Black and White Flowers (The Real SEAL Series Book 1)

by Rachel Robinson

  “Hey, it’s okay. There was this one time when I tripped and ended up getting blown to bits. You can’t possibly be as clumsy as I am,” I tease. The woman is shaking harder now. She offers a small, false smile as she catches a tube of lip balm before it rolls farther. I reach for a notebook that’s lying open and close it. Her name is imprinted on the front. Carina. Check. “It’s just a purse. No need to be upset. We’re two tampons away from having the mess cleaned up anyways.” I put the tampons in her hand and wrap my hand around hers. It gets her attention.

  She stops. I stop. She stands. I follow suit, leaving our hands sandwiching the feminine products. She doesn’t make a move to pull away, so I don’t either. Carina has brown eyes. They’re huge. She doesn’t need makeup to enhance her face. I noted this at first glance. Her bottom lip quivers.

  She says, “I’m so sorry. I told him it was a bad idea to come here on opening night. It’s a madhouse. There are just too many people.” She hugs her bag to her body, finally taking her hand away from mine. “I’m so stupid for coming here. I’m sorry again. You’re so kind to help me.” She makes a move to walk away, and I let her. Her fear is palpable.

  Smiling wide, I follow her back out into the lobby. It’s quieter out here. “Carina.”

  She turns, takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes.

  “It helps if you talk to someone.” Anxiety was my friend when I first woke. I worried about everything. Mostly, that I would never get to do my job again. “Do you want me to go get your…husband?”

  Shaking her head, she pulls the bag around herself. The large leather satchel is like a child’s security blanket. “He’ll be upset. I’ll send him a text and let him know I’ll wait for him out here. Thank you again…sir. How did you know my name?” What kind of man would be upset? My hackles are up.

  “Name’s Smith. Well, Carina, it was printed on your very full notebook. Are you a writer?”

  Her eyes widen. The fear is replaced by confusion. My distraction is working. She nods again, her mousy brown bangs covering one eye. She tucks it back behind her ear. “I am. Novels mostly, but I’ve branched out recently to write freelance articles, too.”

  Self-consciously I slide my hands into my jeans pockets. I watch her eyes follow them until they aren’t visible anymore. A year ago I wouldn’t have spoken to a stranger. Fear ruled my world. This woman, Carina. She’s scared. I hear myself in her voice. She speaks about her job, and I can’t help but smile at her passion. I ask if I can buy her books at the bookstore. She says I can, but she writes under a pen name.

  “Well, are you going to tell me what that is? Carina the writer?”

  Swallowing, she looks away bashfully.

  “You wouldn’t want to read what I write,” Carina says.

  My cell phone chimes. Megan.

  Licking my lips, I glance Carina’s way. She’s already looking at me, her eyes tracing my scars. For a tiny moment I wish she were looking at my exterior before the accident. I don’t have time to ask why, though. I need to get napkins.

  “You should go. I’ll be fine. Thank you. My true life Marvel hero.” She’s joking, but the words hit hard. At one time I was a real-life hero.

  Taking out her notebook, she slides a business card out of a pocket and flips it into my hand. My heart rate accelerates and a warm feeling hits me square in the chest. My phone buzzes again. Megan. I let go of the balloon and sink back onto Earth. “Thanks,” I say, tapping the card on my opposite hand.

  “My pen name is on there. My website, too.” Carina tucks her hair behind her ear one more time and walks away.

  I look down at the card. Greenleigh Ivers. Flowers dance around her name. I think how ironic it is that she uses a pen name. Essentially my life these days is lived under a pen name. The accident stole my memory. Well, parts and pieces of it, anyways. It stole my love for Megan and my childhood dog. It took from me slices of a beautiful life. It also took away pain and sorrow. The accident stole things of importance—because memories and experiences are what shape a person. I’m not who I was before it. I have the same name, but I’m a stranger in my own skin. I watch Carina’s retreating back for as long as I’m able to—intrigued, sad, excited, so many emotions vibrating in my mind. The volatility of the unknown draws me in.

  “Smith, did you fall in the toilet? I was worried about you!” Megan screeches at my back. As smoothly as I can, I sneak the card into my back pocket. I’m not sure why I hide it from Megan. I’m not sure of anything these days, but I do know, for the time being, I want to keep the strange, beautiful, married woman a secret.

