it's because I would have been embarrassed for her to see who I've become.
My head bows over the letter and a rough sob erupts from my chest.
Fuck, I need to get my life together.
Taking a deep breath, I gently tear open the letter.
As I read, my eyes widen and my heart starts beating rapidly.
There's a strange feeling in my chest.
It almost feels like hope.
Something I haven't had for a very long time.
There are a million reasons I should forget this letter. A million reasons why I should tear it up and forget that Valentina ever existed.
But I can't do that.
I suddenly feel like I've been blasted with energy.
Somehow, the universe has decided that I'm going to get a chance with the only girl I could never forget.
This time, Val, you're going to be mine.
Carter
This place is fucking hell. And I'm not exaggerating when I say that. It's been over a hundred and ten degrees for three straight weeks and there's so much dirt and sand in the air that I'm no longer sure what my actual skin color is. I can never shower enough to get clean.
Sgt. Tennyson lets out a long drag of his cigarette as he stares out over the horizon, looking for anything amiss.
The 46th Infantry lost six men in a blast last week and everyone is on edge, including me, the interloper photographer sent to capture the realities of war for the Times.
I've made a career of traveling to the worst places on Earth for the last five years, but this one may take the cake.
When I get home in a week, I need to look into assignments with warlords located in the jungle, because I've decided that I fucking hate the desert. Utter loathing might actually be a more apt description.
I spit, trying to get the grime out of my fucking teeth but it doesn't work.
"You get used to the dirt," the sergeant comments mildly, his eyes still locked on the view in front of us, as if he's expecting an enemy tank to come blowing through the front gates of our encampment at any moment.
"That's what you all keep saying," I reply, giving up on getting the dirt out of my mouth and getting to work on trying to clean the lens on my camera. It’s quite the ordeal to keep camera equipment clean in this shit hole, I can tell you that much.
Yet another reason why a jungle assignment sounded good, even if it meant the threat of poisoned darts.
Surely that would be a nice break from bullets.
"Six weeks," he says softly.
I look up from my task.
"Six weeks? I thought you still have five months out here?"
"We do. I was just thinking it’s been six weeks since I've heard from my girl. I keep hoping that the mail is just behind. But I used to get letters from her every two weeks like clockwork," he tells me. I feel the urge to take his picture just then. His face is the image of pain.
It's a face that I live to capture.
"Mail's probably just behind," I tell him, because it feels like the right thing to say, not because I believe it's true.
"Yeah," he responds softly. "I'm sure that's all it is."
He clears his throat because soldiers aren't supposed to cry, and the emotion in his voice is a little too close to tears.
"You got a girl back home? I'm sure the ladies line up for a hotshot photographer."
I shake my head with a laugh, even though he's not looking at me to see the movement.
"Naww. I'm more of a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy," I tell him. A pair of sparkling gold eyes briefly fills my head, but I push that image away as quickly as I can. He doesn't need to know about the girl who made me the way I am.
"Ever dream of settling down?" There's a wistful edge to his question, and again, my hands ache to capture it with my lens.
But even I know the line where a man's thoughts aren't supposed to be shared with the whole world, and this moment is it.
"Nah," I tell him, brushing some hair out of my face. Fuck, it's hot here. "Besides, it's asking a lot to expect a woman to put up with my lifestyle."
He grunts, and I wince. It was a bad thing to say to a man that's worried his woman is with someone else.
"I took this tour for her," he says quietly. "It was supposed