. aaron

[aaron eklund]

2009 You were good at breaking in and cracking locks. You practiced with Luther’s handcuffs while he was passed out, fiddled with the deadbolt at home when he was gone. You snuck over fences, jimmied open doors, memorized the sound of pin tumblers clicking into place. The reasons were never nefarious, more often out of curiosity or necessity—a place to hide, a place to stay. At this point in your life, you’re dutifully at the Deol house for most meals and holidays. Anything worth keeping is safe at their house, always still there in the last place you left it. Here you were encouraged to take up space, stake your claim; you even have a designated pillow, a favorite blanket. The original excuses were flimsy at best…you lost track of time, you fell asleep studying, you were going through a growth spurt. You would doze off on the floor next to Ish’s bed, curled up so peacefully they didn’t have the heart to wake you and send you home. But then you wandered into Sami’s room, sometimes found after dark next to her bed with your fingers dangling together over the slope of her covers, and they knew they had to do something. You were skipping history class again, sneaking in through the window that Samira purposely left unlocked the night before. You tucked your bike behind the garbage bins at the side of the house, dipped your wrist over the fence to lift the latch and let yourself in like you always did, with Mrs. Deol’s schedule memorized. What you didn’t expect was for Sami’s door to open just as you slipped over the windowsill, stumbling inside face-to-face with one Dr. Deol—who wasn’t supposed to be home at this hour. You feel your body steel before you even realize it, confronted with the sight of a man, a disapproving father, igniting too many alarms in your system. But he reaches out, an attempt to stop the gears he can already hear grinding within your skull. This was it, your time was finally up: he was going to tell you that your welcome was overstayed, you weren’t allowed to come here anymore. Maybe Luther finally got to them, the threat of his presence too much to handle; more people abandoning you and you still can’t blame them for doing it. “Aaron, you should use the front door,” he says, voice thick and balmy in your ears, his accent like a warm blanket thrown over your nerves. Again and again proving you were safe, banishing the ghosts haunting your memory so long as you were here. A different window, a different father—it would have been a very different outcome. But his voice isn’t raised and his fists aren’t on you, something shiny glinting in his outstretched palm instead. It’s a key, you realize, your gaze stealing up to his when it drops into your hand. “I would like to give this to you. But you must make me a promise,” Amir continued, drawing you out to the living room where he demonstrated that the key did, in fact, work to the front door lock. That small gesture to confirm his words matching his actions, such a simple concept but it moved you. The metal suddenly feels heavy in your grasp, a priceless gift granting a new layer of freedom, one of the few ways to protect yourself from the world. “You have to go to school, Aaron,” he says, breaking you out of your trance. He knew how you would mentally retreat, had watched your eyes glaze over in the face of panic or fear, dissociating when it became too much. But you’re here when you’re not supposed to be, risking your future with every missed assignment and each truancy. You didn’t like school but it was your only other safe place after this one. “Pass your classes and graduate,” he clarified, urgent but kind, thoughtful without too much pressure. If you listened carefully, it was a plea not a warning. You feel the familiar rise of rebellion in your throat, that kneejerk reaction against perceived authority telling you what to do, but you see the love in his eyes that is absent from counselors and teachers and principals. Then you realize this isn’t for him—it’s for you. He’s trying to save you from yourself. “Your mother will be so proud when you do.” It’s still a fresh wound, and from anyone else it would be a low blow to mention the woman who left last year. Instead there’s something knowing in his eye, but before you can even attempt to ask what he knew, how he knew, he sent a cautious hand to your shoulder, disarming you all over again. “Risa and I are here to help. Please. Anything you need,” he assured, and you knew he meant that. All of the Deols did, the only people trying to undo the damage of your father, savvy enough to detect it in the first place. Under this roof you were complimented, not criticized; you counted as somebody, you were loved for you. If beneath the scars and trauma there was still an authentic-you, a core identity uncorrupted by the deep reaches of abuse, it only had a chance to live here. A seed planted in poisoned soil could still grow, but its survival was not guaranteed in better conditions once that poison already worked its way inside. You hear the tea kettle whistle in the kitchen, your curled name repeated in reminder. You’re still standing in the middle of the living room, having lost yourself again, jarred back into reality by each of your senses returning. One day you would learn how to corral them individually: five things you see, four things you hear, three things you feel, two things you smell, one thing you taste… Amir appears beneath the doorway, a steaming teacup in hand, an open invitation to join for lunch. You look at the door and instead of imagining it rocking within its frame, splinters spraying from the edges, angry shadows playing at the undercut…you see it for what it is. A solid piece sheltering inside from outside, a barrier, an entrance and an exit. Your heart is racing, your hands are trembling, the key etching its shape into your palm the tighter you squeezed, notches tattooed in your skin. “Are you OK?” he asked, clinical in his approach like you’re a patient crashing. You nod, furiously, unable to speak, try to assuage his worries. “Yeah,” you rasped, catching your breath, the feeling foreign and alarming. “I’m just really happy.”

[aaron eklund]

2014 Columbus, GA

There was a girl back home. There always is, isn’t there? Living in a military town can be rough sometimes, most guys either being cheaters or broken. Aaron was an interesting one, still fresh to service. I think I was the second girl he’d ever been with. He must’ve taken his first leave or gotten that difficult phone call, because he was a hot mess when we initially crossed paths. I saw him most weekends for a few months… Then he stopped showing up. I guess he went on another leave and things were different with the girl back home. But then it happened again: he came back when it was convenient and he needed a familiar bed off-base. Wash, rinse, repeat. Just like the others, leaving a trail of broken hearts before they were shipped off elsewhere.

Girls at the bar I worked with told me he was the strong, silent type. Not a creep, quite nice to have around in case someone was being rude or handsy. He spent his 24th birthday at our bar—I only knew it from when I carded him. He’d just returned from Iraq, I think, clearly happy to be back home. Had a story about a grenade and losing some of his hearing. Didn’t drink a lot but liked to come watch the TV, and us gals usually put on reality shows. He was a tough nut to crack but I think I was his favorite at the bar. We would grab some grub late at night and he’d walk me to my car in the dark. I always felt safe with him. It was sweet, slow and steady. I think he was trying to get over someone. We had a thing for a little while, seemed like I was teaching him how to actually date a woman. When he got orders to another base, I couldn’t follow him and he didn’t insist.

