I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to knock on her door, and put her onto the couch. Or the floor. The counter. To feel the way he must have felt. I could say, "Hey, Georgia, need a hand with those groceries?" and then she'd say yes and I'd say okay, and she'd welcome me into her house. I'd hike up her skirt. Tear her underwear from her hips, balling them up. Show her the version of her life she didn't even know yet. Fix things. Truth is, I wondered what she looked like fast asleep. I wondered that a lot. How her fingers looked rubbing against the 500-threadcount sheets she'd gotten for her wedding. What she wore to bed. What she didn't. Some nights, after I had a few beers in me, I'd consider driving to her house. Just driving there. I wouldn't even get out of the car. Nights at the bar, people I didn't know would say, "Hey there, honey," and smile at her, and Georgia would blush. I was keeping an eye out. For Jacob's sake. And he could thank me later. Then Georgia and I would sit with the guys, and we'd bitch and moan about gas prices and drafty windows and all the things we never thought would matter. Co-pays, tax deductions. Some nights, after we'd had enough and I'd talked Georgia Ambler's name into the stars, I'd get in the car to drive home. A couple of miles, that's all, and I could manage. Just had to come to complete stops. Had to be clear-eyed. But instead of home, I'd park in front of 5821 Cinder Way Road, just making sure it was quiet and the lights were off, that her car was parked in the drive.

*

She came out on Fridays. I wanted to fuck her the worst then, whether she wore the black boots and lime green dress or not. Her high heels and tan sweater. Flip flops and tennis skirt. We'd have been there for hours by then, drinking off the workweek. When she arrived, we'd nod, "Georgia," and "Hey, Georgia," and "Hold on, Georgia, let me grab ya a beer." We always made it a point to let her catch us staring. Those nights, we fogged her in cigarette smoke. She just smiled through it, and maybe we wouldn't have loved her so much if she wasn't so goddamned friendly. Always putting up with us, running her fingers through our hair every chance she got. After a couple of beers, once our heads turned heavy and dull, someone would get around to asking, "You hear from Jacob?" and she'd say yes or no, and either way we'd nod and say, "He was probably the best team captain we had in all four years." We'd go around the table, swapping stories—the clutch free throw at the end of the Janisburg Tournament, a botched inbound play he somehow salvaged. When I was drunk and cruel, I'd say, "Hey, Georgia. He tell you the one about Wheeler?" She'd shake her head no. Then someone would interrupt, whisper, "Class act, that Jacob. The army's a bitch for taking him." That's when she'd turn quiet, say, "He let them."

*

Some days we reshingled or busted down walls. Lately, we'd been using the claw end more than the hammer. Monday tearing into Tuesday into Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Friday night. And Georgia. Somebody said, "Ey, Will, mind if I borrow that hammer?" I didn't. I just handed it over.

*

I wanted to ask her about Jacob, and then I wanted to fuck her. That's all. Real simple. Take her home. Offer her breakfast the next morning. Give her an old t-shirt to sleep in. Apologize for the shitty sheets and admit I'd had them for years. I imagined her walking around in my old practice warm-ups, hoping it wouldn't remind her of him. Or folding my workpants over a chair. Or the silhouette of her dress hanging in my closet. At 2:00a.m. I wanted to say, "Do you miss him?" and regardless of whether she said yes or no, I'd say I missed him too.

*

At the bar one night, we laughed until the beer ran out. Then, we bought another round. Then, we stumbled off to the bathroom and pretended to read graffiti while we pissed. We coughed into napkins. We crumpled napkins. We drew shapes in the dust on the table. We all grew quiet when Georgia stumbled off by herself. Said she needed a minute. When she returned, one of us asked, "Heard from Jacob?" and she said yes. That he was fine. There'd been one fatality in his division that week—a suicide—but no one liked the guy. He was always helping himself to everyone's toothpaste.

Week later, Jacob got his fucking head blown off by an IED roadside bomb. He left her and left her again. The man at the door regretted to inform her of this. He offered condolences. He said more information would follow. This happened on Thursday, the day we broke a house and dug a hole and threw 2x4s into the echoing dumpster. Jacob Ambler— the one who took Georgia Messen to Junior prom and Senior prom and then married her two years later, the one who led us to sectionals and lost, who made the clutch free throw at the end of the Janisburg Tournament, salvaged the botched inbound play, cussed out our gym teacher for accusing him of lying on his mile time, that Jacob Ambler, that kid—died in Mosul, 400 miles northwest of Baghdad. He'd snapped a picture of a mosque, and when he started back, the IED erupted with such force it devoured him and the land on which he stood. That night, after I was drunk enough and determined enough, I walked to her house and saw the lights were on and her car was parked in the drive. I knocked to tell her she looked nice, but she came out crying. Turned out she didn't look that nice. Looked ugly. She informed me the best she could about my friend, my former captain. Mumbled "IED" and "roadside bomb." Shred into ribbons in the trees.

*

I just sat, head bowed. Drunker than I thought. Kept blinking up at the lights, like I couldn't have stopped, even if I wanted. She leaned against the counter. I didn't ask to help because I knew I couldn't. The only thing I knew to do was build a wall. Or dig a hole for him. I could tell her she looked nice even when she didn't. I could fuck her. These were the things. She pressed into me and asked, "Wheeler?"

*

It was the goddamned truth, and it wasn't my fault. The trumpeter in the Wheeler pep band. The parking lot. What they did beside the dumpster. Georgia faced the wall and I knew what I would do to her. What I could say to her after. How I'd save her. Show her the version of her life she didn't even know yet. Rip her bra and panties, leave nothing. "You know how he was. You remember." Rip and tear and drag her to the couch. To the carpet. The 500-threadcount sheets. "It's too long ago to care, Georgia." She didn't agree or disagree. She still looked ugly. I didn't think of her or anyone. I just put my hands into her sweats. The rest went down easy.

__

Thanks to Brendan Todt for working me through the rewrites.