Page 55 of Chasing Kit

“He’s . . . .” I looked again. I couldn’t tell from the snapshots how old he was, only that he was younger than War, maybe two or three years. “He looks like he was a handful.”

“He was.” He let the answer hang for a moment before he spoke again. “We were stationed together for a couple years. I think I told you that.”

He’d told me pieces, how his brother was tortured and murdered in front of him, but I wanted to ask what exactly happened and how they got caught. I didn’t because the question crawled up my throat and died in the dark. Instead, I picked up the dog tag necklace on the table, lighter than I’d imagined. The letters were worn and dented, as if someone had run their thumb over them a thousand times.

War’s eyes followed my hand, then met my gaze directly, unreadable. “I keep that one here,” he said, voice dipping a little. “That one’s mine. This—” He pulled out the dog tags hanging on the chain on his neck. “These are his.”

Something thick fit itself into my throat, and I bit back the urge to cry. I couldn’t imagine losing Sky, but War had seen it happen in front of his eyes. That would be worse.

I nodded, trying to set War’s necklace back exactly as I’d found it. The silence grew thick enough that I had to say something.

“Your mom looks cool,” I said, gesturing to the Polaroid.

He exhaled in almost a laugh, and for a split second, the tension eased. “She’s a force. Still alive, still terrorizing her neighborhood in Indiana. That’s where she lives now. She moved there after Eric enlisted.”

I grinned at the idea of a Mrs. Briggs wielding a wooden spoon and chasing down whatever unlucky bastard pissed her off. “Has she visited New Gothenburg?” He’d said he’d never called her, but I wondered if she made her way here to find him. I know I would if I was her.

War shook his head. “Not since I got out. She doesn’t know where I live.” He checked his phone, though we both knew time was a fake concern. “Do you want a drink or anything?”

“Uh, yeah. Water’s fine.”

He led me into the kitchen, a galley with only enough space for one and a half people. The fridge was covered in faded magnets, half of them military insignia, half dumb tourist slogans—someone had to have given War a “World’s Okayest Cook” magnet as a joke, but I liked it. He poured water into a glass and handed it to me. My hands shook so much I almost dropped it.

“Thanks,” I said. “Sorry. My nerves are shot. This is the first time I’ve been here and you’re my. . . . Fuck, you’re my boyfriend now.”

“Understandable.” He leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, still in full bodyguard posture. “You can relax. I’m me, Kit. Same guy who followed you to Pleasant Beach and St. Loren.”

I believed him. I wanted to say I believed him. But the moment I sat on one of the tall stools at the counter, my leg started bouncing with a mind of its own.

“I just . . . .” I rotated the glass, fingers growing wet from the condensation. “Never thought you’d be the sitcom type.”

That got an actual smirk from him. “What gave me away?”

I let my eyes wander around the kitchen again. On top of the fridge was a battered DVD box set. Golden Girls, the full run. Beside it was a stack of loose Blu-rays, half Cheers and half M*A*S*H.

“Process of elimination.” I could tease him now. We’d had sex and we were together. “You once told me you didn’t Netflix on your days off. So, I assumed you watched the worst, most dad-joke shit imaginable. Never expected old-school DVDs.”

“Not far off,” he said, lips twitching. “I grew up with these. They were Mom’s favorite shows. Eric would quote Golden Girls lines at our COs, drove them insane.” He said the words like they hurt, but he didn’t shy away from the memory.

I took a long drink, savoring the cold water. “We could watch an episode,” I suggested. “If you want.” I tried to sound casual, but my voice shook on the last syllable.

For a second, I thought he’d say no. But then he straightened and nodded toward the living room. “Pick an episode. I’ll make popcorn.”

By the time I’d crashed onto the old brown corduroy sofa, the kind that shed fibers on your pants, War had poured the kernels into a battered air popper and set to work. He moved with a weird grace, every motion efficient, and military. He measured scoops and wasted no effort. Even the way he used his elbow to close the pantry. I loved watching him do anything and I loved that he was letting me see it.

I fumbled the remote, downloaded Netflix because I was not using DVDS, and navigated the clunky streaming menu. I used my log on because clearly War didn’t have one. Eventually, I landed on the pilot episode of Golden Girls. I wanted to see what his reaction would be.

He brought in a red bowl that was heavy with popcorn and dropped onto the couch beside me. Not touching, but closer than I expected. One of his thighs was pressed against the cushion, merely inches from mine. I was hyperaware of his warmth, the slight citrus and sweat of his skin, and how his presence filled the room like a high-pressure system.

He grabbed a handful, barely glancing at the TV. “You know what this is about?”

“Vaguely. Four old ladies. Lots of sex jokes.”

“Yeah.” He watched the opening credits roll. “My brother always wanted to be Blanche.”

“I can see it,” I said, and we both let the laughter out in a low, shared exhale.

For the next twenty-two minutes, I forgot everything else. I let myself sink into the laugh track, the ridiculous pastel outfits, and the rhythm of the show’s jokes. I glanced over and caught War smiling briefly, but then he schooled his face and pretended not to notice me watching him.