One Week with the Marine (Love on Location)

by Allison Gatta

  “Waits for you. And you wait for him. You both keep playing this game like you can’t handle being in a relationship, but—”

  “I thought this was about you,” Avery interrupted, and Myla sighed.

  “I’d just like to have what you guys have, you know? I want to know what it’s like to have someone love me as much as Holden loves you.”

  “Holden doesn’t love me.” Avery let out a breathy laugh, but inside she wanted to scream. All she’d agreed to was that she didn’t just want to be his fuck buddy. Why wasn’t that enough for the universe? Why did it have to keep throwing words like “love” and “commitment” her way before she could even take a breath?

  Why did everything have to be so serious?

  “He does, though,” Myla said, her tone matter-of-fact. “I’ve watched you both since we were in high school together. I’m telling you, that boy loves you.”

  “Well, Oliver said he loved you, too,” Avery said as delicately as she could manage.

  “He said a lot of things. Whether he meant them or not was another matter entirely.” Myla waved her hand in the air. “But what you have with Holden is special.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I? He was just on the phone with me, telling me about his big deployment plans, and about how he doesn’t want to leave you behind. That doesn’t sound like love to you?”

  Avery blinked. “His what?”

  “You didn’t—”

  “His contract is up. Why would he deploy again?” Her heart froze in her chest. “He said his contract was up.”

  “It is, but…” Myla shook her head. “Look, forget I said anything. You don’t have to answer to me, but I do think you have to figure out what it is about being committed to Holden that scares you so much.”

  “I’m not scared of anything.”

  “Avery—”

  “You know what we need? Ice cream. Let’s have some, and then I’m going to get to that gallery for my opening tonight. Sound good?”

  Myla surveyed her for a long moment, then gave her a shaky nod.

  FROM THE DIARY OF AVERY FORRESTER

  Okay, fine, so I like to journal. No need to make a big deal out of it. It’s still not like I’m spilling any profound thoughts onto the paper. Instead, it’s just slightly more productive than catching up on the latest cell-phone game sweeping the country’s beleaguered mothers.

  So, trust me, this isn’t for mindfulness or meditation or any of that crap. It’s just for me. Just because.

  After all, who else am I going to talk to about the fact that Holden is a big fat liar?

  Okay, maybe not liar, but an omitter of the truth.

  Sure, okay, I knew deploying again was in his stupid plan or whatever, but when he asked me to be his girlfriend, I thought that meant we made decisions together. Or, at the very least, that he would mention his plans to me before he told Myla.

  Like, seriously, what the hell? I’m putting my whole self out there, I’m letting him try to prove to me that he’s not going to leave like every one of my stepfathers did, and now…

  You know what? It’s fine. It’s fine.

  I don’t need to talk about it—especially not with a stupid piece of paper.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “How are you feeling?” The gallery director had asked her this about twelve times since she’d walked through the door an hour ago, and she still wasn’t exactly sure how to answer.

  The obvious response was, of course, to say she was excited, and anxious—both of which were true, technically. In a few short minutes, the champagne would start flowing and everyone would pour through those doors to see her art on display.

  On the other hand, she hadn’t seen Holden since her talk with Myla that afternoon. He’d left a note saying that he’d left for La Jolla to go pick up his parents.

  Which, of course, led to the fact that his parents were going to be here on her big night, standing in judgment of her every move and counting the number of glasses she downed so they could prove to Holden once and for all that there were better, more dignified fish in the sea. And, given her friend’s recent breakup, even Myla wouldn’t be here to soften the blow.

  So how was Avery feeling?

  “Uh…” Avery said, and the director nodded knowingly.

  She was an older woman, though her silvery hair seemed premature for her age. Her red glasses set off her heart-shaped face, and she wrinkled her nose slightly before tapping Avery lightly on the shoulder. “I completely understand. I paint, so it’s not quite the same, but”—she nodded knowingly—“it’s certainly close enough. Why not take one last look, hmm? Before the doors open?”

  Avery nodded then moved to the front of the gallery, staring at the first wall.

  These were photos she’d taken in the maternity ward—tiny little sets of hands of all different colors. On the next wall, she’d arranged pictures of children’s hands from the local middle school. There was paint on some of them. Others were already calloused or bruised from learning to play instruments. Still others had smudges from pencil marks.

  The next wall were images of adult hands—the hands of a farmer and a banker, a school teacher, and even her own hands. Then, finally, a few shots of the hands from the old folks’ center—almost as fragile as, though larger than, the photos on the first wall.

  Whatever happened tonight—whatever happened with Holden or his parents—she knew she could be proud of this. She had done good work. She had talent.

  The doors opened, and people flooded inside, quickly creating a din loud enough to cover the soft piano music floating through the speakers. Holden was nowhere to be found yet, but in a way, that was a blessing. It gave her more time to answer questions, first from reporters, and then from people who’d overheard her speaking with the journalists.

  She’d photographed a lot of weddings, but tonight, she felt like she finally understood what it was to be a bride—everyone clamoring for her favor, for her attention, and the second she picked up a drink, she lost it again between being shuffled from one person to the next.