2018   El Paso, TX

2020 Colorado Springs, CO

What can I say, I like a man in uniform. We met on a dating app since the city all but shut down during quarantine. We talked for a while before deciding to meet up, which meant him coming over to my place. The world was in a strange state, everyone needed a little companionship. We had our fun, it was all surficial: sex, watching movies, playing games, that sort of thing. I didn’t want more and neither did he, not that he could anyway. He was counting down his time, excited for reserves.  Well, a month later he got called to Afghanistan. Never heard from him again, hope he made it out.

2021   Liz, 1 month

Tall California boy, blond hair and blue eyes, got that broody thing going for him. Sure the way he dresses gives off Republican/redneck vibes, but he’s actually not! While he isn’t the most talkative, I’ve never heard him say anything off-color, ever. In fact, there was one time someone said this low-key racist joke and Aaron made it extremely uncomfortable for him, pressed him about it until he got the hint. Maybe a toxic girl moment for me, but someone bumped into me once at a bar and it was kind of hot to see how pissed off Aaron got about it. He has two modes when he’s drunk: incredibly sappy and *almost* vulnerable (he always wanted to show me music or movies he liked), OR itching to start a bar fight (we were kicked out of two places). He’s great to look at but he always had one foot out the door.. I just couldn’t see it going anywhere and I think he preferred it that way, someone else on his mind.

We met in the fall during a vintage market. I was selling my wares, he was just browsing. We got to chatting about crafts (I was going through a woodburning art phase at the time), somehow wound up in a glassblowing class together. Spent more time, slept together, nothing ever official. He liked to go thrifting with me and started collecting my wood scraps for his own projects.   What happened? Well, he told me his parents were dead. So imagine my surprise when I learned his father only recently died and his mother was very much alive. He claimed it was just easier to say they were dead—like who does that!? That’s terrible luck to even lie about! I couldn't get over it that so I ended it.

2022   Becca, 2 months

2023 Angela, 3 months

He told me he broke his arm as a kid once. When I asked how, he said a billy club. After I found out his dad was a cop, I put two and two together. It explained the weekly therapy, and his bad mood after sessions (we never saw each other on Wednesdays). To my knowledge he’s tried CBT, DBT, EMDR, you name it. I suggested psychedelics but he doesn't touch drugs. Trying to get anything out of him was hard but I was patient, to my own detriment. I learned to be more specific, and he was less likely to avoid yes-or-no questions. While I believe therapy should be mandatory for men…and yes he’s learning how to regulate his emotions and express himself which is great and all…I did that already as a toddler so… Idk. I need a guy on my level, no offense. All the luck and healing to him, personally I’m done with fixer-uppers.

We met through a mutual friend, got paired up playing pool at a bar once. I came onto him first; his flirting is eye contact and smiles while mine is innuendo and touch. He asked me questions, paid attention. I asked him home, which in hindsight became pretty typical. He’s like a vampire: you have to be the one to invite him inside. Oh, by the way, he’s a concealed carrier (that was fun to find in his pants once). On the positive side, he was always reliable. He’ll drop anything to help you out, like fixing my faucet in the middle of the night. He’s polite to strangers and workers, still sir/maam’s it up. He was always cute toward animals and, surprisingly, kids. He’s very observant, remembers pretty much anything you ever mention. He was a generous lover but a bit of a prude—always needed permission, refused to get rough. One time I suggested we try something new, so I blindfolded him then cuffed him to the bed. Well, he broke my headboard. Not in a hot we-did-it-so-hard way, he literally destroyed my fucking headboard because I couldn’t find the key fast enough and he flipped out about being restrained. Two things I didn’t know: fuzzy handcuffs can be triggering, and are freakishly strong. After he built me a new headboard, we stopped seeing each other.

2024 Neha, 2 months

[aaron eklund]

