objector. I did my time in hell. I spent one tour in the box. I saw things no kid should ever see. Limbs blown off. Sucking chest wounds. Bodies shattered from IEDs. I shouldn’t be forced to do it again while other kids live safe, happy lives." Thomas was a mechanic and had been promised that if he’d re-enlisted he'd be assigned to Fort Carson, Colorado. But no sooner had he found a place to stay and grabbed a season pass at Breckenridge than his unit had won the Iraq lotto and been awarded an all expense paid ticket back to the sandbox. His unit had left for Ramadi, his friends had gone to Hell, and he'd left for Panama.
The bar began to fill after she arrived. A few honeymooners, some snowbirds from the RV Park off of Oro Del Mar Beach and some ex-Pats back from a soccer game soon turned the gloomy interior into a den of laughter and light. Everyone seemed to be having a good time except her. She finished one margarita and stirred her empty glass with a straw as she gazed at the ocean.
Thomas saw his chance. He grabbed two fresh margaritas and sat down beside her.
“Thought you might be thirsty.”
She continued to stare at the sea.
“After all, you are in a bar,” he added undeterred. He’d been in Mexico for nearly two months, and although he’d seen other women, this one intrigued him the most. Perhaps it was her shirt and the possibility of sharing fear that pulled him towards her. Army of One. What a screwed up motto. He didn’t even know what it meant and he’d lived the life for three years.
Long moments passed before she finally spoke. “I come in here for the view.”
The Black Dolphin held the high ground on a rocky promontory overlooking Bahia de Sonora on the Sea of Cortez and indeed had a spectacular view. Only the lighthouse above the bar boasted a better one, but it didn’t have a happy hour so it didn’t count. He pushed the sweating margarita glass closer to her, hoping his offer would be the olive branch he needed to get her talking. She took it, drank slowly and resumed her vigil, moisture beads on the outside of the glass slipping across her knuckles and onto the table.
Something about her gaze told a tale of loss in the making compelling him. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure.” She nodded vaguely in his direction.
“My name is Tom.”
“June.” She held out a hand.
He took it. “I wonder what they’re doing.”
She glanced at him for the first time and he felt the weight of her gaze.
“Those twelve in the water, they just seem to be floating out there and I can’t see the reason for it.”
She frowned. “Perhaps they have their own reasons, something you wouldn’t understand.” Her voice held a trace of Southern accent – Georgia or South Carolina, maybe.
“They seem to be waiting for something,” he said, trying desperately to keep the conversation going.
“What do you think that is?”
Her question hung in the air, until finally he was forced to admit, “I really have no idea.”
“That should make you happy, then.”
He cocked his head at her odd response, a ready smile in case she was making fun of him. But she was serious. He polled his conscience to see if this one was really worth it. He’d love to find a way to get into her heart, or into her pants, if nothing else but for the sport of it. But were his efforts worth the trouble? Her responses were odd and disjointed. Either she was crazy as a loon, or there was something more going on than he could see.
“Listen, I’m hungry. Want to join me for dinner?”
“I’m not who you think I am,” she said. “You don’t want to be with me.”
There it was again, such an odd answer to a simple question. Still, he grinned. “I'm just looking for some company. It's been awhile since I had a conversation in American. If you can trust me for an hour or two, I promise to keep my hands and feet outside your safety zone.”
And then the most glorious thing happened. She smiled briefly transforming her face into the girl she’d most surely been before she'd been beset by whatever events had placed her here. She caught him once again with her gaze. “Just remember that I warned you. I come with lots of baggage.”