Fighting for Arielle

by Karina Sharp

  I smile and wave at McCrary, very surprised but happy to see him. "We always run into each other in the most random of places."

  Returning my smile and salutation he says, "This isn't really random for me. I live here."

  I continue to watch him as he closes the gap between us.

  "You live where?"

  "Here, on Ford Island.”

  He’s standing a few inches from me now, and I don’t really know how to act when you see someone who kissed you and you wanted to kiss back, but then pushed them away when you got scared.

  “What’s your excuse?" he asks me.

  "There are houses here?"

  I look around, and indeed there are a limited number of houses around me.

  "I was so enthralled with my self-guided tour, I didn't even notice I was in the middle of another housing complex. I decided to go for a jog and take in some of the history here. You know, kill two birds and whatnot."

  We stand in the sun, both sweaty, staring at one another in an awkward pause.

  McCrary breaks the silence. "Would you like to sit and have a glass of water or something?"

  Water sounds wonderful right now as does the invitation to a tour and view of McCrary’s personal life.

  "I would more than like to have a glass of water; I would freaking LOVE a glass of water."

  McCrary’s face fills with excitement and relief. “Great. Come on over.”

  He gestures to the house behind us that has lawn mower sitting in a yard of halfway uncut grass.

  I follow McCrary’s lead over to his house. He invites me to sit at the table outside on the lanai, which is what you call a covered patio in Hawaii, as he goes inside to get some water, but I opt to stand until he returns. When he comes back outside, I can see that his eyes are still drawn to the faded purple and yellow hues that adorn the bridge of my nose. His tense jaw and the steel in his eyes tell me that he is still as affected seeing the wound now as he was a few days ago.

  McCrary places the glass of water on the table and motions for me to sit down. I happily oblige and take a large gulp of the ice cold liquid. The refreshment it brings to me is wonderful. It cools my mouth as it washes down my throat and into my stomach.

  "This is wonderful and just what I needed. You, sir, are my hero of the day."

  McCrary lets out a hearty laugh. "That was always my life's ambition. Goal met. Life complete."

  He is so adorable to me when he is playful, and I love our banter.

  After a few laughs, we sit together in a comfortable silence, but I can feel the need to discuss our last encounter making its way to the front of my thoughts. I choose to push it back a little longer so I can remain relaxed.

  “It is positively gorgeous here. You have a million dollar view from your back porch. How long have you lived here?”

  He studies my face with light in his eyes, and he curls the right side of his mouth up, exposing that dimple I’ve come to know so well.

  “I’ve been stationed at Pearl Harbor for about eight months. Before that, I was in Djibouti.”

  He really has lived all over the world. I am not well-versed in geography, but I at least can name most countries on a map.

  “Is that where you learned to speak French?”

  “Indeed.” He nods and slowly blinks his eyes.

  “Just hearing the word ‘Djibouti’ makes me snicker. I can’t help it.”

  He smiles warmly, and his chest rises and falls as he chuckles at my confession.

  “It’s true. I also feel like it should be the punchline to a joke. You know, like ‘Knock knock. Who’s there? Booty. Booty who? Djibouti.’”

  He laughs heartily and says, “That has to be, hands-down, the worst knock knock joke ever.”

  His face is the most stunning to me when he is at ease and gleeful. I want to take in this look even longer, but I belt out a laugh and bend over the table slightly.

  Waving my hands about, I playfully defend myself. “Don’t hate on my creativity. It’s a work in progress. Plus, I never claimed to be great at improv.”

  He pauses, places my hands in his, and his face becomes earnest. “I could never and would never hate anything about you.”

  My breath hitches, and I wonder how he continues to have the same effect on me. It very well may be of a medical concern soon, if he continues to affect me like this.

  He continues, “Arielle, I cannot express to you how angry the thought of anyone hurting you physically or emotionally makes me. The moment I saw you the other day, I pictured what it must have been like for you. I thought about how you must have felt in the moment- as if you somehow deserved it or that you were helpless. I told you I wish I could have been there to help you, and I still feel that way, but I also have the utmost respect for you and your ability to get up, face the next day, and keep fighting.”

  “I’m not brave nor am I strong for dealing with it. More importantly, as I said before McCrary, it’s not your fault and you couldn’t have known.” I feel so bad for dragging him into my drama-filled world.

  “No, I couldn’t have predicted that particular incident, but I should have protected you...somehow. If maybe I had given you more resources. If maybe I had given you more confidence. Or if maybe I had just tied you up and kept your hard-headed self away from that situation, I could have prevented it.”

  His brow furrows and eyes look hardened. I see the pain and true remorse he feels, and I feel guilty that I caused some of it. I reach up and place my hand on his warm, smooth cheek. Leaning into my hand, he places his over mine, which completely covers it, and sends a spike of that very pain coursing through my veins. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

  Reassuringly, I say, “I know I’m hard-headed, and I know it’s difficult to take a step back and watch someone potentially set themselves up for harm, but I’m fine, McCrary. Really, I am fine, and now Brody’s gone for some time out to sea, so now I can get my life together and figure out my next step.”

  He opens his eyes with a look of expectancy.

