Marx Girl

“Well, if you were my girl, I would be back here fighting for you.”

“I’m not your girl, and it’s not that simple.” I sip my drink, annoyed that he dared call him weak. Ben is anything but weak.

“I spoke to him today.”

My eyes flicker to him. “Is he all right?”

He shrugs. “Like he would tell me if he wasn’t.”

I nod sadly, because that’s true.

“Why did you come home without him?” he asks.

“You know why,” I mutter as I stare at the television.

“Yeah, no, I want the truth, not the fucking bullshit you told the girls. You didn’t have a fight at all.”

I continue to stare straight ahead. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Did you find out what he does?”

I glare at him. “You already know the fucking answer to that, Brock. Don’t act dumb.”

He clenches his jaw as he contemplates his next line of firing.

“Tell me, Bridget… what do you think I do in the Navy?”

I frown. “You’re a SEAL.”

“And being a SEAL is an honourable job?”

I bite my bottom lip. “Yeah, it is, actually.”

“And being a Delta Soldier isn’t?”

“This is different, Brock, and you know it is.”

“How?”

“Because he kills people!” I snap.

“So do I.”

I scrunch up my face. “Fuck off. Don’t turn this around. I can’t deal with what he’s done. I will never been able to deal with what he’s done.”

He stares at me for a moment. “Wow,” he mutters dryly.

“And yet your own brother does the same kind of job and you worship him.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, please. When do I worship you? I’m proud of you; there’s a big difference.”

“Freedom isn’t free, Bridget. It comes at a price.”

“Go home. You’re pissing me off.”

He drains his glass and stands. “He told me to tell you to go back to Eric.”

“What?”

Oh, no.

“W-what else did he say?” I stammer

“That Eric is the kind of guy you want.”

My face falls.

“And for me to make sure you’re okay.” He pauses. “I picked his car up from the airport and dropped it back at his apartment for him.”

“Is he coming home to sort it?” I ask hopefully.

“No. And this time it was different.”

I frown as I watch him. “What do you mean?”

“He said he was cutting all ties.”

I fall back, defeated.

“I told him you loved him.”

My eyes flash up to his. “What did he say to that?”

“He said not enough. He said you didn’t love him enough to stay. He said you gave up on him.”

Not enough?

He walks toward the door. “So, anyway, go back to Eric and live your safe little Stepford wife gig. I’m sure you’ll be real happy with a law-abiding Ned Flanders husband.”

It hurts to have Brock speak to me like this. He has always been on my side, and my eyes fill with tears. “Fuck you,” I whisper.

He walks out the door and then turns back. “But do me a favour, hey?”

I stare at him.

“Don’t pretend to support my job in the Forces, because your double standards are fucking pathetic. You constantly tell me how proud you are of me, but when the man you claim to love does the same job, he’s a criminal. You need a fucking reality-check.”

“Get out,” I sneer.

“Do you want me to call Eric?” he asks sarcastically. “I can get him around here in half an hour. He’s probably at home scrapbooking.”

I slam the door in his face.

Go fuck yourself.

I stare at the ceiling in the darkness. It’s 3:00 a.m.

The witching hour.

The time when I feel like I’m going to explode with emotion if I don’t find a way to hold him in my arms again.

What’s he doing now?

It’s 10:00 in the morning over there. Has he gone back to work? I get a crystal-clear image of him in the gym working out, and I smile into the darkness.

There he is…

I’ve had an off feeling since Brock left tonight. He hit a nerve—something I don’t know if I want to address.

I do appreciate our armed forces, and I am super proud of Brock and his job as a SEAL.

So, why can’t I feel that way about Ben?

Is it shock? Is it the way I found out? I mean, if I found out that he was a sniper as he went off to war, would I have had the same reaction?

No. I know I wouldn’t.

A sniper in a war is different to a sniper in society.

But is it?

I roll over, disgusted where my thought process is leading me.

A sniper during war does what he is told by his leaders, and he takes care of the enemy threats.

Isn’t that what Ben does? Is there really a difference?

Stop it! Stop right there.

I get out of bed in a rush and go to get a drink of water. I stand at the sink as I drink it. Of course there is a difference. Ben looks them in the eyes before he kills them. He’s a murderer. A cold-blooded killer. I close my eyes because, although those are the facts, I know it’s not true.