by RC Boldt
Pearce took his position in front, reading from his notecards. “That was their very first kiss. And, to Miller, it was absolute perfection.”
Tate recalled the kiss with vivid clarity and agreed; it had been absolute perfection when he had pressed his lips against hers that night.
Quickly flipping to the next notecard, Pearce continued. “Fast forward to their college years, when things got complicated.”
Complicated was a nice way of putting it, Tate thought wryly. She watched as Miller and Lawson, who had left their positions to go and—judging from Lawson’s additional attire—retrieve their props. The two of them walked hand in hand, and the sight of Lawson swinging their joined hands gaily made her lips tilt up into a small smile.
“Thanks for going with me to the recruiter’s office.” Miller stopped before them, turning to face Lawson, who was now also wearing a dark purple fashion scarf tied around his neck haphazardly. He had a pink Hello Kitty backpack over one shoulder while Miller had an old, worn dark blue backpack over his own.
“Anything for you, Miller. I’ll miss you, though.” Lawson was apparently trying to be better at not going off-script.
Miller looked off toward the waves nearby before his gaze returned to “Tate”. “I’ll miss you like crazy. But, we’re going to get through this. Because you’re it for me.” He took a step closer and his breath let out in a loud whoosh before he spoke again. “I haven’t told you or anyone else this, but I plan on asking you to marry me after I get my Trident.”
Tate hadn’t realized she’d gasped so loudly until all eyes darted to her. From the looks of surprise on Raine and Laney’s faces, they hadn’t been expecting that declaration. She could see that the other guys had stepped from the dunes, looking equally as surprised. She guessed that Miller had been the one to go off-script this time.
Lawson, rarely caught off guard, took an extra moment to gain composure. “Well, I promise that I will write you letters and I’ll,” he broke off to sing, “alwaaaays looooove yoooou.”
Dear God. Lawson’s inner Whitney Houston left a lot to be desired.
Miller didn’t appear fazed and continued. “My mom said she’ll collect everything you send and put it into a big care package for me and ship it off once I get situated and am allowed to get mail.” He stepped closer. “I love you, Tate. I always have and I always will.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
FROM HIS PERIPHERAL VISION, MILLER saw Tate’s hand cover her mouth as she watched, listened to him reenacting the past, freely stating his feelings for her in front of everyone. She hadn’t stormed off, so he took that as a good sign, allowing hope to fill his chest.
Miller handed off his backpack to Lawson who left the “stage” while Zach took his own place, with his notecards, to announce the next “scene”. Mac and Doc followed, carrying three small cardboard boxes. Mac brought along an additional beach chair.
Zach read aloud, “Miller went on to become a SEAL. One who pined away for the girl who had said she’d always love him.”
Mac and Doc took a seat in the chairs and tossed a box to Miller as he took his place, once again.
“Mail call rocks, dude,” Doc said, pretending to open his box. “Sweet! Momma K. sent some of her pizzelle cookies.” Turning to the others he added, “So glad Fos’ mom adopted me as her pseudo son. That woman absolutely kills it every time with whatever she sends.”
“And I got some hot naked pics of my ladies. Suh-weet!” Mac lowered his voice to make it deeper, playing the role of their other SEAL buddy, Hendy. Miller heard the women’s light laughter because that was just so … Hendy. The man was a total manwhore, yes. Yet, somehow, he was a loveable one.
Doc looked over at him. “You get anything good, man?”
Miller stared in the box and, for a split second, he wasn’t acting but truly caught up in the memory. Allowing the emotions to roll over him, his voice was subdued when he said, “Nah, man. Just some stuff my mom sent me. Nothing major.” He played it off with a shrug. Miller and the other men stood, marking the end of the scene, leaving their positions to return to the dune as Pearce arrived in front of the ladies.
“Even though much time had passed, Tate never left Miller’s thoughts.”