  Chapter Three

  Carina

  I’LL NEVER COVER THIS black eye. It’s in that stage where it looks worse than it feels—all purple and dark black with hints of yellow. I pat some more makeup onto my left eye and glance at my sleeping fiancé in the reflection of my vanity mirror. The birds chirp outside my window, the dryer buzzes, and the coffee pot percolates. I’ve been up for hours already. It’s when I write. It’s unsuspecting—the beginning of the day. There’s so much promise in the morning. There’s hope for change. Hope for love. There’s significance in a sun rising.

  My fiancé, Roarke, brought a flask to the movie theater and was piss drunk when the movie ended. I waited for him on a bench outside, away from everyone else. I wrote in my notebook about a strange, beautiful, kind stranger. I lost track of time, honestly, and hoped to see Smith leaving. Not to talk to him; just to gaze upon his kind eyes and his muscular body. He’s nothing like Roarke. Nothing.

  As soon as we got back here Roarke showed me exactly how upset he was that I didn’t act like an adult and watch the movie with him. That was three days ago. Honestly, I deserved it this time. Something needs to fix me. Why shouldn’t it be his fist? Claustrophobia controls more aspects of my life than I’m willing to admit. Fear cripples me.

  “You’re going to be late, honey,” I say loudly.

  Roarke moans, pulls the blankets up, and rolls over. If I let him sleep any longer he’ll be a vapid shade of angry. Instead, I pour him a huge cup of coffee, fix it how he likes, and set in on his nightstand.

  “Roarke. Honey, it’s time to get up.”

  Finally he wakes. It’s the coffee, not because of my voice. “Jesus, Carina, why did you let me sleep so long?” It’s one minute past the time he usually wakes.

  “Sorry. It’s my fault. I was caught up with my work,” I lie. “I’m headed to the café to work some more this morning. If you don’t need anything else?” Swallowing, I try to make eye contact without seeming frightened by him. I smile. This tactic worked for me as a child. Abusive men are like mean dogs. Don’t make eye contact. Seem happy. Smile. It makes them less likely to lash out. My stepfather was an awful man, though he’s paying his penance now that my mom passed away from colon cancer—in Hell. A drunk driver mowed him down while he was riding his motorcycle about a year after mom died.

  Thinking about my childhood gives me hives. Literally. I try not to dwell in the past or think of my mother. When I grew up and left the house, the face she would make when I left after a visit was embedded into my nightmares for days after. A visit to the house of horrors was never worth it. Although the house was left to me, I don’t want anything to do with it or the backyard. I haven’t returned since she died. A property management company keeps up on the yard maintenance and checks in from time to time to make sure everything is okay. I can’t even fathom renters in there, so it sits cold and empty—a haunting reminder of the truth in my nightmares.

  Roarke isn’t nearly as bad as Greg was. “I need a lot of things. None of which you ever give me. I don’t know why I stick around here. Look at you. Do you even try anymore? Are you so comfortable that this is what I’m expected to be happy to have?”

  Sucking in a deep breath, I taste my words before they exit my mouth. It’s time for prudence, time to select just the right thing to say to avoid his wrath.

  I look down at my jeans and T-shirt. “I was planning o
n putting on a sweater. The nice one your mom gave me last Christmas. Would that look better?”

  Scoffing, he takes a sip of coffee and hums in delight. “A face transplant would look better, Carina. Go work. Make money. I’m sick of being the only one to pay the bills. Your royalty checks don’t cover the electricity.”

  My royalty checks don’t go anywhere near our joint accounts. A paltry fraction of my pay does. The rest is safely hidden in accounts my agent controls. I let Roarke believe whatever he wants. Usually it’s best not to respond when he’s in a mood. I grab the pastel pink sweater that I hate out of the closet, kiss Roarke on the forehead, and grab my laptop bag on my way out of our house. It’s a nice, beautiful house. Roarke owns, or inherited better yet, his father’s home building company. He takes care of me. Even though he’s cruel sometimes I know he loves me—he needs me. I’m lucky to have him in my life. I start the oversized SUV he forces me to drive and make my way to my coffee shop.