May 2022 Twenty-four minutes in. “What did you think would change once your father died?” she asked a second time in different words, pen in her notebook. All roads led back to Luther, triggering the same conversation each session, no matter how harmlessly it started. She was still getting to know you, taking a chisel and hammer to your walls for two months with only a tiny pile of dust to show for the effort. You weren’t helpful or cooperative or sometimes even kind, positioning this woman as an enemy the moment you stepped in her office. “I thought I’d be happy,” you mumbled, feeling the fuse light, warming your palms to the flame. “Are you?” she countered, head tilted to the side that made you feel like she was mocking you. Pretend you’re a prisoner of war, give her nothing. You could stonewall like nobody’s business; you were surprised that wasn’t another one of many Army nicknames. Across from her, on the couch with the pillow gripped in your lap like a shield, you looked out the window, let your mind disappear. She was beginning to notice when you dissociated, that certain glaze to your eyes, her voice drowned out in your ears. “Why are you here, Aaron?” she asked, changing tactics. “I promised my mom I would try,” you answered, easy enough to state a fact. “Do you get anything out of it?” she wondered, still busy in her notebook. “I’ve gotten real good at counting down for an hour,” you quip, wondering what she was writing about you, what your profile looked like in her secret book of cases. She didn’t appreciate that, lips tightening together as your eyes met. You didn’t want to be here, you never made it easy. Yet you paid her and showed up, so she would be here so long as that continued. You could stop anytime, lie to mom that it wasn’t working out or she wasn’t the right fit even though she glowed on paper with ex-military experience to boot. She probably saw vets with blown-off limbs and guys who wanted to eat their own bullets—what the hell significant problems did you have, why were you here? “Do you remember when you first started seeing me? After you destroyed your father’s house? You said your mother looked.. afraid of you,” she tested, rooting around to see what got to you. “Everybody looks at me like that at one point,” you tell her, another easy fact. You probably will too, you should warn her. And you’ll memorize the moment she does. “Do you remember when we talked about your father’s death?” she prompted, nudging her glasses up the ridge of her nose. Thirty-one minutes left now if you were lucky, running down the clock until you got to walk out of here, feeling like something went off in your chest for the rest of the day. These sessions exhumed everything you worked hard to keep down in the deep, uninhabited dark. Once a week you were eviscerated by your own memories and her prodding words, making you not only retrieve every shit thing that ever happened to you but examine it from all angles, under a new light. You hadn’t learned yet how to put it away with fewer sharp edges; if you listened, if you tried, she would eventually teach you. “Yes ma’am. My favorite topic,” you nod, torn between a smile and a yawn. “You told me you fantasized about pulling the plug to the ventilator. That you wanted to squeeze the tubes shut and watch him die,” she recited, the edge of your own words from a prior session. It feels like a betrayal, bringing that up. “I did watch him die. Just wasn’t lucky enough for it to be by my hand,” you mutter, remembering to push your shoulders back down away from your ears, muscles fatigued with tension. “Does it feel good to say that?” she pressed, face expertly unmoved. You reach for the stress ball, crush it in your grip until your knuckles go white. She preempted your outbursts, learning what to put between yourself and her: a box of tissues, a bottle of water, something to busy your hands because you weren’t allowed to smoke in here. You don’t remember standing but you’re at the window all of a sudden, surprised you haven’t licked your teeth down to little rounded stumps by the time the words come flying out. “That man was a horrible fucking monster. You have no idea. He was a racist, sexist bigot. A wifebeater. A dirty cop. So yes, it fucking feels great to say that,” you clip, voice half against the window and half out into the room. Couldn’t even tell you what you were looking at, your eyes not working. “I noticed something. You often mention ways he was cruel to others—to your mother, to the community, for example. What about toward you, doesn’t his impact on you count?” she nudged, an observation you didn’t need pointed out, too many layers to pick at. “What do you want me to say? He was a shit father. It took me a couple years to realize it wasn’t exactly normal for a man to hit his wife and kid,” you snapped toward her, since she wanted a more complete picture. The truth was, you always came last in your considerations; you never counted. “That must have been incredibly difficult,” she offers, walking straight into your wall. The word tumbles across your mind, suddenly sounding foreign off her tongue. Difficult—like a math test or the blue phase of basic training? Like sprinting with a twisted ankle or avoiding someone’s knuckles to your face? This was always you and your life, as far back as you remember. It couldn’t be difficult for you, you were supposed to be strong; anything other was weak, and weakness was dangerous in the Eklund house. “I have stories that would make your hair curl, lady,” you laughed a gritty sound, dredging up the taste of your morning nicotine from the back of your throat. “Does that usually work to keep people away? Scare them so they stop asking questions?” The head tilt again, examining you like a freak specimen butting up against the edges of your container. God you wished for some quiet. But you felt it snap in your belly and it was too late. “You’re so full of questions,” you laughed, strangling the hell out of the stress ball. It was either that or tear the stuffing out her decorative pillow, heart going wild in your chest, fingers trembling. “You ever have to pick the object you get beaten with? I’d need more hands than you and I both got to count ‘em all. Or been hit with your own things so they’re ruined to you afterward? It’s no fun to play with a toy that’s whooped you. You ever had a belt mounted up on the living room wall like a goddamn trophy, with your blood still on it? So you always see it in the corner of your eye, knowing how many steps away from it you are at all times? How ‘bout those for your fancy fucking questions,” you spat out, feeling your face contort under the heavyset of your furrowed brow. Well-trained, she doesn’t flinch but her eyes convey an abbreviated horror. Not at you but the things you told her, realizing again how wrong it all was. But that’s only skimming the surface, and it’s what she wants so badly that you’re resolved, spitefully, to give it to her. Were these things “difficult” or just the hellish, barely survivable backdrop of your formative years shaping you into the self-destructive, hateful, recalcitrant young man unraveling before her, first unwilling victim to Luther then eager idiot to the Army? Both of those things gone, now what were you supposed to do? “One time, he shoved me down onto my knees, made me put my hands behind my head. You know, execution-style? Pressed something cold and metal into the back of my head, told me he’d bury me in the backyard. With my mother. That no one would notice I was gone or come looking for me. I cried and begged for my shitty little life. I wish he had his gun, that he did me in right then and there. But it was a fucking stapler. He couldn’t stop laughing about it for the rest of the week. After that, if I had to stay home, I slept with a steak knife under my pillow because I didn’t know if he’d decide to finish me off in the middle of the night.” She takes a moment, lets the words sink into the air. You thought you’d be vindicated by the honesty, but it only feels hollow, and you’ve moved a seasoned medical professional to near tears. Her eyes are glassy behind her lenses when you decide you don’t want to look at her anymore. Another one of your casualties. “You’re so angry, Aaron. All the time. It must be exhausting. When you’re not angry, what do you feel?” “Nothing,” you relent, folding to the floor. “Until I’m angry again. Or bleeding.” And no matter what, you were tired. Tired of feeling irrevocably broken. Tired of losing track of where you are because your brain hates staying in this world. Tired of making everything worse all the time for you and everyone you know. Tired of misstepping into the ghosts of Luther’s footprints, that monster blood raging through your veins.

[aaron eklund]

