I put her plate of eggs on the table.

Who knew New York City could be cold and dreary and just as desolate as London. I didn't. Hell, I didn't a lick about America aside from law enforcement–everything I'd learned so far was from her. She was a teacher, if you could really call her such a thing.

The left side of my upper body pulsed and ached, I forced myself to clear my throat like that would do something to stop the steering pain that surged through me. It'd been two whole days since the Cape May fiasco, and I slowly began to feel death looming near (\I'd like to enjoy my breakfast first before doomsday, thank you).

The days that transpired post were the most awful. I had gone to the hospital yesterday in the early morning, and stayed there until well into the evening. When I reached the flat, Aya and left me a sorry excuse of a note informing me about her whereabouts: "dinner is in the fridge + soup. Remember to eat. I am at Millie's. Xo, Aya." Who the fuck was Millie?

The soft creak of footsteps approached the kitchen. "Breakfast is on the table," I said, sighing.

"No bacon this time?"

"You don't eat bacon."

I was dressed in a white t-shirt gray sweatpants, with two-day old hair and freshly washed skin. My drooped, nearly closing. The only thing I could focus on where her lips–and she was saying something.

"Darren, did you hear me?" Aya slid over to the dining table.

I put her plate in front of her. She looked at it, but didn't so move.

"What?" I drawled, a yawn escaping my lips.

"I said"--she leaned forward, arms folded on the table–"how are you feeling? What's the progress?"

"The progress..." I stifled a laugh, which snowballed into a horse cough. This was more serious than I had anticipated. I sat on the opposite end. "Is that there is none. It's just a cut. It'll heal on its own."

She frowned. "I see." she poked at her eggs with the knife. Aya walked to the fridge and pulled out two slices of bread. Finally, she ate.

The flat was dead silent, you could hear a pin drop. She didn't look to be in a speaking mood, which was odd in itself, and I didn't know how much I missed it until now.

It was the perfect noise.

Without it, I didn't know how to live again. I missed the chaos, the dysfunction. Now that things were comfortable, it pulled me into a revelation I wasn't yet ready to admit. Or accept.

I was here for a reason. I was alive for a reason. But I didn't quite know for what reason.

If God was a real entity, why would He make the answers we seek so goddamn difficult?

Staying in hospital was a reenactment of my service. Except I was the patient–and I was hanging on for dear life.

The night in Cape May was something I never experienced before in my twenty-five years. It was new. It was exciting. It was bold. It was humiliating.

It was the first time I got a taste of what I had gotten myself into. If i could tell my past self from four years ago that I'd turn out with a smashing job as a bodyguard, he would have laughed in my face; tell me to be serious and do something else–but how could I tell him that it wasn't really by choice? If I had declined I would have been unemployed. I wouldn't be able to help the people in my life like the way I wanted. Like the way I needed. Like the way I had.

They needed me, and I needed them.

"What do you prefer, English breakfast or American?"

I looked up from my plate of food, my mouth full. I swallowed. "Is it really American to eat eggs with... bread?" I gave her a sideways look.

Her eyebrow raised as she put her lips to her glass of orange juice. With pulp. Why on earth would she subject herself to such debauchery? "Touche," she said, her lips curved up. "Thank you for the breakfast, though. You didn't have to." she blushed.

I leaned into my seat, my own glass in hand. "If I had to pick," I said, "I'd pick English. It is the obvious answer."

Aya scrunched her face. Her nose creased. "If that's true, you might have to make it some time. There's this butcher in the city, in Jackson Heights, his name is Ahmed–sweetest man on Earth–purchase meat from there. Otherwise I'll have to cook." she paused, thinking.

"Why the hesitation? Are you not a skilled cook? You burn the appliances?"

"Now–"

I grinned, setting my glass on the table and stood. "I bet it's because you read the directions upside down, too."

Aya gasped, her face reading offended and hurt by my words as of they were life-threatening. Well... maybe, if... she did burn the flat down, that is. "You are so lucky I finished my juice," she seethed.

I glanced at it. Then back at her. "I'm the luckiest man alive." That couldn't have been farther from the truth.

I exit out of the kitchen and swerved to the living room, picking up the television remote. The phone rang. One, twice, three times. I turned my head around looking at her from my position on the couch. She was busy cleaning the dishes. I sighed, got up (I was in desperate need of a twenty-four-hour coma), and sluggishly made way to the small, crammed side table the phone was perched on.

"Hello?"

A gasp. A bright, young woman's gasp erupted the phone and eardrums. I cringed. That was all it took for me to recognize who was calling. "Major, there you are! I was trying to phone you for hours! Four to be exact! What happened?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Timezones exist, Janet," I reminded her gently. "And... did you say four hours? Cumulative or consecutive?"

"Oh, pssh, that doesn't matter now," she said pointedly. Defensive as always. She learned from the best. It was consecutive. Great. How humbling. "The important thing is that you called!"

"You called, I answered," I corrected her, leaning against the right side of the wall. "What's up?"

"How are things? It's been a month, Major, how is your new job treating you?" She crewed on something, which made me presumed that it was dinner time for her.

I sighed. Considering it was less than idyllic than neither she or I could have imagined, this was something I didn't want to share–but I did it anyway. Janet was my sister and made such ridiculous efforts to call, it was the least I could do for her. Who knew when the next time I'd see her would be. "I'll keep it short," I said, head resting lazily against the wall, "it's quite shit, but nothing I can't handle."

She giggled. "I bet you're good at your job," she said sweetly. "The children miss their uncle, ya know. Millie thinks you're still deployed."

"Tell Mills her Uncle Major'll be home soon. How are they, how are you?"

