The Dirty Truth

“Yes?” I ask, fully expecting the FedEx guy. Indie’s constantly ordering things online, and she always pays extra for the signature-required option when she can because she’s had far too many packages stolen over the years.

“It’s me.” West’s voice plays over the intercom.

When I told him we’d talk in the morning . . . I meant over the phone.

“Come on up.” With my heart hammering in my ears, I press the button to let him in, and then I pace the confines of our little kitchen, waiting for that knock at the door.

A minute later, he’s standing at my door in a midnight-black three-piece suit, looking like a billion bucks, and my pride is somewhere between my belly button and spine.

Brushing my hair off my face, I zip my posture straight, throw my shoulders back, and offer him a cool and casual “Hey.”

“Was on my way to the main office.” He holds a folded slip of paper between his fingers, flicking it toward me. “This is what I wanted to show you last night.”

Waving for him to come in, I usher him to my room. Indie had a late-night muse-chasing session, and she’s still sleeping.

I close the door behind him.

The last time he was here was after my last hospital stay, when he insisted on having his driver take me home so I wouldn’t have to ride in a dirty NYC taxi. And while in the car, he also insisted on his driver taking the smoothest streets so I wouldn’t be jerked around in the back seat.

“What is it?” I take the creased notebook paper from West, unfolding it before settling on the foot of my bed to give it a read. The date on the upper right-hand corner tells me it’s over thirteen years old, and the scribbled handwriting has a hurried, masculine slant to it.

West—

Hey! It’s your annoying kid brother writing you from a sandbox in the Middle East. Okay, not literally, but I can’t tell you exactly where I am. Just know it’s hot as hell, Grandma Iris’s inflatable pool sounds like paradise right now, and I will never complain about a Nebraska summer heat wave ever again.

Anyway, how’s Lexi? She stopped sending me her weekly emails. Maybe she’s running out of things to say. I’m sure Scarlett’s keeping her busy. Every time I have a rough day here, I think about Lexi holding down the fort back home and it keeps me sane. Miss them like hell though. I think about them a hundred times a day and I can’t stop staring at Scarlett’s pictures. I bet she’ll look so different by the time I get home. She’s got my shit-eating grin though, doesn’t she? Ha! I can’t wait to see if she grows up to be a stubborn ass like us or a free spirit like her mom. Probably a little of both . . .

My tour is ending in less than three months, so it’s got me thinking about all the things I want to do when I get home:

Go to New York City. I’ve always wanted to see it and I think we should go together. (Would have to be a guys’ trip because Lexi hates big cities—they make her feel claustrophobic.)

I want to drive a McLaren Elva—Gotham black, preferably, though I’ll settle for magna violet. A buddy of mine said there’s some place in Vegas where you can rent one for a few hours. Don’t know how much it costs, but my birthday is in October so that should give you plenty of time to save if you catch my drift . . .

I want to climb a mountain. Preferably the Swiss Alps, though I won’t be picky. All this sand, sun, and heat is really messing with my brain. Last night I dreamt we were having a snowball fight in Mom’s backyard. Then I woke up covered in sweat. It was weird.

I also want to take you to the Pyramids of Giza. Remember when we were kids and you went through that phase where you were obsessed with ancient Egypt and you went as a mummy for Halloween three years in a row? I know it’s random, but I think we should go (after I cool off, of course). Preferably in January.

Anyway, the list is longer than that, but my hand is cramping up so I’ll save more for the next letter.

Also, I wanted to apologize for what I said to you before I left last time—that I’d never forgive you if I didn’t make it back alive to take care of my girls. I know you only want what’s best for us, and if I’d have stayed in Whitebridge, I know I’d still be kicking tires and pulling parts at the salvage yard for thirteen bucks an hour. You did the right thing talking me into enlisting. For the first time, I feel like I’ve got something to look forward to—like my whole life is ahead of me. Might sound silly, but I feel like doing something big. I just don’t know what yet. Call it a gut feeling, but someday we’re going to have it made, man.