Hover

by Anne A. Wilson

  “The real kind.”

  22

  My head fits neatly in the crook of his shoulder, my cheek resting on his chest. We’ve lain here for some time, air-drying after a not-so-quick rinse in the shower. His fingers absently comb through my still-wet hair, neither of us speaking.

  Rather, I’ve been content to observe, afforded a close-up view of abdominal muscles ripped from here to tomorrow. Although, that’s not what holds my focus.

  It’s the scars.

  So many. I trace my fingers along one and then another, knowing they each have a tale to tell. But one in particular stands out. It’s raised and circular and I keep coming back to this one. I scooch away from him slightly, scanning his body from the side. I find the circular scar’s twin residing on his lower back, almost directly opposite. I touch it, feeling the raised tissue, and slide my hand up and over to his abdomen again. Now, I’m no expert in ballistics.…

  “Are these…?”

  I look up to him, but his expression doesn’t change. Nor does he answer.

  “Entrance and exit wounds?” I finish.

  He continues to stroke my hair, deliberating.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  I give both scars equal attention in my explorations, running my fingers over each. As I study them, my mind races to a hundred different horrific scenarios to explain how he came by these. He watches me intently, his mouth evenly set.

  “Are you going to tell me about this?” I ask.

  He thinks on this for a moment. “Maybe someday, when we have more time.”

  I glance at the circular scar again before returning my gaze to him.

  “Is that the same day you’re going to explain why you speak so many languages?”

  A hint of a grin escapes. “Yeah. That day.”

  “I see.”

  “Speaking of injuries,” he says, touching my arms lightly where the bruising is heaviest. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “It looks a lot worse than it feels.”

  I scooch myself close again, nuzzling my head against him. He caresses the skin across my back, my head rising and falling with his breathing. His heartbeat echoes slowly, rhythmically in my ear, and my eyes close in response, my breathing slowing to match his. This settles me, trying as I am to wrap my head around what just happened. Talk about letting your guard down. But god, it felt right.

  I’ll admit, I don’t have much in the way of comparison. Yeah, there was that first time in high school. Feeling awkward and scared, I closed my eyes the entire time. I can’t bring myself to say I made love, which would imply it was somehow a good experience. Even saying I had sex would be a stretch. The “act” was more along the lines of some farcical science experiment, figuring out how the parts and the plumbing worked. But even after that initial round of awful, it never got much better.

  Unfortunately, I never had the chance to make it right. To feel like you’re supposed to feel when you make love. That period during college and after, when most people start to figure it out, was wiped clean for me. After Ian, I shut down on so many levels, a relationship was the very last thing I wanted or felt like I deserved. Of course, what I wanted or deserved became radically moot points upon entering the navy, as I shifted into survival mode.

  Over time, one by one, my emotional systems clicked back on line, most running quietly in the background behind multiple layers of defenses. With one notable exception.

  I run my fingers across Eric’s chest, feeling the strength of his heartbeat beneath my palm. He brings his hand up, running it over mine, curling his fingers around it. My heart swells.

  This part of me has remained steadfastly under lock and key. I think back to the day when I first wore Eric’s shirt instead of Ian’s Vikings jersey, at a loss as to how that could have happened.

  But this? To open myself to Eric like this? And for it to have been as wonderful as Emily’s Harlequin romances would lead you to believe?

  “I have an idea,” he says, shaking me from my contemplations. “I’d love to show you something—I guess you’d call it sightseeing—if you’re up for it.”

  “Sure,” I say, thankful for the opportunity to step back a moment.

  We rise to dress and I pull out my jeans and the blue blouse I wore to the Hail and Farewell. The images, the feelings, that the clothes conjure, slice like a knife. The woman in blue. Who was she?

  He holds up his maroon shirt, scooped from where it lay strewn on the floor. “You’re not going to wear my shirt?” His tone is so playful, so sweet.

