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Kenny's seventeen years old, and he's not retarded or anything, but he feels that way sometimes. He can read and write and do some math, but he always feels like he's missing something important when there's a bunch of people talking and laughing, or yelling. Like they're talking a language he doesn't know and telling jokes he'll never get.
June likes to sit with him around the edges of the group. She's smarter than him; she doesn't mind explaining things. She doesn't think he's stupid, just slow.
"Like the tortoise and the hare," she tells him. "You'll get there, Ken."
He doesn't know where "there" is, but June makes him feel like he could do anything.
On Kenny's seventeenth birthday, there's cake and ice cream, mainly for the sake of the younger kids. He's getting too old for that shit, he tells himself, but he smiles and blows out the candles and looks at June when he makes his silent wish.
Kenny knows that once he turns eighteen he'll have to leave the home and figure out what to do with himself. June is a year younger than him and she's been at this place almost as long as he has, so he'll have a chance to find a place before she gets out and maybe they can be together then.
Meanwhile, he slips out once it's dark - nobody cares as long as he's in by ten, and they know he's kind of shy anyways - and goes off to sit on the hill where he can look down at the golf course about two miles away. As the sun sets June comes to join him and they watch it go down.
Kenny slips his arm around her shoulders and June leans her head on him.
"What do you think you'll do, when you get out?" she asks, like she has so many times. Sometimes he likes to make up stuff, but now he decides to tell her his latest idea.
"Think I might join the Army," he says.
"Why?" she asks, not objecting like some people, just asking.
"All you gotta do is follow orders," he points out. "And they pay for your education, too."
"Sure."
They just sit, thinking for a little while, then Kenny looks down at June and says, "Maybe you could come visit me, wherever I end up. If it's stateside, I mean."
"I could," says June, smiling. "I would."
She squeezes him around the waist and he feels reckless, now, so he bends awkwardly to land a kiss on her lips. She doesn't push him away or make fun, so he does it again, and this time June kisses him back.
The stars come out and the last of the sunlight fades while June lies back with her arms around Kenny's neck, just the slightest exploration of tongues and quickening of heartbeats. He leans over her and drinks her in with his eyes and she smiles in the starlight.
"Guess we should go back," he says, and it takes all his will power to say it.
The next day, Kenny's out on an errand for a couple of hours, and when he comes back June isn't home. Her belongings are in the room she shares, so he doesn't think much of it until the evening, when she doesn't show for dinner.
After dinner he goes to Mrs. Rose in the kitchen.
"Have you seen June today?" he asks.
She just shakes her head and doesn't look up. "Give me a hand with the drying, Kenny," she says, and that's it. Weird, because she's usually a talker. When Kenny's done he goes looking for Ms. Santos, finding her in her office, staring at a blank piece of paper.
"Ms. Santos," he says, "do you know where June is?"
She looks up at him; she's always had the best poker face, but he's not sure why she's using it now.
"Yes, I do," she says. "Sit down a minute, Ken."
That's how he finds out that June's gone, into a foster home, just like that, and they won't tell him where or why. He's not as dumb as everyone thinks, though, and he knows it has to do with the two of them getting close enough for kissing.
Before they pack up her things to send on he sneaks into her room and snags a couple of old pictures off her bulletin board, of June and him in days past, for his own. He takes down the one of them holding hands at the fair last year, and writes across the bottom, "Love always, Ken," then tucks it into the box where she keeps her hair ribbons and little keepsakes. He hopes they send that box along.
"What about little Kenny Kitsom here, huh?"
Sanders is drunk and laughing; it's his birthday and they're all having a drink in a crappy little dive off base. Almost all of them, because they know Ken doesn't drink and he can drive them back when they pass out, so they're paying for his Coke and as many burgers as he can eat. Which is a lot; one good thing about the Army, they never let you miss a meal.
He hasn't been listening to the bullshit they've been tossing at each other, so he just looks around and says, "Hm?" and everybody laughs harder. He almost doesn't mind; they laugh, but they never abuse him or get him in trouble. He's like their mascot.
"You ever gotten laid, Kenny?" Patton demands. "I got ten bucks on your answer, so think carefully."
"Sure," says Ken easily. He's been listening to them brag long enough to lie convincingly. "Fucked a girl back home, after I enlisted. She said it was kind of a going away present."
"As long as you didn't give HER a present," one of the others guffaws.
"Aw, shit," Patton mutters, obviously losing the bet.
"Please tell me you used a rubber, Kenny," Sanders says with mock sternness. "Don't want any more little Kennys running around, do we?"
Ken thinks about June and how she'd look with a little Kenny in her arms, and he tucks that away in his mind. He doesn't want to think about something so sweet in front of these assholes.
"He's kidding, bud." Allen leans in, always the softie. "He just means you're one of a kind."
