Grace for Drowning

She didn't stifle her laugh this time. It was a wonderful sound, exuberant and full of energy, and it brought a smile to my face. In that moment, I could picture her before whatever tragedy had stormed through her life; a gorgeous, effervescent, carefree girl who warmed the room around her. That image only hardened my resolve to help. There were traces of her old self in there somewhere. She could beat this, whatever the hell it was.

"I'm still not sure I understand how your friendship with Charlie works. You two are close, yeah?" she asked.

I nodded. Charlie was the only thing I had left resembling family at that point.

"But he spends a good amount of his time scouring the country for guys who might be able to beat you to a pulp."

Now it was my turn to laugh. "When you put it like that, it does sound kind of fucked up. But he knows why I fight. He knows I welcome the competition. I wouldn't have it any other way."

She studied me for several seconds. "And why do you fight?"

I hesitated. Working in a bar, chatting with hundreds of random strangers every night, you get pretty good at small talk, but I wasn't much for going any deeper than that. Once you start delving down that rabbit hole, you're liable to fall in and never see the light of day again. Since I'd been back, I could count the number of real honest-to-god conversations I'd had on one hand. But if I wanted her to open up, I couldn't expect it to be a one way street.

"It's the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore."

Her eyes widened a fraction. "That's kind of messed up."

I shrugged. "I know. The military is a messed up organization, and it produces some messed up individuals. Sometimes, when you spend years running on fear and adrenaline, your wiring starts getting crossed. Your body doesn't work right, anymore. I've tried doing other things, but I can never make myself concentrate on them for very long. Eventually, I always wind up back in the ring."

I wasn't sure how she'd react to that. On the personal baggage scale, that answer sits somewhere between "unhealthy" and "this dude is a goddamn psychopath." But she didn't run screaming for the door. If anything, she seemed more curious than frightened.

"So why not just stay in the army?" she asked.

My body tensed. We were heading down a dangerous path now. There were limits to what I wanted to share, to what I could share. "Being back home may be hard, but it's nothing compared to being over there. I can't do that again."

I expected more questions, but she simply appraised me for a few seconds, then nodded and returned to work. It was a relief not to have to delve any deeper.

"What about you?" I asked, not wanting to lose momentum. "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess pulling Buds and shaking margaritas doesn't exactly get your blood pumping."

She flashed a wry smile. "It's not so bad, but my real passion is food."

Cooking. I could totally see that. "I wish I was a better cook, but you try finding fresh food in the middle of the desert. And now, with my training, it's just not practical."

Her head cocked to one side. "Not enough time?"

"That's part of it, but it's a little more complicated. I'm at the gym six hours a day at least, and we're not talking a light jog on the treadmill here. Tony gives me hell. I figure I need about nine thousand calories just to break even, and they have to be quality calories — lean meat, lots of veggies etcetera. If I concentrated on making every meal a culinary sensation, I'd never leave the kitchen."

"I guess that makes sense. So, what, your diet is all chicken breast and broccoli? Olympic athlete style?"

I nodded. "Wild, hey?" I leaned in close, like I was sharing a secret. "When I'm feeling naughty, I sometimes try and sneak some tuna fish in there. Keep that on the down low, though."

She laughed. "You rebel."

"You better believe it."

"Don't you ever get bored eating like that?" she asked.

"A little, maybe, but at this point I'm kind of used to it. It's not like my adult life has been full of options. You know what an MRE is?"

"Nope."

"It stands for 'meal, ready-to-eat.' Basically, they're pre-prepared ration packs for soldiers. They made up a lot of our diet when we were out in the field. They usually taste like ass, but they have all the nutrition and energy you need in a simple, no-fuss package. Eat that shit for a few years and you start seeing every meal that way; just fuel in the tank."

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "God, I can't imagine thinking like that. I never get sick of trying new things, mixing flavors. There was a time when I'd go entire months without eating the same thing twice."

I loved seeing her so animated. Just the mention of food had set her eyes sparkling.

"So, this is probably at the top of the list of 'questions chefs are sick of hearing,'" I said, "but what's your favorite food?"