  There was one more thing I missed during that figure-it-out time in college—the vulnerability attached to opening yourself to someone like this. Like a rogue wave, it crashes over me. He wouldn’t act like this with someone else … would he? This had to have meant more to him than just …

  “What’s wrong?” he says, placing a steadying hand on the side of my face. His eyes are clear.

  There can’t be anything wrong. There can’t be.

  “Nothing,” I say. “The wrap on this shirt just gives me fits to tie. Besides, I thought you wanted that back.” I motion to the shirt in his hand.

  “That was just temporary. You can have it, if you want.”

  “Yes, I want it!”

  “What you’re wearing is better, though,” he says, indicating my blouse.

  “You think so? Em made me buy it.”

  “She has great taste,” he says.

  I slip on my sandals and put my arms through the sleeves of my black sweater. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” he says.

  * * *

  He leads me to the MTR ticket stall to buy a pass, and we move through the turnstile, descending several flights of stairs until he finds the train he wants. It’s the blue line and the train we board is headed west, along the northern edge of Hong Kong Island.

  Debarking at Central Station, we walk hand in hand down Garden Road, and I finally see where he’s leading me. The sign says PEAK TRAM STATION.

  “Victoria Peak?”

  “The view from up there is incredible. Just wait.”

  We board the tram and, 1,500 vertical feet later, debark in front of Peak Tower, a seven-storied boat-shaped building that sits atop the mountain. From here, we ride an elevator to the Peak Tower viewing deck. My pulse quickens as Eric leads me to the railing.

  Hong Kong is laid out before us in all its breathtaking nighttime glory, treating us to a shimmering light show from uncountable millions of neon bulbs that reflect in the waters surrounding us.

  But this million-dollar view is competing with something else for my attention—a hand that holds mine, a strong hand, calloused in places. He applies gentle pressure to my fingers, rubbing his thumb softly across my palm.

  “Eric, this is spectacular, truly.”

  He shifts to face me. “It’s never looked better.”

  Taking my other hand in his, he sweeps my arms behind my back, pinning them there.

  “So beautiful…,” he whispers, looking into my eyes.

  “I’m not. I’m—”

  “You have no idea.” The exclamation point to his sentiment is provided with a lingering kiss.

  In his embrace, I sense a wholeness, a wellness, that I’ve never before experienced. And these thoughts collide with my previous discussions with Em. I’ve always insisted I was fine, but now I’m presented with evidence to the contrary. I’ve never felt more fine in my life than right here, right now. And this definition of fine is so far removed from my old definition, I now realize “fine” wasn’t the correct word at all. “Existing” would be more appropriate.

  But my ruminations begin to flounder, replaced by an urgency that wells from out of nowhere. His hands glide down my waist, landing on the grooves of my hips. Our mouths open, tongues melding, our breathing heavy—

  It’s a jolt when he pulls away.

  “You know, I’m thinking this was a bad idea,” he says, struggling for air.

  “No,” I say
, panting. “Good idea, wrong place.”

  He smiles. “It’s not going to make saying good-bye very easy.”

  “Good-bye?” I say, still recovering my breath.

  “Sara, this is so ridiculously hard, but I have to go back to the ship tonight. Before we left Hawaii, I offered to take Ben’s duty here, so he could meet his wife, who’s flown over to see him.”

  My shoulders slump.

  “I know. But I’d hate to renege on a promise like that.”

  “No, I understand. You have to follow through.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Ben will be pacing the quarterdeck, guaranteed.”

  “Really, it’s okay.”

  Caressing the side of my face, he leans down and kisses me gently—a lighter kiss, the aching kind of lighter.

  “Come on,” he says.

  We ride the elevator to ground level and stroll toward the entrance of the tram station. Normally, my eyes would have been drawn to the magical cityscape, or certainly to Eric, his arm now wrapped securely around my shoulders. But I can’t help noticing the man who has been watching us. He stands in the shadows about twenty yards away, his back leaned against the station building. Even in the dark, his eyes shine a brilliant blue. I don’t think I would have given him nor anyone else a second look tonight, except that this man has Ian’s eyes.

