Chapter 2

Henry

“Don’t look so angry,” Jameson tells me as he drops off Jolie’s empty suitcase at my cabin. I’m flying out at two today, so I guess it’s finally time to pack.

How can I not look angry, though? Going to L.A. is the last thing in the world I want to do. I hate it there, with every fiber of my being. Nothing good can come from this trip.

“We got a second season, that means more money for the town. This is good for us,” Jameson reminds me, but the look on his face tells me even he doesn’t believe the shit he’s selling me.

It’s times like this that I have to stop and rethink my life choices. “If you say so,” I grumble. Maybe most people would like this kind of media attention, but I know all too well the costs of celebrity culture. Why did I ever agree to be on camera? Probably because I never thought people would want to watch me bake bread and wash dishes. People are weird.

Of course, none of my friends understand my protests to the L.A. trip because none of them know that I grew up in the thick of the film industry.

“It’s not my fault the camera loves you and West so much,” Jameson teases.

I frown deep so he can see it. It is very much his fault. After all, Jameson does whatever Nina says, because she’s like a big sister to him, and Nina wanted to take part in this documentary series about our little town. I should have known this idea would come back to bite me in the ass. No one, not even my marine brothers_my best friends in the whole damn world_know where I come from. And I am determined to keep it that way.

“If you hadn’t refused screen time for season one...” I scowl at him. It’s a low shot, I know. He had been burned by Jolie, his now-pregnant fiancée, as far as the show goes. She accidentally filmed him talking about some really private things, and that dialogue was heavily featured in the pilot episode. At the time, he thought refusing to be a part of the filming of season one would help him get over her, but he’s hopelessly smitten. We all knew he’d fold when she came back for filming, which of course, he did.

Jameson laughs. “True. I owe you one then.”

“And West owes me,” I remind him.

“And West.” He nods in agreement.

I know I’m a grumpy person and so is West, so I still have a hard time believing that there are fans of the show who actually want to meet us, or media outlets that want to interview us. That alone tells me something is very wrong with our country. The weirder part is the production company told us they only want the single former marines to come. Are there actually fans of the show who have designs on us? It’s hard to imagine anyone enjoys watching me get all sweaty as I chop wood.

Anyway, that little detail_that they want single marines_means that JP and Tucker are off the hook too, leaving just me and West as the only eligible guys who can make the trek. Unfortunately, I lost an ill-fated game of rock, paper, scissors with West. So, now I’m readying my cabin for my absence.

Since arriving here three years ago, I’ve never left. Never wanted to. Hell, I don’t want to go now. Change is not something I seek out. I like things consistent, stable, predictable. 

There is only one realistic way on and off the island of Port Providence, and that’s by the helicopter piloted by Dale and Kate Westover.

When I settle into the chopper, I try to drown out my thoughts by focusing on the voices in my headset. The Westovers are a fabulous couple who service our little island about once a month. This trip is a special add-on of course, paid for by the production company.

Six hours on a bumpy helicopter to Juneau, Alaska_where I’ll catch the flight to my final destination_means that I have way too much time to stress out about arriving in L.A. It will be the first time in eighteen years I set foot in that city. I try my best to enjoy the view from up here. Endless thick dense forest, peaks of turquoise blue ocean, mountaintops covered in fluffy white snow. The northern hemisphere is really spectacular, and my heart aches to leave it behind, even if only for a short while.

***

Arriving at LAX at two in the morning means the airport is deserted, and it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. It’s probably because of the lack of people. I’m not sure how I’ll feel in a big bustling crowd. After I lost my wife, Sarah, I pretty much became a recluse for a year until Jameson tricked us all into moving to Port Providence. I think he knew that’s what we all needed. We were all struggling to adjust to life post-active war duty back then.

Since we’ve moved, everything has begun to get better, though. We needed each other. We needed to live in a place that requires us to fight every day to survive. It’s what became our new normal after eight years in the war.

I wheel my suitcase out the door, and the warm L.A. air drowns me. Was it always this smoggy here? I can already tell that I miss the fresh air of the Alaskan wilderness. How do people live like this?

There are no cars around, probably because it’s the middle of the night, but I see a black sedan barreling up the circle drive. It stops right in front of me. The driver rolls down the window. “Mr. Benson?”

“That’s me,” I confirm. The driver pops the trunk, and I tuck in my bag. As we fly down the palm tree-lined street, my stomach starts to churn. The scenery brings back far too many bad memories of my childhood. The anger I felt years ago toward my mom is back anew. The pity I felt for my aging father as I nursed him... this is definitely a raw wound, and being here is like rubbing salt in it.

I know I don’t deal with things. I bury them deep down instead. That’s probably why I can hardly think about Sarah without crying. That’s why after my dad passed, I went straight into the military where I could disappear in a new life and let it consume me. Hell, that’s probably why I love active battle so much. You can’t worry about your own bullshit when you’re busy trying not to get killed.

We pull up at The Wayfarer Hotel. It’s got a dark swanky vibe that feels oddly cozy. Low yellow lighting with red velvet couches, exposed brick, and dark-wood accents. It matches my mood perfectly. Ominous, brooding... I decide I like it as I ring the bell at the empty front desk.

A tired-looking young man manages a smile as he greets me.

“Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Benson,” he tells me as I finish the check-in process, and he slides me a card with his number on it.

I tuck the card away. “Thank you, Mason,” I say, reading his name tag.

My room has a concrete accent wall and minimalist design. It too is quite comforting. Almost like someone at the production studio knew my taste. Or maybe it’s just a bit of good luck. Here I am thinking that L.A. will be a nightmare in every way, but I may have overinflated my expectations.

I crawl into bed and close my eyes. Tomorrow, I will get to call Chloe and hopefully see a familiar friendly face. That has to be one bright spot in this whole trip.

When the film crew first came to our town last fall, they planned to stay in tents, but nature had other plans. I was voluntold to take in one of them, and Chloe Herrera was it. All bubbly and smiley and able to ignore my sharp personality... she reminds me too much of Sarah, though. Even her looks... the natural-blonde hair, thick curves, hazel eyes. I remember thinking that the universe is playing some evil joke on me.

That first visit when they were filming the pilot, I tried to keep Chloe at bay, keep her from getting close to me, even as she slept on my couch. But when she returned in spring to film the first full season, well, I guess I felt I knew her by then. She was familiar, and familiarity breeds comfort. I still complained, but I couldn’t help becoming friends with her. She is like sunshine entering a room. She brightens everything, whether you’re having a shitty day or not, the sun still shines.