Rachel Gibson: I’m In No Mood For Love

His black Land Cruiser was parked next to the entrance, where he’d left it the previous night, and he climbed inside. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He’d never had a problem writing a story before. Not at this stage. Not when all his notes were in order and all he had to do was pound the damn thing out. But each time he tried, he ended up writing complete shit and hitting the delete key. For the first time ever, he was afraid he would miss his deadline.

A pair of black Ray-Bans sat on the dash, and he reached for them. He was tired, that’s all. He was thirty-five and so damn tired. He covered his eyes with the sunglasses and started the SUV. He’d been in Boise for two days, having driven straight through from Seattle. If he could just get enough sleep-a good solid eight hours ought to do it-but even as he told himself that was what he needed, he knew it was a crock. He’d functioned on a lot less sleep, and had always done his job. Be it in sand or rainstorms-once, in southern Iraq, both at the same time-and had managed to complete his work and make his deadline.

It wasn’t even noon, and the temperature in Boise was already eighty-five as he drove from the parking lot. He turned on the air-conditioning and angled it to blow on his face. He’d had a complete physical last month. He was tested for everything from the flu to HIV. He was in perfect health. There was nothing wrong with him physically.

Nothing wrong with his head either. He loved his job. He’d worked his ass off to get where he was. Fought for every inch and was one of the most successful journalists in the country. There weren’t many guys like him around. Men who’d made it to the top, not by pedigree or résumé or a degree from Columbia or Princeton, but by what was in them. Yeah, talent and a love of the business had played a part, but mostly he’d made it by grit and spit and the hundred-proof determination flowing through his veins. He’d been accused of being an arrogant prick, which he figured was pretty much the truth. What bothered his critics most, however, was that the truth didn’t keep him up at night.

No, something else was keeping him up. Something that had hit him from left field. He’d been all over the world, continually amazed by what he’d seen. He had reported on such diversities as prehistoric art in the caves of eastern Borneo to raging wild fires in Colorado. He’d traveled the Silk Road and stood on the Great Wall. He’d been privileged to have met the ordinary and the extraordinary, and had loved every minute of it. When he took a moment to look at his life, he was amazed all over again.

Yeah, he’d experienced some bad shit too. He’d been embedded with the First Battalion Fifth Marine Regiment as they’d pushed three hundred miles into Iraq and all the way into Baghdad. He’d been at the point of the spear and knew the sounds of men fighting and dying right in front of him. He knew the taste of fear and cordite in his mouth.

He knew the smell of famine and abuse, seen the flames of fanaticism burning from eyes of suicide bombers and the hopes of brave men and women determined to stand up for themselves and their families. Desperate people looking at him as if he could save them, but the only thing he could do for them was to tell their story. To report it and bring it to the attention of the world. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. When it got right down to it, the world didn’t give a damn unless it happened in their backyards.

Two years before 9/11 he’d done a piece on the Taliban and the strict interpretation of Sharia under the direction of Mullah Muhammad Omar. He’d reported on the public executions and floggings of innocent civilians, while powerful nations-the champions of democracy-stood on the sidelines and did little. He’d written a book, Fragmented: Twenty Years of War in Afghanistan , about his experience and the inherent consequences of a world that looked the other way. The book had earned critical praise, but the sales had been modest.

All of that changed on a clear blue day in September when terrorists hijacked four commercial airliners, and suddenly people turned their attention to Afghanistan and light was shed on the atrocities committed by the Taliban in the name of Islam.

A year after his book’s release, it hit number one on the best-seller lists, and he suddenly found himself the most popular boy in school. Every media outlet, from the Boston Globe to Good Morning America wanted an interview. He’d granted some, rejected most. He didn’t care for the spotlight, or for politics or politicians either. He was a registered independent and tended to vote all across party lines. He cared most about shining a light on the truth and exposing it for the world to see. It was his job. He’d fought his way to the top-sometimes kicking and shoving-and he loved it.

Only it wasn’t coming as easy these days. His insomnia was both physically and mentally draining. He could feel everything he’d worked so hard to accomplish slipping away. The fire inside dimming. The harder he fought, the dimmer the fire, and that scared him to his core.

The drive from the Double Tree that would have taken a native Boisean fifteen minutes took him an hour. He made a wrong turn and ended up driving around the foothills until he admitted defeat and plugged the coordinates into the SUV’s navigation system. He disliked consulting the GPS and preferred to pretend he didn’t need it. It felt pansy ass. Like stopping to ask for directions. He didn’t even like to ask for directions in a foreign country. It was a cliché, but one he knew was true about him. Just like he hated to shop and hated to see women cry. He would do just about anything to avoid a woman’s tears. Some things were clichéd, he thought, because they happened to be true more times than not.

It was around eleven A.M. when he turned up the drive of the Wingate mansion and drove past the three-story home made mainly of limestone that had been quarried by convicts from the old penitentiary several miles up the road. He recalled the first time he’d seen the imposing structure. He’d been about five and thought sure a huge family must live within its dark stone walls. He’d been shocked to hear that just two people lived there: Mrs. Wingate and her daughter Claresta.

Sebastian continued around to the back and parked in front of the stone garage. Joyce Wingate and his father stood within the garden, pointing at rows of rosebushes. As always, his father wore a starched beige shirt, brown trousers, and a tan Panama hat covered his dark, graying hair. A clear memory of helping his father in that garden entered his head. Of getting dirty and killing spiders with a handheld spade. He’d absolutely loved it. Back then, he’d looked up to the old man as if he were a superhero. He’d been fungible, and absorbed every word, everything from mulch to fishing to how to fly a kite. But of course, that all stopped, and for years bitterness and disappointment had replaced hero worship.

After his high school graduation, his father had sent him a plane ticket to Boise. He hadn’t used it. The first year he’d attended the University of Washington, his father wanted to visit him, but he’d said no. He didn’t have the time for a father who hadn’t had the time for him. By the time he graduated, the relationship between his father and mother had become so acrimonious, he’d asked Leo not to attend the ceremony.

After graduating, he’d been busy building his career. Much too busy to stop and take time out of his life for his father. He’d interned at the Seattle Times , worked for several years for the Associated Press, and written hundreds of freelance pieces.

Sebastian had always lived his adult life untethered. Free-wheeling. Roaming the world without attachments to hold him back or tie him down. He always felt superior to the poor suckers who had to take time out to call home on a satellite phone. His attention was never split in different directions. He’d been dogged and determined and extremely focused.