in the first place.

My boots slip onto my feet like a second skin, and I make my
way out into the early morning. The sky arches its back over the endless sandy
landscape. Unknowable mountains rise up all around us, towering above like
watchmen.

Even after all this time, I’ve never stopped being wary of
those peaks. When you start to get comfortable around here, that’s when you
know that you’re in trouble. The second you start to feel OK about this
environment, that’s the second where you make a deadly, irreversible mistake.
There’s no such thing as being safe in a war. And those who forget that pay the
ultimate price.

Moving quietly, so as not to rouse my fellow soldiers, I set
off in search of something to put in my stomach. It takes some rummaging, but I
manage to whip myself up a cup of coffee. Not exactly the diner breakfast I
used to enjoy as a kid, but it will do for now. It’ll have to.

I sink down onto the hard ground and sip my bitter brew.
It’s hard to believe that, come tomorrow morning, this corner of the world will
be a permanent part of my past. I’ve been a solider for so long now that I’ve
almost forgotten what came before. Being here has changed me so much that it
almost feels as though the rest of my life happened to someone else entirely.
And in my case, that’s just as well.

It’s hard to believe that I’m the same guy who spent the
better part of his childhood bouncing from one shitty foster home to another.
I’m the same guy whose parents would have gladly sold him for some smack and a
bottle of whiskey. I’m the same guy who finally found a family of sorts in
three other reject kids, then ruined everything by losing his head one night
before Christmas. I’m the same guy who found a girl he loved, a girl who loved
him for who he really was, only to lose her forever.

I shake my head, dislodging those familiar, poisonous
thoughts before they take hold. No way am I gonna spend this entire day feeling
sorry for myself. Today is about saying goodbye to the war, or at least my
involvement in it. I can’t be dwelling on everything I’ve done wrong in the
past. God knows, that laundry list would last well longer than twenty four
hours. 

Heavy footprints plod across the ground behind me just as
the sun peers over the horizon. I feel a broad hand slap my shoulder, and look
up to see my best friend in the world blinking down at me sleepily.

“The fuck are you awake for?” Garrick grumbles, sitting down
beside me.

“Couldn’t sleep, I guess,” I tell him, staring straight
ahead.

“More nightmares, huh?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I admit, my voice gruff. I know that he’s just
trying to look out for me, but this game of twenty questions is already getting
on my nerves. “You all packed and everything?” I ask, changing the subject.

“What’s there to pack?” he laughs, shaking out his shaggy
hair, “Everything I own is waiting for me back at Monica’s place.”

“I thought she dumped your sorry ass?” I say.

“Well yeah,” Garrick admits, “But she was nice enough not to
burn my shit before I got back, I guess.”

“That’s nice of her,” I say, “Considering your lack of
gentlemanly—”

“What was I supposed to do, man?” Garrick groans, “We were
on leave, they were twins. You wouldn’t take one of them off my hands. I had no
choice.”

“Sure,” I say, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“That won’t be a problem, soon enough,” Garrick says,
stretching out his long, burly arms. “Think about it, man. Next time we fall
asleep, we’ll be doing it stateside. There’s something real nice about that,
right?”

“I guess so,” I say, “I don’t know. Doesn’t make much of a
difference to me.”

“Seriously?” Garrick says, “The whole
our-lives-not-being-in-danger thing doesn’t do anything for you?”

“Last time I checked, our lives were in just as much danger
back in Chicago as they are right here.”

“Now you’re just exaggerating,” Garrick mumbles, not
entirely convinced of his own rightness.

He knows full well that I have a point. Things back in the
States were never exactly rosy for Garrick and me. We were foster brothers,
once—half of the quartet that came to feel like the only family I’d ever known.
The two of us were so close to being free of the foster system when everything
went to shit.

We’d been staying with this abusive alcoholic couple, Paul
and Nancy Daniels, when things got out of control. As our two foster sisters
started growing up, Paul started crossing the line with them over and over
again. Finally, after Nancy abandoned ship, he went too far. Paul had already
been harassing our littlest sister, Conway, but one night he tried to do
something truly heinous to Nadia. My Nadia. Or at least, she might have been
mine if I hadn’t beaten Paul so badly that he...never recovered.

Things probably wouldn’t have gone so badly for Garrick and
I if it hadn’t been for the drugs. When the cops showed up to see what had
happened between Paul and me, they found more than enough weed and booze to
press some possession charges against me and Garrick. My public defender
managed to keep the word “murder” out of my trial, but Garrick and I both got
sent to juvie for a slew of other things.

Truth be told, prison wasn’t so different than most of the
foster homes I’d been in. Once I learned how to stop thinking about Nadia day
in and day out, the year I spent back there was almost bearable. It was getting
out again that really sucked.

I was released right before my eighteenth birthday, so at
least I never had to spend time with the criminals who were all grown up.
Problem was, of course, that I found myself on the brink of adulthood with a
criminal record and no practical skills. I’d gotten my GED while I served my
time, at least. But with no family, no place to stay, and no career path to
speak of, things were looking pretty bleak for me.

