Hard Beat

She needs it. We need it. Something simple in nature but special at the same time. We’ve both been climbing the walls with boredom as we wait for a story, any story, even a human interest story. Anything besides rehashing the same shit ad nauseam, because as much as I don’t long for international conflict, there is no denying it prevents people in this instant-gratification day and age from flipping the cha

So I’ve got most of my night for Beaux pla

There is definite irony in the fact that I find myself sneaking out to wander the city’s streets at night.

But I’m so lost in thought, so consumed by Beaux’s and Ry’s comments, that when I look up, my feet falter when I notice where I’ve unconsciously veered. My breath catches in my throat as I stand in the one place I’ve yet to come since being back, the place where Stella died.

The market front looks so benign, nothing like the horrible nightmares that flash through my sleep every so often now. The smell of death is gone, the dark stains of blood nonexistent, the fear riddling through my soul absent. All I feel is a bone-deep sadness when I take in the open windows with wares hanging all around the canopy and the cart out front displaying random items – there’s not a single thing to commemorate the loss of someone so damn important to me.

Immediately, I long to walk away and quiet the images that keep coming back into my mind, but at the same time I can recognize that I need to face this for a moment, allow myself to say good-bye one last time in the one place where my world was turned upside down. Maybe then I can finish finding a bit of the peace that being with Beaux has allowed me to start to feel.

So instead, I take a step forward, my fingertips ru

Then I move closer and lean over the table, my hand reaching out so that my fingertip fits in the bullet hole that’s been left unrepaired in the store’s facade. My finger stays frozen there, the nightmares of that night colliding at a ferocious pace with the good memories of the ten years Stella was in my life until they crumble to pieces, falling with the guilt laid at my feet.

I inhale deeply through a clenched jaw and face all the emotion that’s overwhelming me right now, good, bad, and irrevocable. I shake my head softly, a soft smile on my face as I remember our last full night together. Our kiss. Our promise. That smile of hers and the friendship we had for so long.

“Good-bye, Stella,” I whisper, my words carried away in the sounds of the streets around me and the music coming through the store’s window before me. I hang my head for a moment and close my eyes. I’d be your once-in-a-lifetime, your goddamn everything if you’d come back.

But I know she can’t.

And I know that she was one of the most incredible people I’ll ever meet. I know that I’d live the lie if given the chance to make her happy even though I know now that she wasn’t my once-in-a-lifetime in return. I’d have been cheating the both of us of that chance to find it. Our friendship was the strongest one I’ve ever had the fortune to experience, but that sexual chemistry wasn’t strong like it should be.

Not like the way it is between Beaux and me.

So maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe I’m saying good-bye to one woman so that I can give myself completely to another. And yes, Stella and I were more like siblings than a romantic couple, but when you’re that close to someone for so long, you still feel like you are cheating on them in a sense when you start to move on with someone new, sharing a friendship, your confessions, your laughter, your comfortable silence.

Once I’ve had my moment with her memory, holding on to the image in my mind of Stella laughing from behind her camera and shedding the horrible ones of that night as best as I can, I’m determined to leave the pain here and move forward with the happy memories.

With my head still angled down, I open my eyes, and something about the sight in front of me makes me smile. There is a bowl on the table filled with small bottles of bubbles. Although it’s amongst a hodgepodge of items, it’s such a welcome sight nonetheless because it brings up memories of Rylee and me growing up. Her theory at eight years old that blowing bubbles makes everything better because you can’t say the word bubble without smiling. How when the bullies in third grade picked on her when I was home sick from school one day, I brought out a bottle of bubbles to where she sat sniffling on the swings in the backyard and made her blow bubbles until she smiled. And then of course I went to school the next day and earned some detention for persuading them with my fists to not pick on my little sister again.

Or how, years later, after her eighth grade formal when she came home upset that no one had asked her to dance, I brought out a bottle of bubbles, again to the swings that hadn’t been used in years, and made her blow them until she laughed.

With a huge smile on my face, I immediately know that even though Beaux doesn’t know the significance of bubbles to me, she’d love them and the small piece of normality that they represent.

Besides, who doesn’t love bubbles?

With the bubbles and a colorful tote bag stuffed into my backpack so Beaux won’t see them, I leave the shop, the weight of grief a little lighter in my heart for the first time since Stella’s death. Glancing at my watch, I realize I need to get my ass back to the hotel before Beaux wakes up and discovers that I snuck out.

Just as I’m crossing the street, my phone alerts a text, and I cringe in fear that I’ve been caught. My mind is already scrambling for the excuses I’d prepared, but suddenly my feet falter as I look at the name lighting up my screen. It’s Omid with a text: They are here. Many in my village. I think the meet happened today. Sorry. Did not know.

My heart sinks as soon as I read his message. Mostly because I didn’t come through for Sarge and the good guys but also for the lost opportunity of reporting on a meet that no one else knew was happening. Fuck. That single word sums up how I feel and then some so much that it bears repeating. Fuck.

I stop in my tracks on the sidewalk and type out a text as fast as I can: When? How many? Where? Meet me. I could go on endlessly with the questions, but the language barrier would make it impossible to persuade him to give me any further information. I need to see Omid face-to-face; I need to have Beaux there to translate if there’s any hope of having this situation not be so damn fucked.

“Answer, Omid,” I groan into the night as I stare at my screen with the hope fading that the harder I stare, the quicker he will respond. After a few minutes I realize that standing here is not going to help anything, so I start hurrying back to the hotel when at last I get his reply.

Not now. Dangerous. Trust gone like I said last week. No more.

My mind races as I try to figure out the text. Last week? Did he text me last week and I didn’t get it? Trust is gone? From Beaux taking a picture? Yes, but what I don’t get is I didn’t speak to him last week. What the fuck? I growl out in frustration. Fucking cell phones and their limited service in this godforsaken land. What did he text me that I didn’t get?