2011 You wake up to the sound of your name. First you feel the vibrations, then her voice breaking the air. “Aar,” she breathed, fingers petting where your hair bent at the nape of your neck. “You fell asleep again,” she whispered, and you can hear her smiling. It’s uncanny how she subdues you. “How do you do that?” you murmur groggily, eyes heavy and hesitant to stay open. You’ve discovered you love hearing her heartbeat, the steady sound of her lungs, the rhythmic motion of her chest. It was the best sleep you ever got, the only way to ward off the nightmares that otherwise usually broke up your nights. It was an accident that you found out in the first place, lying together on the sofa while nobody was home, innocently chatting about the day until you drifted off and she didn't have the heart to wake you. You weren’t technically breaking any rules, you reasoned: clothes were on, you weren’t in a bedroom. Instead you snuck kisses when you could, always volunteering to be on drying duty if she was washing just so you could stand next to her at the sink and feel like you earned her lips after every dish passed. Usually your hands or ankles would be resting together at the table while you studied, and you always sat next to one another during movie nights. That was the extent of it while you were at home, and you had only gone to second base together otherwise. You heaved up your head to look up at her, chin resting on her shoulder, still mystified. Of course you were hyperaware of her rounding curves and the changing planes of your own body, all your senses alive and screaming in hormonal technicolor. “I guess I have a magic touch,” she hums, gently thumbing your temple. Why did the weakest spots always feel the best? When she looked at you like that you felt vulnerable and exposed, flayed down to your core; her heart wasn’t the only one to flutter, you felt the proof right under you. All she did was touch you and you were healed. Only Samira could handle you freely like this, the one you wouldn’t raise a fuss over. You were less than cooperative with others; even Dr. Deol had to convince you to tend to your post-op wounds. It was almost pathological how you picked at skin or pulled at stitches or bit your nails, anything that perpetually left pieces of you raw and achy, moments away from bleeding, actively trying to fall apart. But she was allowed to peruse the tension in your muscles and the raised marks on your back, in doing so also discovering the smattering of secret freckles and fine golden hair. “Thanks for letting me,” you tell her to stifle the apology that automatically rises in your throat, always sorry to inconvenience her. She would always tell you otherwise, that she welcomed you whether in your best shape or worst. “Did you have any good dreams?” she asked with a hopeful smile, tracing the kinked line of your brow as you pretended to think about it. You shook your head no but rose to meet her for a kiss, slow and sweet in its tenderness. This was dreamy enough, why you liked waking up in the first place. “I wish I could sleep here every night,” you say, muffled in the material of her shirt, leaning into her ministrations of your hair. Now she was just spoiling you; you know she could feel the slow spread of your grin into her chest, letting you melt into her. A few years ago you might have innocently fallen asleep at the foot of her bed, but you couldn’t get away with anything like that anymore. As much as you hated rules, you would never break the Deols’… Bend them while they weren’t home? Maybe. After all, you were seventeen and home alone with the girl you loved. It would be the best summer of your life before it all changed.

[aaron eklund]