  The reviews for the art were good, she thought, and she listened wistfully as the art director bartered with a young couple for a set of four photographs.

  She strolled toward the front of the room again, finally allowing the knot of tension in her stomach to loosen slightly. Then she spotted Holden and his parents across the room. His mother’s voice rang crisp and clear through the noise of the crowd. “I just don’t see how anyone would consider it art, that’s all. It’s not like painting. She just points and snaps. Where is the art in that?”

  Avery closed her eyes and then started for the tray of champagne again.

  Maybe it’d be better to leave things as they were—to let him handle his mother and father, and then tomorrow, when everything was over, she could sit him down and say…

  What, exactly? He hadn’t lied.

  He’d just misled her. Told her his contract was up and he wanted to be with her.

  Except he’d never meant to tell her the contract was up… That had been his parents’ doing.

  Someone tapped on her shoulder, and she whirled around, expecting to see another journalist, only to find herself staring into Holden’s deep hazel eyes.

  “Oh,” she gasped.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you but—” He shook his head. “Just wow, Av. This is incredible.”

  “Thank you.” She swallowed and then glanced away.

  “I can’t possibly imagine what’s going on in your head tonight.”

  “You can’t,” she agreed.

  He frowned. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “So, no. You never say you’re fine when you’re fine,” he said. “Do you want to talk?”

  “No.” She said the word too quickly and then caught herself. “No, thank you.”

  “Avery, come on.”

  “Holden—”

  �
�Just talk to me. You can tell me anything.”

  “Just like you can tell me anything?” she snapped.

  He took a step back. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “That’s obviously not true.” He reached for her, but she sidestepped him.

  “Avery—”

  “Why do you have to force this?” she hissed, glancing around to make sure nobody had noticed them.

  “I don’t know—”

  “You do, though, and you’re not going to give up. So, meet me in the alley in five minutes.” She took a deep breath through her nose and then pinched it between her thumb and forefinger.

  He nodded and then disappeared through the crowd again, off to find his parents, no doubt.

  She had five minutes to figure out how to explain what he’d done to her.

  Five minutes.

  But even five years didn’t seem long enough.

  …

  As Avery walked through the back door of the gallery and into the alleyway to join him, her eyes flashed.

  This was a look he recognized, and his heart pounded as he took it in.

  “When do you leave, Holden? For Afghanistan? Or is it Iraq this time? Or maybe Syria?”

  Wind whooshed from his lungs. So that was what she was on to. “Who told you about that?”

  Avery stared down at her fingernails, intent on something he couldn’t see. Probably wondering if they were sharp enough to rip out his esophagus. “Does it matter?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “So, what’s the answer?”

  He sighed. “I was going to tell you.”

  “You were.” It wasn’t a question, but he still felt the urge to answer it.

  “I was. Frankly, I don’t know why you’re so upset. You didn’t even want to be a part of my life until yesterday. You’re the one who kept pushing me away. What do you care if I’m away again?”

  “How is that even a valid question?” Her quiet rage had snapped, blossoming into fury, her eyes flashing with every word. She stepped closer to him, crossing the alley in practically one leap, her voice raised loud enough to convey her anger.

  “It’s the truth.” His tone was hard, reserved. “How was I supposed to tell you I was leaving the first night we were together as a couple?”

  “That’s bullshit. You spent a week trying to convince me to give up my life and wait for you. You want us to be together for real, and then you rip it all away and tell me you’re going off to war but you’ll be sure to call me later?”

  He flung his hands up, lost as to what to do. She’d hardly been at Myla’s for twenty minutes—not nearly enough time for him to figure out what he was going to do, let alone tell her in any clear terms what his intentions were.

  But then, why was he the one who had to change everything? Why was he the one who had to keep chasing and begging and hoping? He’d done so much for this relationship—so much for her. Wasn’t it time that he finally saw some fraction of that same consideration?

  “What did you think I was going to do? I’m a captain.” He spat the words, though he instantly regretted them.

  “I thought you were going to stay. I thought we were going to be together in some weird, awful, making-your-favorite-food-without-poisoning-you kind of way. That’s what I thought.” She put her hands on her hips, her gaze searching his for something he knew he couldn’t give.

  But she wasn’t just asking him to give up the Marines. She was asking for him to give up everything he was, everything he’d worked for. All for her.

  She was worth everything to him, but did he have to give up his whole life, who he was, in order to have her?

  He curled his hands into fists. “Yeah, Avery, I remember you telling me over and over again that you wanted to be together. You’ve always been big on settling down.”

  “I was, once you convinced me to do it.”

  “Avery—”

  “You lied to me.” She choked on the word.

  “How did I lie? You knew who I was, who I am. I never said I was going to stay. All I said was that I wanted to be with you. I’m not the one who keeps running from this.”

  She stared at him, silent tears trailing her cheeks. When she spoke, the words were nearly a whisper. “No. You’re the one who keeps leaving. So, go right ahead. Leave again. Like you always do.” She hitched her pocketbook higher onto her shoulder.