After Pearce had stepped away, Miller emerged moments later. He was alone, wearing his old military-issued vest and carrying his old, heavy pack on his back. He set down the pack in the spot a few yards away from the women and leaned his back against it, hands behind his head as if he were gazing up into a night sky. He reached into the inside of the vest and pulled out a small, worn and wrinkled photograph. Looking down at it, he traced one index finger over, almost in a caress.
“I miss you so much, T. I wonder all the time what happened to us, what made you leave me. What made you just give up on me. I thought you loved me. Sometimes, I wish I could hate you. I want to because maybe then the hurt will fade. But, in moments like this, at night and especially before we head out on a mission, I wish I could talk to you. I wish you could see how far I’ve come, what I’ve accomplished, and be proud of me.”
He broke off and closed his eyes, recalling the pain. “I still love you. So much.” His voice came out hoarse, the words feeling like they were sticking in his throat.
He stood abruptly, gathering his props, and quickly walking to the dune to drop them off while Zach emerged with his notecards. Raine left her chair to walk over to the area behind the sand dune in preparation for the next scene. Miller’s stomach knotted as he knew what was coming next, what Zach was going to announce next.
“Miller was quite the lady’s man. But he was oddly selective …”
Zach withdrew a small sign with a flat, wooden stick glued to the back and pushed it down into the packed sand, securing it before turning back to return to the dune. The sign simply read: Bar.
Miller returned to the center of the sand with Mac and Foster, plastic cups in their hands, chatting amongst themselves. Next, Raine came flouncing out, approaching the three men, flipping her long, dark hair over one shoulder.
“Whoa. Incoming hottie,” Mac—or “Hendy”—remarked tipping his head in Raine’s direction.
“This one has your name written all over it, Vaughn,” Foster remarked.
With the barest glance toward Raine, Miller gave his instant dismissal. “Not my type.”
“Dude, you’ve got some issues.”
“Yeah,” “Hendy” replied. “That is one fine assed woman.”
Miller made a noncommittal sound. Raine left and returned a moment later wearing a red-haired wig.
“Hendy” immediately hooted, “Ho-ly shit! Wonder if the drapes match the carpet.”
Miller barely withheld a laugh. Mac was really getting into his Hendy persona.
“Hells, yeah. She’s a looker.” Foster gestured between Miller and Raine. “What about this one? She’s eyefucking the hell out of you, man.”
Again, with the barest of glances, he shook his head and took another drink. Another instant dismissal.
Next, Raine came out wearing the long, blonde wig Lawson had worn earlier, holding a sign which read, ‘I have blue eyes, am about five foot five, extremely slender and fit, and weigh no more than a hundred twenty pounds.’ Those descriptors fit Tate. To a tee.
Miller instantly turned around to check out Raine, rising from his seat and acting interested. Like, really interested.
Pearce walked out, handed notecards to him, and he turned toward Tate, swallowing over the lump in his throat. He didn’t need to look at the notecards; he knew exactly what was written on them.
“I did what you think I did next. Every single time that I saw someone who reminded me of you. And, every single damn time, I hated myself afterward. Because it wasn’t you.”
Miller watched as Tate’s lips moved in what looked to be “Oh, Miller”, a tear trickling down her cheek. Her eyes held his, appearing as though she were trying to tell him—without words—that she understood, that she knew exactly wha
t he was saying to her. That, as much as it pained her to think of him with other women, she understood why he had done it.
He gave her the briefest nod before turning back, walking off with the other guys as they carried their cups and chairs with them, leaving no remaining props on the “stage” before them. Raine handed over the blonde wig to Mac, giving her husband a quick kiss, before returning to take her seat beside Tate.
Tate,
This is it. The last letter. I’ve got to stop torturing myself like this. It’s like a double-edged sword. I feel closer to you, but at the same time, it makes it hurt that much more. I can’t keep doing this to myself.
When we ship back stateside, I’m going to burn all of these letters. Maybe it’s extreme, but I have to. I have to make it final.
Maybe someday I’ll be able to get over you.