Thirty-five years of marriage. It’s unfathomable to you, your own parents’ imploding after only a few years. Since mom never served divorce papers to Luther—too afraid of him finding out about her new life—she was technically left as his widow; only freed from him by his death, like everyone else. But today isn’t about your parents, finding yourself in the backyard of the home you think of when you remember your childhood. Your old bedroom is still done up inside like the Deols were ready for you to land back at their doorstep any minute now, Ish and Samira’s room long since converted with confidence that they wouldn’t return. It’s still where you stay over during family holidays and celebrations, always happy to be wrapped up in the surroundings—the scents, the voices, the embraces—of your younger years, the ones you preferred to remember when you looked back on it all. For weeks you’ve been mulling over what to gift them, sketching rough diagrams and searching through catalogs for inspiration, finally helped along by Samira’s garden ideas. It’s how you two end up at a nursery she has been wanting to explore, too busy to go herself and without much reason otherwise. For hours you disappear there together, walking up rows of flowers and saplings, your conversations meandering easily, browsing tags about light needs and nutrient additions and watering directions until you’ve learned more about zone 10 perennials than you ever thought to ask. Risa could keep any plant alive—even resuscitate some back from the dead if she caught it in time, her own magical healing ability—dotting the shifting frames of your youth with vibrant plumes and ever-changing bouquets. It’s no wonder you both are drawn to bright colors and big shapes which remind you of her: zinnias, gladioli, celosias, ranunculus. While her mother tended to the yard, her father loved to watch from afar. It dawned on you to build a porch swing they could both enjoy, Amir always bringing two cups of tea outside without being asked, reserving her seat for her so that they could both sit back and admire the view she crafted. It took you several grueling weeks—from sourcing to measuring, cutting to drilling, staining to finishing—but it was ready for a secretive installation to reveal on their anniversary, engraved with their names and special date. It's something you’re truly proud of, displaying the attention to detail you’ve honed for the past two years, this curious way you’ve found with tools and patience. How something beautiful can come from your hands rather than the pain and destruction you were once used to. You wonder if Sami's favorite flowers are still peonies; Actually it’s dahlias now, she says from a row over, showing you when you asked. Another new discovery made about her. You have years of knowledge to catch up on, finding out how you’ve changed since you were younger, keeping tallies of then versus now. Although sometimes you still felt frozen in place as a teenager you’re not blind to the ways you both have changed, physically and mentally. She has the same melodious laugh but she likes other jokes now; the same smile breaks for different reasons, the same hands take up new hobbies, the same eyes saw the world in an updated way. You think it’s exciting that there’s more to know; even back then your curiosity was still never fully sated, happiest when you were near her, even content in the silence. You could have conversations using only your hands and eyes and breaths, connected so deeply that words were merely one of many means and still rarely the first you opted for. Since Maa and Papa are gone for the weekend ahead of their big day, you let yourself into the house with keys you’ve always had—though the locks have changed a few times after Luther’s threats and neighborhood displays. The very first, the original, is at the bottom of a keepsake box somewhere in your loft. Dutifully you haul in your equipment and tools, leaving the swing as a covered-up surprise for later once the twins arrive. You’d already taken measurements and knew where to locate the joists overhead so your focus turns on the garden, a cloudless blue sky framed above the backyard fence. When Ish arrives you try to look more excited than you are, secretly wishing it was Sami first so you could get some time together, absorbing a hug although afterward he instantly complains about your sweat. “What, you allergic to hard work?” you tease through a grin, listening to his story about his agent’s latest voicemail and the intensive week he’d somehow survived. A little while later Sami arrives too, complaining about traffic as she traipsed inside. She gives you a quick chaste hug, her right half briefly aligned against your left, reminding you to be wary of Ish’s attention. You felt like a kid again, sneaking touches and kisses when you could duck out of the family eye. “I see one of you took my advice to wear clothes you don’t care about,” you hum, appraising the faded old jeans and bleach-stained T-shirt adorning Sami, matching your painted-splotched denim and shabby cutoff, directly opposing Ish's curated creation. “About that…I'll be helping, but from over here. I can't get dirty,” Ish said quickly, shifting the pair of gardening gloves to Sami’s hands, launching into a tirade about getting mulch under his fingernails. “Told you. That will be five dollars,” Sami boasted with a laugh, winning your bet as soon as she had predicted. “Wouldn’t you know it, I left my wallet in my good pants.” It’s you and Sami on your knees in the garden, Ish supervising from the patio, claiming to test out the angle of the spot you’d scouted for the chair. He makes sure you stay hydrated at least, tossing water bottles after a few whistles for his attention away from his phone, neither of you bothering to pause anymore for his impromptu pictures. Hands in the dirt and sweat at your temples, the three of you reminisced about backyard sleepovers in tents under the moon, the bird nest you all waited for every spring in the lemon tree, the crack in a fence post left by Ish’s record pitch. You swear you could still hear the whine of the old swing set and the achy bellow of the neighbor’s late dog. The place was a goldmine of memories, practically echoing with your childish giggles and nursery rhymes. The good times outweigh the shadows beneath, the very reasons you fled here so often or clung to things with startling sentimentality. When the garden’s done you take a lunch break in the kitchen together, competing for boxes of takeout from the Thai place not too far away. You eat vegetarian here like you always have, sipping at the tea Sami made, heart made full at the sight of these two next to you. While Ish tended to the mess left behind, you escape to the patio shade while you can. “This will make for an interesting tan line,” she said, fingertip tracing the outline of the patch on your naked bicep. You flash a smile in realization, giddy to feel the warmth of her touch, senses suddenly alight. “How has it been?” She’s looking at you now, pinning you down with her eyes as she reached up to swipe a smudge of dirt away from your jaw. When she