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Do what?” She paused on the steps back into the gallery, her back to him. She may not have been acting like it, but he knew she was listening. All he had to do was find the right words.

  The only problem was he had none to offer.

  She teetered back and forth, and the only sound came from her soft, shallow breathing and the clicking of her heels as they rocked on the cement. “How does this work? This life I’d be signing on for? You and I are together, and then you leave over and over again. And I wait. I don’t know if you’ll come back, but I still wait, hoping you’ll come home. And once you’re home—” Her voice splintered. “Once you’re home, you’ll see that I can’t take care of you or the kids you give me. Is that the life we’d be living? You’d have a perfectly outlined plan just like your parents have, and you’d try to cram me into it? That’s what you want?”

  “That’s not—”

  “It’s true, and you can’t fix it. I can’t fix it.”

  “Listen to me.”

  “No. I’m done listening to you and lying to myself. This can’t work. I’m not built for this. No matter how I”—she took a deep breath, and his heart was caught in an icy grip, waiting on the rest of her words—“no matter how I feel about you. I’m not strong enough to keep waiting for you to figure that out. I can’t take it. I’m going out so you can pack up your stuff without worrying about seeing me again.”

  “Don’t do this. It’s stupid.”

  “This whole relationship or agreement or whatever it was, was stupid. We should never have tried.” She rushed back inside before he could say another word.

  Not that he had anything to say.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Avery’s apartment was now, officially, the headquarters of Breakups Anonymous.

  Not that she had technically broken up with Holden. Or that they’d had much of a relationship to break up in the first place.

  Still, between her and Myla, they’d stockpiled enough ice cream to build an igloo and had watched enough bad daytime talk shows to spot whether or not the guy was the baby daddy from a mile away.

  It had been three days since Holden left, and in the interim, Myla had been staying on her couch, too sick of her swanky Upper-East-Side home to dare go back and pack up her things yet. Oliver had called her every day, but she hadn’t bothered to respond. She already knew the truth of what the media had to say—she didn’t need to hear it from him, too.

  As for Avery, she’d stuck to curling up with Rodrigo and petting his fur while desperately trying not to remember the day Holden had given him to her.

  Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. She sat up on the couch, Rodrigo still firmly curled into a ball on her lap, and asked, “Who gets someone a cat?”

  Myla looked up from her position on the floor and then grabbed the remote and paused the TV show in progress, mid lie-detector results. “What?”

  “Holden. He got me this cat.” She looked down at Rodrigo, and her heart flipped over in her chest.

  “Okay. I’m following you so far.”

  “So, I’m just saying…why? Who gets somebody a cat?”

  “Ummm, I don’t know.” Myla scratched her wild mane of hair, her eyebrows knitting together. “Don’t you like cats?”

  “I love cats. Now, at least. But I was never like, you know, I wish I had a cat.”

  “Do you…not want the cat now?”

  “No. I want the cat. You’re just…” She huffed out a breath. “I love my cat. What I’m trying to figure out is why he’d give me a
cat in the first place? Now, you know, I’m stuck with this cat that I love and that reminds me of him.”

  “Oh.” Myla nodded. “I see.”

  “What? What do you see?” Rodrigo jumped from her lap and followed Myla as she made her way into the kitchen and grabbed two pints of ice cream from the freezer. For herself, she got mint chocolate chip. Then, as she made her way toward Avery, she held out a pint of cookie dough and a spoon.

  “What?” Avery asked, taking the ice cream all the same.

  “Are we finally going to talk about this?” Myla offered her a gentle smile.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you leave my house denying that Holden loves you, and then you come back and say you guys decided it couldn’t work and called it quits. You’ve been basically catatonic for three days. Are you going to finally tell me what happened?”

  “There’s not much to tell.” Avery shrugged, then dug in to her ice cream and shoved a spoonful in her mouth. “Look. It’s fine. We decided it couldn’t work out. That’s all.”

  “But why?”

  “He’s leaving,” Avery said, all too aware of how clipped her voice sounded.

  “So what? You always knew he was leaving. You never minded waiting for him before.”

  “Look, I know you’re trying to help, but you can save it. I’ve been over all this. It’s done.”

  Myla shook her head. “It’s not done. Avery, I love you, but you’re being a real idiot right now. I know what you’re doing.”

  “Why does everyone suddenly think they’re an expert on my life?”

  “It’s not sudden, and I’m far from being an expert.” Myla squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “But I’ve seen what breakups do to you. I saw the terror in your eyes when I told you Holden loved you. You freaked out and ran away. It’s what you do, but I think Holden is just crazy enough about you to take you back.”

  “Myla…just stop. I thought we had a deal.” Avery pointed to her sparkly pink journal. “I wrote in the damn thing, now keep up your end of the bargain. No more talking about Holden.” Her friend meant well, but she didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand.

  Because the truth was that she knew—had always known—that Holden loved her, just as deeply and ardently as she loved him. She loved him from the bottom of her soul, not because he was her friend, but because when she thought of how she wanted her life to be, she always found him standing by her side. He made her laugh. He made her weak at the knees.