  “Plus,” I add, “I may have enjoyed you tying me up more than I should.”

  He grins at me mischievously and says, “It really would have been only under the guise of protection.”

  I feel a sense of urgency, only this time, it’s from deep within. I stand up with my hand still wrapped in his, and move to him until we are face to face. Looking into his wide, brown eyes, I feel a need to have him. I need to feel his lips on mine. I need to feel his hands on my body. I need to be wrapped in the warmth and security of his being.

  “Kiss me, McCrary.”

  His breath stalls.

  I’m desperate for him now.

  “I need you to kiss me.”

  McCrary immediately crashes his mouth into mine and pulls my body into his, wantonly. He uses his lips to open mine and our tongues meet for the first time, yet we already seem to expertly know each other’s mouths in the most intimate of ways. His arms envelop my body, and I feel loved, appreciated, and safe. I crave more of him and attempt to show him my need with each caress of his tongue with mine. He seems to read my silent language clearly, because before I realize it, I’m swept up in his arms, and he’s carrying me inside. I forget about the world outside, the fact that my nose is bruised, and the fact that we are both covered in sweat. In fact, I think I revel in that last fact.

  He gently places me back onto my feet once we are inside, but his mouth doesn’t leave mine for several minutes.

  When he pulls back, I see wonder in his eyes. They sparkle, and his pupils are wide. He looks positively breathtaking. His lips are slightly parted as he searches for what he will say next.

  “Would you like to have a glass of wine or something? You will love watching the sunset over the water.”

  I rejoice that he asks me to stay around him a little longer, because if he hadn’t invited me, he may have had to call someone to come drag me away. Seeing him here and relaxed, plus kissing him, makes the pull to him I’ve been f
eeling since we met, grow ever stronger.

  I look down at my running shorts and very sweaty top and am sharply reminded that I probably stink. I also don’t have any other clothes.

  As if reading my thoughts yet again, he asks, “Would you like to take a shower?”

  A shower with him? That’s awesome, but he really is a bit of a stranger to me. Plus, I’ve attempted to take sexy showers that turned out to be so not hot due to a lack of space and a need to scrub-a-dub.

  Furrowing my brow, “Will we both fit?” I inquire.

  McCrary laughs as if my question is a silly one. “Oh...you wanted us both to get in? I thought I might get in and let you watch.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I grin back.

  I think I might actually prefer that option. I’d get to see him naked and lathered AND I stay clothed. It’s a win-win for everyone, really.

  “I thought I should let you shower alone. If I don’t, you might consider me a bit forward.”

  “I have no personal space issues, but since I’m pretty sweaty and smelly, I think I should go it alone this time, in the hopes I might get invited over again sometime.”

  I can’t believe that I not only pretty much forced myself on him, telling him to kiss me earlier, but now I’m assuming that I will be invited back. I don’t know who or what has invaded my body, but I kind of like this boldness I’m showing.

  McCrary bites his lower lip and lifts an eyebrow as if he realizes the implication of what I just said as well. He laces his fingers in mine and guides me through the house.

  We stroll down the hall toward the master bathroom.

  “Is this the grand tour?” I ask as he leads me to the back of the house.

  He squeezes my hand, looks over his shoulder, and says, “My lady, THIS is the VIP tour.”

  I squeeze his hand in return, which feels very natural. “I feel so special.”

  “You should, because you are.”

  He points out the bright and light guest bedroom and his office, which is similar to his office at work, only he does have plaques and degrees on the wall.

  We walk past the main bathroom and enter his bedroom. He leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.” Then, he glides into the master bathroom.

  He says that as if making myself at home should be simple. I’m standing in the bedroom and staring at the messy, unmade bed of McCrary Ashby, who recently came into existence in my life and turned it upside down. I’m not the girl who lives in fairy tales and gets the prince. I am waiting for an ironic turn of events or for the floor to fall out from under me, but at least for right now, I bury those worries and decide to be in the moment.

  Chapter 14

  Arielle

  I take a very invigorating and anxious shower. I wash myself very quickly because I’m excited to spend more time with McCrary, literally on his home turf, but then realize that it might seem weird if I shower too quickly, as if I didn’t clean myself well.

  I use his body wash, which smells manly and wonderfully like him. I think I might switch to this body wash every day because I can’t stop smelling myself and getting excited when I do.

  I deem that an appropriate amount of time has passed to seem like a normal shower, and I have lathered myself and rinsed enough times that I no longer smell like outside and sweat. I towel off, walking back into the bedroom, and see that McCrary was sweet enough to lay out a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt on his bed for me to wear since my other clothes were wet and dirty. I also see my bra that was stuck to his hat that first night I met him, laid delicately on the bed next to the clothes. He’s just too freaking cute.

  His clothes smell of laundry detergent and of him, which is a smell that cannot be replicated, but I would bottle it if I could. I now also smell like his soap, and I think I could suffocate in this scent and die a happy person. It’s a smell that tells me that I’m right where I want to be.

  In his clothes, and with wet hair, I leave his bedroom behind and go toward the living room to find McCrary.

