Never in all his thirty-two years had he been in such a mess. Even as a child. The best thing to do at this point he thought, was to cut his losses and walk. It didn’t matter at this point how he felt about Sam. He could take the next fifty years to figure out his feelings and it wouldn’t mean squat. Rebecca had seen to that. He started walking toward the mess tent. He knew he wouldn’t find her there. He didn’t want to find her. He never wanted to see that woman again. He just wanted some strong, black coffee. He went inside, grabbed a mug, filled it, then found the most secluded table he could and sat. Oblivious to the soldiers walking in and out, he sank deep inside his head. He had no one to blame but himself for all this. If he wasn’t such a coward, he would have stuck at the hospital with Boomer and Ricochet. Would that have hurt him? He could have sat and talked about the weather, about the hostages, about anything. It wasn’t all about him. If he could have just played it cool, everything would be fine.