laughs you know she’s just made it worse, playfully nudging her wrist away. “It’s manageable. Better than quitting cold turkey,” you shrug in downplay, feeling the adhesive with your own fingers as if you could milk more nicotine out of it at this moment to better blanket your nerves. “Good. I like it better when you do not smell like an ashtray.” Well then, that’s all the reason you need: consider yourself quit for good. The big reveal finally comes. You and Ish hold up the swing while Sami hooks into the mounts you already installed, trying not to dwell on the sight of her on top of the ladder, all tied-up hair and glistening skin. “Ishmael, I swear if you drop this thing—" you warn as he complained about a splinter before you both let it down and watched it hang perfectly. Sami clapped your hand in celebration, pleased with her contribution. “You made it...you sit in it first,” Ish said, he and Sami both looking skeptically as it softly swung from their commotion. “Ye of little faith,” you feign offense, plopping into it without hesitation, the chain taut and sturdy with your added gravity. “It’s rated for plenty of weight, including that big head of yours.” You invite them both in on either side of you, the unauthorized triplet between them, arms slung over their shoulders. “Pointed west for better view of sunsets,” you boast matter-of-fact, distracted by the feel of Samira’s fingers around your wrist, rattling on about the type of cypress wood until Ish gets bored and wanders off. Sat together in the swing meant for her parents, hoping you could be as lucky as them someday, growing old alongside your soulmate. In the kitchen you wash clean, scrubbing up to your elbows like you’re prepping for surgery. Drying your hands, you lean against the counter as Samira takes her turn, the air permeated by soapy verbena as the faucet rained down. After a beat she clears her throat suggestively, eyes rising her way from a daydream. “I’m just standin’ here,” you claim coolly, comfortable in your stance against the counter. “Blocking my way,” she pointed out, to which you feigned surprise, chin dipping toward the cupboard. “Oh. Are the glasses still kept in there?” you asked facetiously, feeling the shallow pull of a grin across your face. “For the past twenty years, yes,” she answered, eyeing the space around you. You don’t budge from your position, but you do open the cabinet behind your head, the cups and mugs waiting just over your shoulder. “Go on. I told you I don’t bite,” you invite, an electrical sort of anticipation as she dared closer. You don’t move one bit, practically breathing in her same air as she rose to reach past you, securing her glass with your eyes locked peripherally, landing back on the balls of her heels, your hand ghosting above her hip just in case she became unsteady. Always ready to catch her if you weren't already right behind her. A lump ripples down your throat as a thick swallow, trying to rein in memories of summer after graduation: any reason to be near or next to each other, that unbridled teenage lust, waiting on her to give you the green light. There was no escaping nostalgia in this house, rendered a museum of your childhood. Around every corner there was some flash of imagery to pull you back years ago. Which floorboards squeaked, how many paces from the front door to the backyard, where the junk drawer was, when the garbage truck came in the morning. You could navigate the house blindfolded and often did under the cover of night when you couldn't sleep; first from nightmares when you were young, then from flashbacks when you were discharged. Even what had been fixed or replaced or painted over or rearranged, just different versions saved to your memory, backed up in parts of your brain you can't begin to understand anymore, refusing to merge with the present reality. There are notches on a door frame documenting your height, a turmeric stain in the corner that never quite came out, boxes of graduation caps and gowns in the closet if you wanted to reminisce. It was all here, that and the people you loved, when you needed them. Ish leaves as soon as the evening rolls over, watching the sunset spread out along the sky like water colors. "This was great. I can't wait for Maa and Papa to see," Sami prompts, arms crossed over herself as night courted the city, light still bleeding up from the horizon. "We make a good team," you think to add, ignoring any implications because it's just that: light, easy, fun. You're stowing away everything you brought, thankful that porch swing still isn't in tow; that's one project off your list. "Do you want any help?" she asks, innocent enough but it's a question you've always hated—and more often than not, one you ducked out of. "Nah, I got it." It's automatic, reflexive, after a lifetime of turning away anyone's sympathy. But this time it's honest, feeling her eyes hitch on you, half of your name dropping off her lips because she's still calibrating her gauge when it comes to you. "I mean it, Sami," you laugh a disarmed sound, tool bag sagging over your shoulder. "I'm particular about the way I have my things, that's all. Not trying to be an asshole," you add, gesturing at the patch that only tided you so much. It's a stalemate, her on the patio measuring your trips to the truck, staring you down like she could've gotten the job done twice as fast. "That's what the patches are for," she teases, chin resting on her steepled fingers from her position on the front porch. Watching you now more in amusement than assessment, while you felt like you were trying to woo her from a distance. A teenager letting go of her hand before you reached the front door, saying you enjoyed your date and you'd talk to her tomorrow...then heading into the same house into separate bedrooms, according to the rules. Briefly you wonder about Ravi and her dinner plans, think about the life she'll return to after this—in contrast to the phone call she'll expect from you in the morning. "I was gonna stay and park on the couch, see what movies are on TV," you budge, an offer free and open one way or another, both as an invitation and an aside. "I can't kick you out of your own house. But I won't keep you." You're still rifling through your things and packing up when she goes back inside and you think you've blown it: she's on her way out. Then you hear the sound of popping from the kitchen before a familiar buttery scent drifts outside a few minutes later, your fast smile realizing it first. Back inside you've changed into clean clothes, feet resting up on the coffee table edge, arm slung over the back of the sofa. It's not the same one you were used to—rid of years ago while you were away, a strange betrayal to feel—but she's a cushion away and it's home in that regard. And she knows to sit on the side with your good ear so you can hear her better. The remote in one hand and a scoop of popcorn in the other, she looks your way and asks: "Any requests?" The channels scroll past the screen, movie titles made a blur. "Yeah. Don't let me fall asleep," you grin, hand finding hers in the space between you, making up for lost time.

