We were partners in death before we were friends. When we first crossed paths three decades ago, I was incredibly pregnant with my first child looking like a sausage stuffed to the point of bursting. I'd long given up on style when my shoes stopped fitting, and I couldn’t even bend around my swollen body to shave my legs, which were covered in enough hair to scrub a grill clean.
Then there was you. You had just finished an open house and walked through my door with the elegance of a model on a runway. I’ll never forget your sharp black pencil skirt paired with one of those mustard-colored blazers one that somehow you managed to make fashionable, even as you stood tall on heels that seemed to defy gravity. Your platinum hair framed your flawless diamond studs, and your bright, perfect smile looked like it belonged in a commercial. I caught the faint, enticing scent of an expensive perfume. The last fragrance I had worn was swiped from a magazine in my doctor's office.
Our husbands, both officers of the highest caliber, lost all semblance of decorum and vanished to the living room, where they collapsed onto the couch, engrossed in football.
“They’re afraid they’ll miss a commercial,” you said, winking. “I’m so jealous,” you added, admiring me. “You look incredible.” There was a slight southern drawl to your voice.
I shuffled forward and stumbled my usual clumsiness when you reached out, catching me gracefully.
“Sorry. I’m so clumsy these days,” I mumbled.
“Oh, honey, I trip over my own feet,” you laughed. “I get it. But I don’t have a bowling ball in my stomach.” You took my elbow gently. “Let me help you.”
“Let’s sit in the kitchen,” I said in a voice that could have belonged to a weasel.
You seemed so sincere I almost teared up, but honestly, I’d been crying over commercials lately. This get-together, though, was our husbands’ idea, and it made me incredibly nervous. That was the real reason we were here.
One night, while lying next to my husband, Matt my only position those days, thanks to my pregnancy he brought it up. At first, I was furious. Matt had chosen you, and your husband, Luke, had chosen me.
As he idly twirled a strand of my hair, Matt told me about your past how your father had been a CIA agent, how you had known people like Oprah and Hillary. I was curious, and it didn’t hurt that your past was intriguing. Apparently, you had once owned an upscale bar in New York, and after falling for Luke a much younger fighter pilot you gave up your glamorous city life for small-town tranquility. I was captivated, so I agreed.
Luke and Matt weren't just military comrades stationed together; they had become the closest of friends, sharing months at sea together on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. Our meeting, however, was a necessity. Officially, we were a mission they had to complete. The detachment process was intense, and they needed us to get along.
You, on the other hand, were everything I wasn’t: outspoken, full of gossip, and fiercely in love with Luke. Within an hour, you had me laughing like we’d been friends forever. You made the whole situation feel less daunting.
While the men settled in front of the TV, we sat in my modest kitchen and went over the official documents in front of us. The forms specifically Form 88B were mandatory for all military wives whose husbands were in special ops. Signing them meant that if anything happened to one of our husbands, the other would have to bear witness to that devastation. We were total strangers, yet we were about to sign something that bound us to one another in a way we hadn’t expected.
Before I signed, you held my hands and looked at me seriously. “I know this is all new,” you whispered, “but you need to hear something.” Your hands were warm, your tone gentle, but the weight of your words hit me like a freight train. “If uniformed officers show up at my door to tell me Luke’s gone, I’ll know. They only come in person when something’s happened, and if they’re here for an injury, they’ll call first. And let’s be real who survives an injury when your husband is piloting a jet going 1,500 miles an hour?”