She stopped talking. I could hear the other line so clearly. Janet didn't even breath. "Millie's good, baby's fine," she said briskly. She rustled in her seat, the soft glass clanked against one another. "I'm good too." her voice dipped. I knew she was smiling from the other line, however small.

I smiled, and Aya smartly looked at me with a stark, puzzled look as she exited the open area. I mouthed, "go away", and glared at her.

But she heard "stay put", and sat on the armrest of the sofa, feet dangling from it. "No," she whispered, a grin on her face. For God's sake.

"That's good," I told her earnestly, head hanging low. "What time is it over there?"

In the receiving end, a gnarly sound of a creek was heard in the background. Then, the audio muffled–likely by her hand–and I couldn't decipher much of anything other than the words, "stop, not now, I'm on the phone with Darren" and "Please go take a shower."

"Darren, eh?" a gruff, heavy breathed person wheezed into the phone. "Long time no see."

Great. It was Janet's husband, John. The last I'd seen of him was his head on the table, bottle in hand, and snoring like a massive slog. I could only think about my sister and her two small children; how they had to live with such a man with... nothing.

It wasn't every day I didn't regret not taking them with me, but I didn't have the money. I didn't have enough money, if I was to be honest. But this job...

God, it was excruciating. This was the best and worst thing to happen to me. The first was resigning from my military position. That would forever haunt me.

"Good to see ya, John. Now, uh, put your wife on the phone? I wasn't done talking to her."

More rustling. "Sorry," she laughed. "You sound tired."

"Oh, I am"--I cringed–"I was up late last night."

"Yeah, doin' what?" She was smirking. Foul.

Aya and I locked eyes. Was she eating peanut butter straight from the jar? I tore my eyes away. "No," I introjected quickly, "I was in hospital."

She gasped. "My, word, Darren! Are you alright? What happened?"

I exhaled. "It is a long story," I told her. "But to summarize, I fell."

From the corner of my eye, Aya rolled her eyes.

"How?" my sister asked.

"I fell off a landing dock," I muttered.

"I can't hear you," she said, sounding mildly confused.

"I said, I fell off a landing dock, you know, where boats are anchored to?"

"The line's cutting–speak up."

I pursed my lips together in a thin, firm line. She was always a pester–yet, I knew she was only doing so out of concern. "I fell off a landing dock." I gritted my teeth, my hold on the phone tightened. Why was it suddenly warm in here? "Happy now?"

"Happy that you finally admitted, not that you fell."

"Did you know Aya has a vinyl record of Candyland?" a grin spread across my face. A stupid, boyish grin.

And that's when I heard her laugh. The depth it; the sweet rumble. the taste of home. I always loved making her laugh. "Oh my days," she said through a fit of giggles. "Is she with you? Am I allowed to talk to her? Does she listen to the record?"

I shook my head. "No, she's not here right now," I lied. She gawked at me like a peacock perched on its stand. "She has an awful lot of records of her brother's, however." I glanced at her.

"You know he's popular here, too? He's a global sensation, it's a wonder your working for him–"

"Jan," I cut in promptly.

"I'm serious, Major. You ought to be more grateful for what you've got, even it is 'quite shit.'"

I hummed in response. She was right. Janet was always the wiser one, and it only heightened when she became a mother. But this wasn't what I wanted. I deserved better. I deserved to be treated like I mattered and not something easily replaced. "I know, I'm sorry." was she the person I should be apologizing to?

"I've had a nice chat. I miss you a lot, same with the kids–but you already knew all of that. So, ehm, I'll leave you to it, then?"

"Hanging up so soon?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm taking the kids to their gran's tomorrow morning. I've got work." she yawned. "And I know you've got a busy day today. I just wanted to catch up. I didn't get to say goodbye last time."

The day of my flight, Janet never showed up to bid me off. I held onto that too much and it turned into unwanted resentment. Everything was too sudden, much too soon, this kind of reaction was bound to happen, right?

"Go on, then."

She breathed heavily into the phone. I could hear her heart beating. Thump... thump... thump...

"Goodbye, Major. Talk soon."

I wished she could witness how happy I was. "Goodbye, Jan. talk soon."

"I don't think I've ever seen you smile so much in the entire time I've known you," Aya blurted, licking the spoon clean of the peanut butter. Her eyes were enlarged, looking at me soullessly.

"Frightened? Was my smile pleasing?" I asked, half joking and half sarcastic.

"Oh, absolutely," she said, still awestruck.

"Both or for the latter?"

That looked like it had knocked some sense into her. She stared at me unamused. "The former," she corrected me. Since when did I need to be corrected? She swung off the armrest. "You're crazy," she grumbled.

"Not as crazy as you," I said, still holding the phone. The phone conversation lingered through me, embedding into my brain. It sent shivers down my spine. "Eating straight peanut butter out of the jar?"

Aya groaned as she opened the fridge big and wide, reeling her head back. Her hair rollers were still majestically stuck to her head. "Must you judge me over my eating habits, soldier? Don't you stress eat?"

"No?" I lied about many things—but eating straight peanut butter out of the jar was not one of them.

"You are a liar," she said, swooshing out of the kitchen as fast as she came in, a harsh gust of wind flew in my direction because of her walking speed (running?) and robe.

"Why are you stress eating?" I put the phone down and used my arms as cushions on the island table.

She snatched what I could only assume, from the dining table, was the newspaper, The Sunday Times, and waved it in my face.

"This," she hissed, "this is why I'm eating fucking peanut butter out of the jar!" she moaned, feigning a faint against the back of the couch. "It's terrible."

I smoothed out the paper, and read the headline.

"Well, shit."