  I tell myself I’m imagining things. But I swivel my head several times to check. The man is definitely following our progress in line. I shift my feet uneasily.

  “What is it?” Eric says.

  “That man over there. He’s watching us.”

  A dark expression crosses Eric’s face as he locks eyes with the man, who appears to smirk in the dark.

  “Do you know him?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he answers tersely, the distaste in his voice clear. “We’ve worked together before.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask, alarmed as Eric’s body tenses.

  “Come on. They’re boarding.” He keeps his arm around me, pulling me tight, as he ushers me forward.

  23

  Stepping into my stateroom, I only have eyes for my rack. No surprise after another all-nighter, this time standing duty on the ship. After I said good-bye to Eric, I slept alone at the Harbourview, then reported yesterday morning for duty aboard the ship. And now, twenty-four hours later, I’m asleep on my feet once more.

  Today is our last day in Hong Kong and liberty doesn’t expire until noon, but I have no interest in leaving the ship. I crawl into bed, not bothering to remove my khakis and non-regulation sweater, and fall into a heavy sleep.

  * * *

  I hear shuffling and wake with a start. My heart skitters for a moment until I confirm the source of the noise. It’s Em.

  “I feel like shit,” she says, letting the door slam behind her.

  I rub my eyes. She’s in her khakis. How did she get in her uniform? She’s just coming off liberty, right?

  “Em, what time is it?”

  “It’s eighteen hundred.”

  “What!” I check my watch. “I slept all day?”

  “Sure as hell did. I came off liberty at noon and you haven’t moved. Hell, we’ve been under way for three hours already.”

  “Oh, man.” I sit up groggily. I did it again, sleeping another day away.

  “They’re still serving in the wardroom if you want to run in there,” she says.

  I lower myself from my bunk. “Nah, I’ll get something later.”

  Em lies on her rack with her hands over her head and closes her eyes. I’m about to take my sweater off when I remember the bruises on my arms. Do I want to tell her what happened? Do I want to receive the “I told you so”? Pulling the chair out at my desk, I decide to leave the sweater on for now.

  Oh, man. And then Eric. What the heck do I admit to there? That would be “I told you so” times a hundred.

  Emily’s schedule and mine ran totally opposite this port call. With the exception of the first day, one of us was either on duty or on shore patrol while the other was on liberty. So we haven’t spoken to each other since the Hail and Farewell.

  “I gather you had a long night on duty,” she says, eyes still closed.

  “Yeah. I never went to sleep last night.”

  “That sucks. I figured it must have been something like that for you to sleep so long.”

  “I didn’t miss anything, did I?”

  “Nope. Everyone’s been sleeping the day away like you, so you’re good.”

  “Thank goodness,” I say.

  “Oh, crap!” Em says, bolting up. “You did miss one thing. You’re not going to fuckin’ believe this! Captain Magruder fired Commander Egan!”

  “What!”

  “He is fuckin’ gone! Like his stateroom has been cleared out and he is no longer on this ship. I heard they were sending him back on a flight from Hong Kong.”

  No way. Eric couldn’t have … or could he? He said he had to leave to go back to the ship for a minute.… How…?

  “Can you fuckin’ believe that?”

  “Does anyone know why?” I ask, holding my breath. Crap. I don’t want anyone to know what happened. But at the same time, relief washes over me. He’s no longer on the ship.

  “That’s the thing. No one had any idea this was coming and no one knows why. But hey, that asshole isn’t going to be around to harass you anymore!”

  No, he won’t be around to harass me anymore. Eric made sure of that.

  “God, my head hurts,” Em says. “Please tell me you have some Advil.”

  “Comin’ up.” I walk to the tiny sink we share in the corner and rummage through the medicine cabinet.

  “Even though I have a splitting headache,” Em says, “I need to hear about your liberty. Please tell me you found Eric, and fork over the details.”

  I am so not ready for this conversation. I bring her the Advil along with a cup of water.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “Yes, I found him, but why don’t you tell me about your liberty first?” I say, stalling. “You never came back to the room after the Hail and Farewell.”