M.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“YOU OKAY, SWEETS?” RAINE WHISPERED to her after rejoining them, taking her seat. She slid her hand into Tate’s, a concerned expression upon her face. And, hell if her friend hadn’t just asked the most complicated question at the moment.
She gave what she knew was a pathetically weak smile. “I think so.”
Her friend gave her hand an affectionate squeeze before tipping her head, gesturing to where Miller was walking toward the center of the pseudo stage, accompanied by Lawson, who clearly enjoyed wearing that blonde wig if his automatic finger twirling of the long strands was anything to go on, and they both stood facing the ocean.
Pearce walked out, standing off to the side with his notecards.
“The night Miller and Tate agreed on a truce for the sake of their friends.” He flipped to the next notecard. “It was the same night Miller realized that his heart still recognized, still beat for Tate.” Turning to the next one, he began to read, “And after she left that night, he had to have sexy time with hims—” Blowing out an exasperated breath, Pearce looked over at their friend. “Laws.”
Lawson merely twirled his blonde-haired wig, his face a mask of pure innocence. Tate snickered. Clearly, Lawson had slipped that notecard in there on his own. Typical. Pearce shook his head and left Miller and Lawson to complete their “scene”.
“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” Lawson spoke, gazing out at the waves. Tate remembered saying those exact words that night as she and Miller had stood at the windows overlooking the moonlit ocean. It was the night they formed their truce for the sake of their friends.
“It always takes my breath away,” Miller repeated the same words from that particular night. However, she hadn’t realized his eyes had been trained on her the entire time, nor that he had been referring to her taking his breath away.
A mere second before Lawson turned to look over at Miller, just as she had done that night, Miller directed his eyes back to the ocean view. The two stayed in that position, until Zach, Pearce, and Foster emerged with their notecards, and it was only then that Miller and Lawson retreated back to the dune to get their next items.
Speaking first, Zach stated, “Miller and Tate learned that someone played a role in breaking them apart all those years ago.”
Pearce was next. “Miller admitted to himself that he’d never stopped loving Tate.”
Foster’s smirk made Tate curious as to how his notecard would read. “All was fine. Until Miller choked. Like a fucking pussy.”
“Fos! Seriously?” Laney complained with a halfhearted laugh. Because they all knew Foster had likely revised what had been written on the notecard.
Next, Mac walked out to read from his own notecard. “Luckily, Miller has some really smart and stellar friends to give him a swift kick in the ass.”
Doc and Lawson walked over, holding their guitar cases. Taking their places after setting down the cases, they turned to face the women.
“This is how Miller feels about Tate.” Doc winked at her.
Lawson met her eyes before saying, “Miller believes this song perfectly encompasses their relationship.” He smiled at her, and just as she was mentally commending him for staying on track, that went up in flames with his next words. “Personally, I think he should have chosen Petey Pablo’s ‘Freak a Leek’.”
Collective groans sounded along with “Laws!” from everyone. Covering her face with her hands, she let out a tiny laugh. Because, yeah. Leave it to Lawson to prevent anyone from getting too serious, right?
Miller approached Doc and Lawson with his own guitar case. The three men opened them, pulling the straps of the guitars over their neck and looking to one another before they began to strum out the beginning notes of a song she immediately recognized. It was Peter Cetera’s “After All”.
As she listened to Miller sing lyrics to a song which encompassed their own personal journeys, what little composure she had managed disappeared as tears began rapidly trickling down her cheeks. Hearing him sing the lyrics, noting all that they had been through and how they were meant to be together forever, struck her to the core. If that wasn’t enough, she watched as Mac walked out holding what appeared to be an enlarged photo copy affixed to a posterboard of … her and Miller from high school?
Her head whipped around to glance in surprise between Laney and Raine. Her friends must have gone through her stash of old photos in her closet. Turning her attention back to the scene before them, she saw Foster walk out with another enlarged photo of her and Miller from their freshman year in college.