[aaron eklund]

Although it’s not a surprise party, it still surprises you to see all these faces. People who like and love you, supported you, knew you. People plucked from the several eras of your life, often unaware of the others, maybe only privy to a singular version of you. People you’ve known since childhood, since the Army, or since just last year. It feels risky in a strange way, like you’ve managed to keep the chapters separated, but finally there’s a novel coming together if you want to remember your life from front to back. You think of the people who aren’t here—some dead, a few far away, many gone for one reason or another—but then you also remember to stay present, advised to stop looking backward. Training yourself in a new way, a habit you think can stick if you keep trying. Of course Ish was the ringleader of it all, having pried your phone contacts to coordinate everyone here, the time, the bar tab. You were looking forward to your friends and this new decade of life. “Well well well. Look at this motley crew scrounged up for me,” you say when it all registers, hands on your hips, appraising the small crowd of faces gathered at one of your favorite bars. It’s where you came for sour ales and live music, less entrenched in the typical LA scene, just how you preferred it. It's almost like you’re revealing a secret to all these people, letting them in on the location of your solace. There’s Taylor, someone new and unexpected; you were just two boys dropping into silly art classes together, trying to do what you could with the cards you were dealt. Often you forget his celebrity, a fan of both the band and the man himself. You get to meet his sweetheart, who you’ve heard about as long as you’ve known him, and he was the one to introduce you to Cleo too. There are some friends lasting since middle and high school who drifted off and on your radar, or at least stayed on Ish’s when you weren’t the best at following up. Then there’s a former neighbor, an old unit buddy visiting LA, an ex-girlfriend who didn’t completely hate you after the relationship you tried. Hell, even one of your cousins came down from Humboldt—the oldest girl, Brooke, since your uncle Karl had three daughters before he stopped trying for sons (and Buck’s boy got himself killed in a freak accident, leaving you as the sole male heir of the Eklund empire of dirt). And of course there’s Samira. Or she will be, anyway, as your texts chime in your pocket. You’d seen her just a few hours ago at the Deol house, your single request for your thirtieth birthday to spend dinner with the people in the place you loved most. Just about two decades of being in their life, sometimes as a roommate or sometimes just sound waves through the phone. You even still remember the number to the old landline they refused to get rid of, the poor thing worn out by international calls to India and overseas bases. Around the table you sat with Risa and Amir on one end, Ish and Sami on yours, eating the world's best meal and shooting the breeze with your folks. Your mom sent a nice card and care package, called you over the phone and talked about the day you were born, all screaming nine pounds that you were. And Luther isn’t around anymore so it has been a good day. When Ish is satisfied with the turnout of bodies, a little cake is brought out to you in a blaze of candles—thirty, if you had to guess—for you to extinguish before your audience. Someone starts a chant for a speech and you can’t wave it off once enough voices synchronize, so you clear your throat as the noise dies down expectantly. “Thanks everybody for coming,” you start, trying to shake the feeling of incurring emotional debt. “I’m a little buzzed so I’m feeling sentimental. Just grateful for y’all and for being able to reach this age,” you say, beer raised in a cheers that sends clattering echoes of glass throughout the bar. “And if you buy me anything, remember: nothin' clear and nothin' cheap.” They laugh and hoot and pull you back in. Rounds are to be made, greeting and thanking your friends, everyone insisting that you’re never without a drink in hand. “Keep me away from cigarettes, will you?” you remind quietly Taylor’s way, doubled up on your patches just for the occasion, your smoke-free streak extending almost two weeks now. As the hour slides you feel the energy, like you could warm your hands on the love here. There was some good-natured ribbing—about how you finally started calling people by their first names again and gave up using military time out loud. They also get you for retelling the same story, the one about a joyride in an M1126 Stryker against the backdrop of an Iraqi dawn. They affectionately reflect on the way you seemed to only write in all caps, your fanatical love of ice cream, how you watched Enter the Dragon probably a hundred times, your soft spot for stray animals, the many concerts you snuck into as a teenager, the way you wear everything down to its very last thread, when you ate grits every morning for breakfast during basic training. Tales and preferences and traits acquired over the years, stripping you down to the things that mattered. It’s sweet and nostalgic; you think it’s everything you need, until Samira arrives. You wait for the sight of Ravi behind her, following her lead through the narrowing bar, hands entwined. You tip back the rest of whatever was last shoved in your palm, suddenly fixing for nicotine. She makes a beeline for you when your eyes meet, recognition rearranging her features. “Happy birthday, Aaron,” she says into a hug, full and lingering enough allowed for the occasion. Ravi’s up next to repeat the sentiment, but at the last moment his palm claps to your shoulder instead, like Sami scolded him about it during the car ride over. Very few people were the exception to your rule, otherwise you preferred not to be touched. When you were young it felt like you wanted to jump right out of your skin if someone closed in on your personal space, hating the feel of hands on you even if they weren’t balled up in fists. Your body kept score and it would take a long time before innocent touches didn’t light up your nervous system, memories so deep they’d leached into your bone marrow. But it gets easier with a couple beers in your system, Sami buying your next and her first. “Congratulations on joining the new age bracket,” she cheered, Ravi gone off toward Ish and the food. It’s a rare occasion to share a drink with Sami—as long as you'd known her, her next days always loomed with exams or shifts. “Not a bad welcome wagon,” you return, more about the people than the setting. "This has Ish written all over it," she said of your surroundings with a knowing smile. You could laugh at the irony, all the things you disliked most: being the center of attention, people hugging you and yelling into your ear. Your nights out have decreased in frequency and intensity since your twenties, no longer a catastrophe once you stepped off base. A lot of nights forgotten, beds you abandoned and women you stonewalled, feelings you tried to purge. Young and dumb, recklessly volatile, self-preservation the last thing in mind. But since you’ve been out, started therapy and taken up all the hobbies to ever appeal, that angry young man gets smaller and smaller inside you. You can’t say you’re cured yet…that sometimes you don’t still go itching for a good fist fight, or think about flooring the gas pedal to triple digits on straightaways; needing that bump of adrenaline, the rush and smell of blood, reminding that you’re alive and control is an illusion. It must be birthday luck that you get to be alone with Sami for a while. Eventually you think to introduce her to people who didn’t know her yet but most likely knew of her, watching it register differently with each person: the high school girlfriend, the longing of your Army days. And only one person knew about you now. There’s no pause in Taylor’s introduction, the girls intermingling—like you two are just exchanging your major loves. “Tay didn’t mention you two were engaged!” Kendra said, marveling at Samira’s ring, that thing practically a strobe light in your periphery. Taylor huffed out the side of his mouth, loosening a cocktail from her grip and throwing an apologetic look your way. “Oh. We’re.. not...” Sami fumbled with an awkward laugh, looking to you for help. You shook your head, jutted a thumb out toward Ravi’s direction. “Not us, no,” you try to laugh off too. You get to have two drinks with her before her and Ravi’s night must come to an end, warily eyeing the clock, counting down to tomorrow’s alarms. You still call her in the mornings and you’ll be seeing each other in a few days; not like you ever run out of things to talk about or catch up on, anyway. “Thanks for coming,” you murmur into your departing hug, dismayed to realize you don’t get to walk her outside and see her off to safety. That hadn’t been your job for a long time. “Thank you for making it this far,” she says back, teasing but not, echoing a speech she’d missed. You’re feeling the booze, and you wish you could gush about how it was because of her and her family that you lasted this long in life, that that could have changed many times over if it weren’t for them. You’re tipping over the edge of sappy, a side of you that’s harder to stifle these days as you became more in touch with your emotions, finding yourself deeply moved by ordinary things. A hundred new questions bubble up in your mind, curiosities to be indulged and boundaries to be broached, how to figure each other out as now-thirty-year-olds who wanted to give This, You, a shot. Somehow, no telling when or how hard it was going to be.

