Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Chapter 33

A new belief system had never been on the radar; it popped up unannounced, blinking green on black in its unstoppable advance. Now Samuel operated on autopilot–not the rational type: danger-reaction, but a panicky resemblance of a drill he never got to practice.

Somewhere, sometime between trashing his room and jumping on that muggy taxi, he'd booked a ticket and boarded a Southwest Airline 737. When the plane had broken the clouds, aiming for the liquid tarmac strip in the middle of the glistening desert, he could have bolted into the cockpit and turned the plane around.

But he charged on; through that jetty, past baggage reclaim and out into the stifling Nevada noon.

Yet, the knot in his stomach hadn't eased a bit. Micheal Rose's name haunted the corridors of the base–a constant reminder of what was at stake, and the whispers still echoed in Samuel's ears no matter how far he ran.

And then there was Rivers.

Handsome, charming, caring, unambiguous Rivers. Gay as pink Rivers. Brave and hypocrite Rivers; the first by nature, the second by design. Perfection. He truly was an exceptional human being because after last night, after the past weeks and all the shit Samuel had put him through, Rivers was still there. He'd listened and offered a shoulder to cry on. But mostly, Samuel had asked and Rivers had told. All for the sake of his peace of mind. He wouldn't let him down again.

He pushed his sunglasses over his nose as the cacti and wildflowers flashed past in green and purple smears outside the window. His swollen eyes hadn't stopped burning, adding to the blurred distress of the past twenty-four hours. Last time he'd cried so much he was a lost fifteen year old hating the boy staring back from the mirror. Not much has changed since, so, in a way, it was cathartic to see some light at the end of the circular tunnel. Time to go back to basic.

"Thank you for your service."

Samuel gave a distracted nod to the taxi driver, who would probably leave him for dead by the side of the road if he could read minds, and fixed the belt of his service trousers. He could have worn joggers and a t-shirt, lied low, but this was a matter of pride; just like after boot camp, his uniform was his superpower.

As he walked the driveway, his stomach bubbled up. Anticipation? Trepidation?

Fucking terror.

The 60s terracotta bungalow rested sandwiched between the orange earth of the front yard and the intense blue of the sky. The history behind those walls saturated the interior like a pressure cooker ready to burst. Samuel opened the door. Would Vivian ever learn to lock it?

"Ma'?" He dropped his backpack on the floor, raising his voice over an old Queen's hit blasting like it was Live Aid. "Ma'?" Freddie wanted to ride a bike, but no traces of Vivian. Samuel walked further into the living room. "Maaa'?"

Vivian's head popped from behind the bathroom door across the room, a white goo masking her face. "Samuel?" Her hard frown morphed into a broad smile that died right away. "Is everything OK?" She rushed into the sitting room, smearing her gray silk robe with tacky white when she wiped her hands on it. That didn't save the volume knob from the fingerprints' mess.

With May's guitar only whispering, his own thoughts resurfaced. "Yeah, ma'. Everything's fine."

By the time Vivian closed the distance, her eyes had reduced to emerald slits. She halted in front of him, arms crossed over her chest and inquisitive gaze squaring him up and down. If she'd taken out a tailor tape and measured his inseam like Sergeant Major Powell on he last day of boot camp, Samuel wouldn't have batted an eye.