He claps Ken on the back and orders another round.
Two months later, in Iraq, a roadside bomb explodes, killing Sanders and two other men, one of whom is reported as Kenneth James Kitsom.
Ken -- Aaron -- still doesn't drink. For some reason it takes a lot to get him drunk, since he started on the chems, so it's not worth the expense and effort, most of the time.
If he was drunk now he wouldn't have to face Colonel Byer. Let alone have to justify something he didn't even do, that wouldn't have done anyone any harm.
"Airman Cross."
Aaron's already at attention and he snaps a salute, returned by his senior officer, who then says, "Stand at ease."
Aaron's pretty sure they're being watched, so he adheres to the letter of the order, moving only his eyes to settle on Byer's face.
"Cross," says Byer, quietly but emphatically. "You know how important this project is. You gave yourself to this, swore an oath, gave up your life, to start over as Aaron Cross."
Aaron doesn't speak. He's been good at keeping his mouth shut, his whole life, but apparently that's not what Byer wants.
"Didn't you, Airman?" the colonel barks.
"Yes, sir!"
"I didn't think I'd have to spell this out for you," Byer continues, in the quiet voice. "Here it is. In exchange for your new life, for the privilege of serving your country as an elite, specially trained warrior, you gave up your right to make your own choices." He holds up a hand as if to forestall words Aaron isn't about to say anyway. "That includes what you choose to do with your body."
Does he mean what Aaron thinks he means?
"You are a finely tuned, well-oiled instrument, and you are to maintain yourself at the highest level of performance. That means that you must subdue your physical and emotional desires in order to deliver your best in the line of duty. Do you understand me?"
Aaron wants to hear the man say it, so he snaps, "No, sir."
The colonel steps right up in Aaron's space and studies him for a moment, like he's trying to tell if Aaron's just being a smartass. Aaron stares right back. He and his companions didn't do anything illegal or against the code, although the morality of visiting a whorehouse might be questioned by some folks he knows. It's not like he got to sample any of the goods, anyway - a couple of MPs showed up to break up the party, insisting on escorting him - just him - back to base.
And here Byer is reading him the riot act, so Aaron wants to know exactly how this is going to go.
Byer heaves an exasperated sigh.
"It means that your energies are to be spent on your service, your duty, and nothing else. The moment your mind and body lose their focus, whether it's playing soccer with some locals, or screwing your brains out with anyone - man, woman, friend or stranger - is a moment when you can be compromised. You need to focus on one thing, and that is your job, Airman."
So, all work and no play, Aaron thinks. He sees Byer's point and he's not really surprised; the U. S. military owns him now. He realizes this isn't simply cockblocking - Byer is using the example of extracurricular activities to make the point that Airman Cross is under scrutiny every moment of every day and night.
So be it, Aaron thinks. He wants me to focus - I'll show him some fucking focus.
The self-control that Aaron has exercised, across every continent and under every circumstance, is now ingrained, a part of him, so he manages to downplay his attraction to Marta Shearing for weeks. She's no slouch at focusing herself, applying her talents to any task, any strategy, any subterfuge.
"Never knew I could lie so well," is how she puts it, rather sardonically.
They finally have a little breathing space in Macau, in a tiny hotel room where they collapse in their clothes and sleep for more than twelve hours (though Aaron wakes up every so often out of habit and checks the perimeter). Marta's still asleep when Aaron goes out for some food, but she's in the shower when he gets back and lays out the containers on the low table.
They eat and talk, and eventually Aaron takes a shower as well; when he comes out of the bathroom Marta has put the food away and fallen asleep again in her t-shirt and capris, face up with an arm flung out to one side, hanging off the edge of the bed.
He stands looking at her for a while, then reaches to gently move her arm back onto the bed, but when his hand closes on her wrist she turns her head and sees him. She turns her hand to take hold of his and tugs, and he sits beside her for a minute before bending down to kiss her cheek, her forehead.
Marta's hand is on his shoulder, sliding up to cradle his head and bringing his mouth to hers. Aaron parts her lips with his tongue and sinks into her as she opens to him, eagerly, confidently. It's like no kiss he's ever had, from a woman he now knows better than any other even without having bedded her.
He thinks about focus, about Marta, about the pleasure he's about to share with her, for the first time; he kisses her harder, takes her into his arms and rolls her on top of him, moving a hand down to her hip, to pull her tight against the ache between his legs.
She moans and sighs and gets pushy with hands and mouth until together they manage to get rid of their clothes and rub skin against skin. He explores her body with his mouth and hands until he can tell neither of them can last much longer.
At the moment he enters her, she catches her breath and he halts immediately.
"You okay?" he murmurs, and she nods and smiles.
"Been a while," she says softly.
"Me, too," he says as she takes him in.