[aaron eklund]

You saw it happen before you felt it. A shock of crimson suddenly bloomed along your forearm, the table saw whirring to a stop as you realized the pain, happening so fast to your delayed senses. It wasn’t the blade itself (this time) but a small piece of quarter-inch birch ply getting kicked back at you and splitting skin in its wake. Should've had that guard on... “Well shit,” you huff watching it weep that familiar bright red, kicking the offending object clear across the shop. You’d been so dialed in and focused it was an upset to shatter the moment, having to catch your breath and steady yourself against an automatic tide of anger, watching a drop of blood splatter against the concrete floor. You’ve seen exposed flesh and felt your own bones break, so when you tilt the liquid out of the gash long enough to assess its depth, you know it’s something you can’t ignore or duct tape shut. Instead, you call Samira. Since it’s not your usual call time, you wouldn’t blame her for eyeing the phone suspiciously before she picked up. After a couple rings you hear the rich melody of her voice, brow heavy feeling like you’re a nuisance, that stupid teenager in need of her help. “Wasn’t a nail gun,” you preface right off the bat, both an assurance and admission before she can start. Her tone shifts with question and edges on worry as you told her what happened, answered what you could. You described the new wound like a doctor yourself: length, depth, location, guessing four or so stitches. “You should go to the ER,” Samira says like you knew she would, but your lips turn up with a smirk against the phone cradled to your ear, wrapping a clean rag around yourself. “I’d rather not,” you say like she knew you wouldn’t anyway, asking if she could make a house call for old time’s sake. She arrives from her shift still in her scrubs, no more pleased about it than you are. It’s a sorry display she takes in—stained paper towels blotted up the floor and shirt sleeve bunched around your shoulder, applying pressure to the mark—until she came closer to assess your state. Part of you expects to be lectured, a worse part wondering if Sami thought this a ploy to get her here. The warmth of her fingers find purchase on your wrist, dark eyes expertly examining you as you focus on your breathing, still trying not to squirm away after all these years. She stands off to your side, quietly telling you about her day when you ask in hope of a distraction, worried what you might say if the silence stretched on between you too long. When the familiar curve of the suture needle takes its first bite out of your skin, your grip shoots out to the nearest thing to you: her. “Sorry,” you breathe automatically, fingers pulsing into her thigh before remembering to let go, stuffing down the discomfort testing your nerves. “My tolerance isn’t what it used to be.” Turns out you notice a lot less when you’re already in constant pain, all those fractures and bruises and welts that made up your childhood. Or maybe it was a consequence of getting older: more things able to dig down to the bone through your thinning skin. You don’t get into fights like you used to—not never, but only once in a blue moon now, maybe after one too many at the bar or in the heat of road rage. You try not to fly off the handle anymore, running through a checklist of therapy tools before your vision can start to vignette with red. Instead it’s Samira who fills your view, avoiding her gaze and the steady set of her brow as she fixed you up. You two have done this so many times before, you needn’t try to lighten the mood by cracking a joke about her bedside manner or bringing up the emergency kits of yesteryear. You’re relieved when she doesn’t, either. Otherwise you feel a complicated heap of thrill and guilt and gratitude, barely registering the tug of your skin until she knots the ends and wraps the sewn-up split in gauze. Good as new. “Thank you,” you say, cupping the discs of ibuprofen dispensed to your palm, insisting rather than asking in the face of your hesitance. Even pills you were wary of, remembering how Luther’s chronic pain slid into an opioid habit that didn’t kill him fast enough for your liking. Yet more footprints of his you doggedly avoided, another terrible gene of his buried in half your DNA, waiting to activate in you. You’d hardly had a chance to admire her handiwork but you trust her healing touch sight unseen, certain that she’d made you whole again. Kept you from spilling outside yourself one more time, every suture, staple, piece of tape and drop of glue holding you together despite your efforts otherwise. It’s not that you enjoyed the pain, you were just used to it—you didn’t know how else to feel in its absence. When you were young, you think you drew blood just to remind yourself you were alive; now everything overflows out of you whether you like it or not, all the emotions and memories and things you wish you’d said. So much decay you stuffed down came bubbling up tenfold, that suffering you prolonged only to haunt you later. Turns out the best way to miss out on your life is by being stuck in survival mode, even after the threat was gone. “You know how I actually got into all this?” you chime up, watching her attention flicker around the shop you broadly gesture at. Sometimes you wonder what she thought about your work, this hobby you found when you got out of the military and clung to ever since; three years of building this shop from the ground up and making a decent living for yourself. The fullness of her gaze bores down on you, curious but reserved, as if you’d kept a secret this whole time. Usually the story involved high school shop class or a thrifty ex-girlfriend; that was easier to reach for than the whole truth. “After Luther died and I had to go through that house... I wanted to destroy it all. Really bring it down. I took a bat and turned it into my own personal rage room.” A rain of glass and splinters, the whir of metal through the air punctuated by your guttural sounds, animalistic rage ready to erase everything endured there. The edges of the memory were fuzzy, like you’d blacked out partway through—or your brain didn’t want you to recall. “Remember that old antique thing at the end of the hallway, the secretary desk with the busted chain? It was a family heirloom—mom’s side, great grandparents from Sweden. Not like he’d’ve given it back to her. But I fucked it up that day and I didn’t know. She was heartbroken over it, wanted to pass it down to me.” Mom screaming your name from the front doorway, afraid to be in the house with you and that weapon. The horror on her face not from the destruction itself but your ability—no, your propensity for it. Like she’d raised a monster and was still surprised when that monster flashed its teeth at her. You’d seen that same storm brew in her eyes before when you were young, when Luther was drunk and angry. You always wondered what kind of a man could make a woman look like that, inspire such fear; and worse, have the desire and the pitch-black heart to follow it with heavy hands. “So I fixed it. It felt good to do that. It wasn’t exactly the same after that and I don’t know if she still looks at it the same way, but I tried to right my wrong.” Ever since then it’s been in your mom’s house in Nevada, the one she shares with a man who finally loves her right. Nowadays you create things of your own but you had to start somewhere, and it was born out of your father’s death in a way. “I liked puttin’ it back together. I guess that’s how it feels for you, huh?” It didn’t escape you that Samira might have gotten into this because of you; hell, years of experience came from you, locked together in the downstairs bathroom trying to keep your voice down as she tended to the evidence of your recklessness. The only person you’d let see you in tears, bared down, banged up, wishing you were dead. Years of med school and residency made her a professional witness to accidents and disaster now, but she’s able to give people that same hope she gave you as a lost boy, spreading it around. You were a walking testament to her magic touch. That same touch filtered to your shoulder in reassurance, covering her hand with yours, palms torn up by calluses and knuckles uneven with old scars. It feels like you’re taking inventory all of a sudden, compelling you to tug the shirt up your stomach and over your head, an angry spatter of rust across the fabric from where your wound first opened. The air shrinks in your lungs, showing her your chest—when was the last time she’d seen you like this, able to get a good look at you? The keyholes of your appendectomy had faded but, if you knew to look for them, they could still be found. Among them your little spots, whatever they were called—moles, freckles, beauty marks—had settled over time, as pronounced as the golden hair on your chest and trailing down into your waistband. A vision for once without contusions or stitches or scabs, seemingly untouched by the former perils of your youth. The shirt pooled into your hands, your body turning around in her grasp. This back of yours that could tell the difference between drywall, wood and concrete by the way your spine vibrated, skin that discerned a belt’s metal buckle from its leather end. Long before you dared to show anybody, marks would become infected and scar because no one else knew and mom was gone by the time it got worse. The heavy-handed lashes which left pink, swollen ridges across your shoulders long after your punishment was over; first they wept, then they itched, eventually they cracked. Cruel, spiteful wounds that broke you open even as they closed. The kind of pain that tugs at you all day no matter how you lay or stand or move, an omnipresent reminder that you did…or were…something wrong. Behind you stands the shadow of a damning medical record: broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, fractured clavicle, cracked radius, internal bleeding. You’d learned so much about anatomy and medicine back then, gathered from x-rays and whispering nurses and sneaking looks at your own chart. Of course there was evidence of eight years in the Army, too, additional nicks and furrows on a backdrop of fading grooves that Sami’s fingertips explored—and you didn’t pull away from. It took you a while to accept touch on your back, probably why you weren’t fond of hugs and unexpected touch. You’d had to learn after you left Sami and laid with other women, starting fresh with new relationships but rarely staying long enough to set down your baggage. Since you refused to let on, they just filled in the gaps about why you were this way. She turns you back to face her and pulls you in, her arms going round your middle, yours resting over her shoulders. You feel her breath leave her and enter you, the two of you trading gulps of oxygen like your lungs could only work in tandem. You don’t care about the shirt stain or the shop floor or your state of undress, just the tender, knowing touch of someone who loved you. Loved you during everything, loved you despite it all. A kiss disappears into the top of her hair, your palm on her shoulder squeezing in reassurance. You pull back to take her in, thumb wandering up the inside of her elbow, finding the old scar that matched with one of yours. "What's the going rate for house calls these days?" you wonder, clearing your throat as you pried apart, remembering to be wary of the proximity. "At least let me make you a cup of tea," you resolve when she laughs, trading one kindness for another. Not a debt or obligation, nobody beholden to the other. Just trying to match your gratitude with your actions. Stains wash out, wounds close. Scars fade, the body heals. Trauma is remembered, eventually forgiven. But you always knew how safe this love was, worth the pain.