It was Garrick who suggested that we get back to dealing for
a while, just until we got on our feet. I went along with his plan, for lack of
any other option. We worked real low-level shit for some big shot dealer, but I
realized pretty quickly that the drug trade was not something I wanted to get
wrapped up in.

Just before we got too far in to escape, Garrick and I got
our asses out of there and started thinking up new ways to get by. We were
partners in and out of crime, and helped each other through those first few
years after juvie. Everything in the world we had, we shared—our apartment, our
ride, our odd jobs that kept us going. We did everything together. Which meant
that when I had the brilliant idea to enlist, Garrick was on board before I
even had to ask him.

At first, joining the Marines was just a scheme, a way to
get by while doing something respectable. But once we arrived in Afghanistan,
there was no way to ride out our time without a care. I learned pretty quickly
that there was no “taking it easy” when it comes to war. Either you give one
hundred percent, or you don’t live to tell the tale. Hell, sometimes even
giving one hundred percent doesn’t guarantee you safe passage.

Some of the people around me took to military duty like they
were born for it. There were some among us who got a thrill from being in
combat, from diving into the line of fire, even from killing someone they’d
decided was a “bad guy”. But that was never me. If I could have gone my entire
three tours without having to raise my gun, I would have. I could never look at
someone who was supposed to be my enemy and see anything other than another
human being who's fighting
their
enemy. I’ve taken lives here, and I
know that I’ll never be OK with that.

“Hey. You still awake in there?” Garrick asks, rapping his
knuckles against my skull. My honorary brother has always been something of a giant,
but since becoming a soldier, his enormity is only more pronounced. His already
tall frame is now racked with solid muscle, his shaggy beard and hair complete
the mountain man look perfectly.

It’s hard to believe that this is the same baby-faced kid
who used to smoke weed and listen to Biggie with me in the Daniels’ basement. I
wonder what my little foster sister Conway would think of Garrick now. She
always had a little crush on him, but I wonder if even a non-existent mother
could love a beard like that?

“I was just thinking,” I grumble, knocking Garrick’s hand
away.

“What about?”

“Being back home,” I shrug.

“You’ve got a place set up, right?”

“Yeah, I managed to figure something out,” I say, “It’s
nothing special. Just a little one bedroom in the city.”

“Glad you’re coming back to Chicago with me,” Garrick says,
“I’m gonna need a drinking buddy, now that the lady friend has kicked me to the
curb.”

“Damn straight,” I grin, “You know I’m good for that.”

“And if we see anyone we know, we’ll be able to tell them
something really badass. Like, ‘Dude, I was in the
war
’. Shit,” Garrick says, his eyes
wide. 

I laugh, shaking my head. No one would recognize Garrick,
even if we had any friends waiting for us back in the city. Me, on the other
hand, someone from the past might be able to pick out of a crowd. Not too much
about my appearance has changed since I was seventeen. Sure, I’m much stronger,
much bigger. My jaw sports a little more scruff, my sandy hair is a little
shorter. But my face, my eyes, they’re still the same. I think they were pretty
old even when I was young.

An unlikely daydream springs into my mind as I watch the sun
rise over the desert. I imagine being home, at a neighborhood dive bar
somewhere in the city. Garrick pops outside for a smoke, and I’m left alone at
the bar. As I take another swig of whiskey, I catch sight of two big brown eyes
peering at me through the mirrored wall behind the bar. Every cell in my body
tightens. A smile breaks open beneath those beautiful eyes, and Nadia reaches
up to tuck a strand of golden hair behind her ear...

“Garrick,” I say suddenly, “Do you ever...? Uh. Think about
trying to get in touch with the girls?”

“I don’t think about much else besides getting to touch
girls,” he cackles.

“No,” I press, “I’m talking about
our
girls. Conway
and Nadia. You ever wonder about them at all?”

Garrick’s smile hardens on his face. “Jesus. Blast from the
past,” he says, “What made you think of them, all of a sudden?”

“It’s not really all of a sudden,” I tell him, “I
mean...they’re always kind of on my mind, you know? Not like, on the forefront
or anything. But I wonder where they’re at now, is all.”

“Conway used to send me birthday cards,” Garrick says, his
eyes going fuzzy, “For a couple of years after we got pulled out of the
Daniels’ place.”

“She ever say what she was up to? Or where Nadia—”

“Nah,” Garrick says, “They were always pretty short notes. I
don’t know if she ever forgave me for leaving her there alone.”

“It’s not like you had a choice. It’s not like either of
us—”

“No. I know,” Garrick says quickly. Our arrest is not
something that we ever discuss. The truth is, Garrick didn’t need to take the
fall for anything that night. He could have easily let me shoulder the burden,
and I would have done it gladly. But instead, he turned himself in. He stuck by
me every step of the way. And our little sisters? They were left to fend for
themselves.