strength (book three)

homecoming

ii.

homecoming

The lurching of the bus rocks me left to right, the hard surface of the leather seat digging into my lower back. It's mid-July and the air is thick with broiling heat, the rattling engine of the bus coughing up exhaust fumes. When I inhale, the back of my throat burns like I've thrown back a shot of gasoline.

I lean my head closer to the smudged glass on my left, where air flows through the window's opening and it's a little more breathable. Outside, a 60s-themed diner rolls past, nestled low to the street before a smattering of wooden picnic tables painted bright blue. A woman rounds the corner of the table closest to the diner's entrance, leaning down to hand a vanilla soft-serve cone to a pudgy little girl. They both have the same vibrant red hair that glows in the sunlight, and I watch as the woman laughs until the corners of her eyes crinkle, reaching across the picnic table to wipe away a droplet of ice cream from her daughter's cheek.

I close my eyes so I won't have to see.

The stale smell of old French fries fades from the air as the diner recedes in the distance. Our bus is passing through a suburban town that's worn thin, with cramped houses that sag beneath the weight of summer heat. Scrawny boys pass baseballs, so dirty the cowhide is stained brown, back and forth in the late afternoon haze, and they practice hitting Whiffle balls with cracked plastic bats in sun-scorched front yards.

I don't remember this town. We passed through it on this exact same bus two years ago, but the image didn't stick. At the time I wasn't particularly interested in looking out the window.

The engine gives a popping cough and a cloud of grey fumes spill out the back, but the bus trundles on.

I spend the rest of the ride with my eyes shut, only lifting my lids slightly every so often to see where we are. It would be a good idea to get some sleep, and I know this; I only managed a couple hours last night. But sleep has been hard to come by lately, and it's clear it won't be any easier sitting on a leather seat inside this metal hotbox that reeks of gas.

Besides, if I rest my eyes, it helps to keep my mind blank.

The bus enters the city just a half hour later, and I know this only because I happen to open my eyes just as we pass a dust-coated sign that reads Yuma City Limit. In Arizona, everything comes with a thick layer of sand.

The drop-off is five minutes in, and there's a loud screech of brakes and the bus lilts to the right as the driver swings into the parking lot. I peer through the smudged glass to see the thick crowd of families waiting on the outer edges, dotted by colorful cardboard signs and a few balloons. My stomach turns over, and I hope I don't puke.

I slide forward slightly against the seat as the bus gives one final lurch before creaking to a halt. The driver pulls up the E-brake and shuts off the engine, which emits a rattling noise before grumbling into silence. He looks up into the rearview mirror at us - twenty men and two women, a small sea of olive-green camouflage - and snaps his gum. Eyes hidden behind Aviator sunglasses, he nods and calls out to us in a rusty voice.

"Well, that's all, folks. Get goin'."

I haul myself upwards, slinging my pack over my right shoulder. The rest move at equal speed, hurrying to grab their bags, and a few chatter excitedly together. The heated air of the bus thrums with it: a nervous, exhilarated anticipation.

As I wait for an opening as the others filter into the aisle, I subconsciously pick at the side of my thumbnail with my forefinger. The crowd is a mass of blurred faces on the other side of the glass, just twenty feet back from where the bus parked. I keep my face turned defiantly toward the inside of the bus, because my nerves threaten to choke me if I take another look at the people outside.

I shuffle down the cramped aisle behind another man at least a head shorter than me, the bottom edge of my pack swinging into each seat backing as I pass it. The driver turns his head as I reach the front, salt-and-pepper hair flaring out from beneath a worn LAPD navy cap. I give him a nod instead of thanking him, before gripping the metal railing and descending onto the concrete. I don't trust my voice enough to speak.

The air is cooler once I step out of the bus, but I don't find it any easier to breathe. In fact, my chest and lungs tighten even further as I blindly follow the other man forward. I can hear outbursts of happy laughter, names being called, and the sounds of a woman crying within the crowds of families up ahead.

Eventually, I force myself to look up from the ground, to avoid walking straight into the back of the other veteran. My heart pounds, and I scan the crowd. It's a blur of strangers' faces, mixed in with an array of different neon colored posters: I waited 112 days to see my baby again. Two tours later - we love you. Welcome home, Bud.

I see her at the edge of the crowd, standing alone.

Camila is tall and broad-shouldered, from years playing women's rugby in university. She's only an inch shorter than me, and I know this because her forehead would sometimes bump against mine when we kissed. Her sundress is black with red roses stitched along the hem, the fabric ruffling from a tiny, rare breeze that sweeps through the parking lot.

Her hands clutch a worn black purse held before her hips, and she wears matching heeled sandals. She's put on a full face of makeup, black eyeliner and deep red lipstick, which is for special occasions only.

She sees me as I see her, and when her red lips pull back into a warm smile, I fall in love for a second time.

Camila doesn't cry when we hold each other tight, but our voices crack and break as we whisper to each other. "I love you, baby," I tell her. My face is buried in the soft space between her neck and shoulder. "I love you."

She pulls back and kisses me, our lips shaking because we've forgotten how to embrace each other. I taste the lipstick on her mouth and am transported back to our high school prom, our wedding night, and the day she dropped me off at the airport, exactly 536 days ago.

"Adam," she sighs against my mouth, kissing me three more times to remember. "I love you. I love you."

I can't find anything more to say as we hold each other at the edge of the crowd. Maybe it's because of the lump in my throat, or maybe it's because I have nothing more to say to her than I love you.

Camila pulls back and wipes a smear of red from the corner of my mouth, the pad of her thumb cool against the layer of sweat that sticks to my skin. I stare down into her eyes and reach blindly for something, anything to say, but no words come.

She touches my cheek softly when I stay silent. "Let's go home," she says.

We leave the noisy crowd of families behind, and I follow her to the car without a word.