  “I wish I could remember,” she says, tipping her head back to swallow.

  “Are you serious? You can’t remember?”

  “I haven’t consumed that much alcohol since … oh, fuck, I don’t even know.” She hands the cup back to me. “So, no, I don’t remember a fuckin’ thing and I only have a wicked hangover to show for it.” She grimaces. “Ow, that was loud.”

  “Maybe I should let you get some sleep,” I suggest. “I can turn down the lights. It’ll be quiet.”

  “It’ll be quiet?” Em says incredulously. “It’ll be quiet? Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with here? If you think that’ll get you out of telling me you slept with Eric, I’ve got news for you.”

  “What! How did you know!”

  She smiles proudly. “I didn’t.”

  I shake my head. “Emily … so help me…”

  “But now that you’ve confirmed it,” she sniggers, “I want every juicy morsel, every delectable detail of your rendezvous.”

  “I’m not giving you anything! I was tricked!”

  “Oh, come on! You can’t deny me this! You know I’m an addict,” she says, pointing to the paperback volumes spilling out of her desk.

  I think about this, swayed by her pleading expression. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll give you one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  I walk to her stack of books and rifle through them, selecting one. The guy on the cover has light brown hair, worn close to the head. He stands on a rocky outcrop, one foot raised, hands resting on the hips of his faded, low-rise jeans, a border patrol agent’s badge clipped to the waist. Wearing boots, no shirt, and sporting a ten-pack, he looks thoughtfully across the desertscape with olive-green eyes, soft like melted glass.

  I toss her the book. She studies it briefly before looking up. “So?”

  “So, he looks like that, on
ly when I saw him, he wasn’t wearing jeans,” I say, trying—but failing—to keep the smile from spreading across my face.

  She flops back on her bed. “Oh dear god. I have died and gone to fuckin’ heaven.”

  24

  Eric is onboard the Kansas City. He never mentioned a need to come to our ship when we were in Hong Kong, but Shadow Hunter 67 landed earlier this morning and delivered not only him, but Brian Wilcox and Captain Plank, too.

  Em gave me the lowdown on the morning’s events because I was trapped in a maintenance meeting. She said a Nighthawk helicopter from Nimitz arrived next, carrying Admiral Carlson and two other men she didn’t recognize. And finally, a contingent of Australians stepped off their Squirrel helicopter, which is still parked on our flight deck.

  Em is in a meeting with the group now. She said her attendance and that of Commander Claggett had been requested. The only thing that bugs me about this is that I’m down here in the hangar, knee-deep in an aircraft inspection, while Eric is in the wardroom. I’m trying to figure a way to steal a moment with him. Maybe I can just loiter here in the hangar until the Shadow Hunters come to pick him up.

  I clutch a pencil-thin flashlight between my teeth, peering into one of the aircraft’s engine inspection panels, when I feel a tap on the shoulder.

  “Jus’ a sec,” I say.

  I finish twisting on the oil cap, pull my hands from the engine bay, and spit out the flashlight. It’s Em.

  “What’s up?” I say, pulling down on the visor of my ball cap. The navy-issue ball cap is big, boxy, and ugly as sin. When you deploy on a ship, you’re issued a cap with the ship’s logo embroidered on the front. The cap is far too large for my head—they always are—so I tuck my hair underneath to make it fit better. I work at loose strands now, shoving them under the headband, when I take in Em’s expression.

  “Wait. What’s the matter?”

  She lets out a disheartened sigh. “Your presence is requested in the wardroom.”

  “What?”

  “They want the aircrew that’s scheduled for the fast rope tonight.”

  “But that’s you, Em.”

  There was no one more relieved than I when I saw the flight schedule. Finally, I thought. No more Sara-at-the-controls rubbish. The other pilots are just as qualified as I am to fly these SEAL exercises and it doesn’t make a lick of sense as to why they haven’t been scheduled. So when Em found out she was flying the fast rope tonight, she was in a great mood.