What Zach walked out with next had her sobbing—as in ugly, ugly crying. Because this posterboard included an enlarged photo copy of her. She remembered Miller had taken it the day before he had shipped out to boot camp, telling her he’d wanted a photo of her to keep with him while he was away. It looked beyond wrinkled and worn, as if someone had folded it and unfolded it many times. Almost as if it had been through a battle of its—
“Oh, my God,” Tate breathed, lips parting in shock as she read what was written beneath that photo.
Even after everything that happened, Miller kept this photo in the pocket of his vest so it was always with him when he went on missions. He felt comforted by you when he needed it the most.
Her eyes flew to Miller, who had been watching her while he sang. She noticed then that his voice had become thicker, holding a wealth of emotion as he sang the song’s lyrics, describing their journeys, the paths fate led them down, only to find their way back to one another. His blue eyes were locked on hers and she swore they appeared slightly misty. Whereas, she, of course, was a hot mess of tears.
Thank you, Raine, for shoving that small wad of tissues into the cup holder of my chair, Tate thought wryly, swiping at her eyes and nose, yet again.
As the guys ended the song, they quickly placed their guitars back into their respective cases and carried them off to set by the dune. Zach walked out to read from his notecard.
“This is what Miller really hopes will happen next.”
She watched curiously as Miller and Lawson returned to the center, with Lawson in his beloved blonde wig, yet again.
Lawson spoke first in a screeching falsetto voice. “Oh, Miller. That was just the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done.” He reached out to squeeze Miller’s bicep muscle and let out an exaggerated gasp. “You big, impressive stud, you. I never realized you were so creative.” Lawson looked out, locking eyes with her for a moment before he continued. “And so apologetic, full of flaws because, after all, we’re only human. Not to mention you have amazingly big muscles and big hands which, according to word on the street, also indicates you also have a reeeeeally big—”
“Laws,” Miller’s low voice was full of warning. Clearly, Lawson had gone off script. Like, waaaaay off script.
Lawson’s eyes went wide with faux innocence. “Yes, peachy pie?”
The two men stared at one another for a moment before Lawson let out a long sigh and resumed speaking. “You’re so freaking perfect. I feel like I have to forgive you, Miller. Except …”
Miller raised his eyebrows in
question, waiting for Lawson to finish.
“Except that you’re supposed to seal it with a kiss, of course.” Lawson smiled sweetly. “A touching, romantic kiss.”
The look on Miller’s face bordered between exasperation with Lawson and hesitancy as he glanced toward her. Uncertainty lined his features and Tate knew in that moment what she had to do.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
MILLER WATCHED TATE AS SHE stuffed her tissues back into the cup holder, rising from her chair and walking toward him. He felt the slight rise and fall of his chest, displaying his anxiousness. As she approached him, his eyes swept over her, taking in her appearance—because, damn, if it felt as though he hadn’t seen her in years instead of mere days.
“Miller.” Her voice was husky when she stopped barely a half of a foot away from him. Briefly glancing down at her feet, clad in flip flops with the packed sand beneath them, he watched as she attempted to compose herself. Lifting her eyes to meet his, Tate raised up ever so slightly on her toes, sliding her hands up along the muscles of biceps to settle on his shoulders.
Cautiously, his hands moved to her waist and his eyes met hers.
“Miller?”
“Tate?” His gaze was still ever so watchful.
Leaning closer, eyes locked with his, she brought her lips barely a hairsbreadth away from his own and whispered, “You’re it for me. You’ve—”
Her words were cut off when his mouth came down on hers, his hands coming up, threading through her hair. His lips moved over hers as if he hadn’t kissed her days earlier, as if he were starving for the connection. Breaking the kiss, his hands slid down to cup her face, eyes shining down on her with love.
“I love you, Tate Elaine Donnelly. I never stopped. Not once.”
Smiling up at him, eyes glistening with emotion and love, she softly replied, “I love you.” Tate pressed a kiss to his lips. “By the way, this,” she waved a hand to encompass what had taken place the past few minutes on the sandy “stage”, “was pretty damn impressive.”