  When I enter the living room, I stop in my tracks. I wonder how in the world I missed this sight before. In the middle of the living room sits a regal, white baby grand piano.

  “Holy moly bejeezus! Is that a baby grand?” I gasp.

  McCrary looks over at me from inside the kitchen and says coolly, “Yeah. It’s been here the whole time.”

  I walk over to the piano and run my hand across the smooth enamel exterior.

  “You must be messing with me. I think I would’ve noticed a Steinway white baby grand piano, my dream piano, just sitting right here in front of my face.”

  McCrary chortles some, but his response is reserved. “Perhaps you should pay better attention to your surroundings.”

  I look over to him with my hands on my hips, scowling. “I blame you. You distracted me.”

  I look back to the piano that I just want to lie all over. “Anyway, this is the most beautiful instrument I’ve ever seen. And it looks untouched.”

  Then, I remember what McCrary shared with me- he hasn’t played an instrument since his mother’s funeral.

  His eyes fill with regret. “It was my mother’s.”

  Immediately, I feel terrible. Here I am gaping and drooling over what is easily the piano I play in my dreams, but I now see it as the constant reminder of pain and regret that it must be to McCrary. I still don’t know exactly what happened, but I don’t need to know details in order to completely understand what she and this piano mean to him.

  “Well, it’s absolutely stunning.” I say, trying to be reassuring, but feeling not too successful.

  McCrary walks over to me, pulls my back into his chest, and puts his arms around me.

  “Do you play?”

  I place my hand over his and make little circles with my thumb on his knuckles. “I do. Well, I did. It’s been a really long time. I’m very much out of practice.”

  He brings his head down to mine and smiles down at me, hopeful. “I would love to hear you play it.”

  Nibbling on my bottom lip nervously, I ask, “Right now?”

  “Sure. If you want.” He kisses me on the top of my head.

  I am nervous since my skills are very rusty, but I cannot turn down the opportunity to allow my hands to come in contact with this beauty.

  “I absolutely will, because I want to play on this work of art so badly, but be forewarned that I will fumble over many notes, and I only have a repertoire of like five songs I can play from memory.”

  I begin to nervously fidget my legs.

  He ushers me over to the pristine instrument and says, “I will love anything you play.”

  I pull out the piano bench and open the cover to the keyboard. This piano is definitely well cared for, even if it’s never used. I wiggle my fingers and get my bearings on the piano keys, finding middle C and reintroducing myself to the layout. I look over to McCrary.

  With a smile and a nod, he says breezily, “Just play whatever. I’m going to go into the kitchen and scrounge up something for dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  I inhale slowly and let it out as my fingers hover over the keys. I’m racking my brain for songs I can remember. I place my fingers to the ivory and black keys and begin playing “Moonlight Sonata” from memory. It’s not as smooth and full of technique as I would like, but it feels great to play. The more I play, the more I realize how much I’ve missed playing the piano. Rusty or not, I get lost in the notes and the music and my mind wanders to places it’s long since visited.

  I work my way through a few other classical pieces: “Gymnopedies,” “Tocatta in D Minor,” “Fur Elise,” and “Claire de Lune.” That is about the extent of what I can remember. If I had music to read, I would have had much more variety. I recall a few songs from Broadway musicals like “On My Own” from Les Miserables, “I’d Give My Life for You” from Miss Saigon, and “No One Knows Who I Am” from Jekyll and Hyde.


  I cannot hear a song in the doctor’s office and not sing and tap my feet along with it, so playing songs with words naturally means that I will sing along. I don’t realize I am singing, and quite so loudly, until I am aware of McCrary standing next to the piano, his eyes closed.

  The entire experience is surreal and emotionally charged. I am sitting in the home of a man that I think I dreamed into existence, playing the piano left to him by his deceased mother, and I wonder how she would feel if she knew her son is cavorting with a married woman. The familiar pangs of guilt, shame, and worthlessness that I’ve come to know all too well invade my senses. I feel like my very being and life is dependent on this beautiful soul standing near me, yet I know that it’s not fair to him. How can I be so selfish? He has a career and a future ahead of him, and if he were to continue our relationship and allow it to blossom any further, all of that would be in jeopardy.

  I sing the lines:

  It’s such a shame

  I’m such a sham

  No one knows who I am

  My voice cracks and tears spill out of my eyes as I play the last haunting notes of the song.

  I bury my head into my hands and sob.

  “I shouldn’t be here. I’m so sorry. I’m toxic and bring everyone down who comes in contact with me.”

  McCrary charges to me and sits on the piano bench next to me. “What? Why are you saying that?”

  Unable to look at him, I say, “Because, it’s true. Think about it, McCrary. You’re breaking some major rules being with me. I cannot do that to you. I can’t ruin your life.”

  “I hardly think you’re ‘ruining’ my life. The only way you could ruin my life is to walk out of it.”

  I sniffle and feel a little melodramatic, but I still think I am right.

  Before I can continue my case, McCrary speaks.

  “Look, I don’t want to put any pressure on you. I invited you in because, not only do I find you irresistible, but I simply love your company. You’re funny and interesting, and even if you’re not looking for more than that, for whatever reason, just know that I will still want to spend time with you.”