  After I check my email, I make a list of the work that needs to be done. I have two articles to write. I should be able to finish that in an hour or two and then focus my attention on my current passion: a non-fiction piece on military soldiers and the effects of war on the psyche. Roarke doesn’t know I’m working on this. No one does actually. It’s a personal project. I want to shine light on something important that I’m uneducated about. I want to help people.

  I put out a request for interviews on my website a couple weeks ago and I’ve called around. No one wants to talk to me. Stalking the web and Facebook for stories and information isn’t helping at all. Who wants to spill sordid details of their life to a complete stranger? I understand. It’s still upsetting to not have any leads.

  I’m texting Roarke to ask him what he wants me to bring him for lunch, when my email pings with a new message.

  To: writerpaint@memail.com

  From: Eppydawg@memail.com

  Subject: Interview me

  I saw the ad you posted online looking to interview military members for your work article. Are you still interested? I have multiple years of experience, and like the ad states, I definitely have a story to tell. I’m active duty now, as well. Would you like to meet for coffee?

  Your ad did promise free coffee along with anonymity. ☺

  In your service,

  Eppington

  Throwing a hand over my mouth, I let out a small squeal. Finally. And he’s active duty, so he’ll have recent stories that will be relatable to those seeking help right now. I can barely type a response with the excitement reverberating in my bones. Novels are fun to write, articles make money, but this will be something that may help someone. It could save a life.

  To: Eppydawg@memail.com

  From: writerpaint@memail.com

  Subject: RE: Interview me

  Thank you so much for getting back to me, Mr. Eppington. I would love to interview you at your earliest convenience. It may take several sessions to get the information I need for my piece. Is that okay? I understand if not. I’m sure you’re a very busy man. I’d like to meet in a public place. There will definitely be coffee in it for you. (I’m sure you can appreciate my reservations about meeting someone after only communicating online.) And my undying, unyielding gratitude for the rest of time.

  Café on 6th? You pick a time. I’m flexible Monday-Friday.

  Best,

  Carina

  After I blow through the articles that need written, I close my laptop with a smile on my face. I pick up Roarke’s lunch from his favorite deli, let him know I’m on my way, and head for his southern California office, careful to watch my time lest I be late. Or early. My phone chimes. It’s already a reply email from my military man.

  To: writerpaint@memail.com

  From: Eppydawg@memail.com

  Subject: RE: RE: Interview me

  How are you so sure I’m a Mr. Eppington? Looking for a date along with an interview, are you?

  I can meet you tomorrow at 5:30 p.m. Does that work?

  Eppington (Mr.)

  My stomach flutters. I’m not sure what reason forces my hand, but I delete the emails off my phone. Roarke would never go through my personal emails, but if he did, it would be bad. I’m not supposed to keep things from him. He likes to know everything even though he cares about nothing. Then realization hits me. How am I going to get away with a late afternoon meeting? Roarke will come home from work and expect dinner and a drink-a la’ Betty Draper style. I never leave in the afternoons.

  The mere thought of lying to him makes me sweaty. My sweater sticks to me as I exit my vehicle and make my way into his office. The very pretty secretary, who I’m sure never does anything wrong, greets me with a cheery smile and a wave. “Carina. You look beautiful today! So good to see you. I’ll let him know you’re here with lunch. Wait here a sec, please?”

  I nod and run my fingers through my hair. I hope he’s not embarrassed by how I look. I’ll be mortified if he is. He’ll never get mad at me in public, but when we get home it’s even worse.

  I was distracted by the email, so I didn’t check my face in the mirror. The one good thing about black eyes and living in San Diego is that I can always hide my face with large sunglasses. No one questions it. Not even now, standing in the lobby of the expansive office. There’s so much sunlight pouring in that it requires shades.

  The secretary returns moments later with a frown perched on her face. “He left a note for you to leave his lunch and go. He just left for an inspection.”

  Panicked, I look at my watch. I’m on time. Perfectly so. “I’ll head back then,” I murmur. I try to keep my shoulders back and head high. It’s how confident people walk. I remember to smile and look approachable. I close his office door behind me and take in a deep breath.

  I scribble a note for Roarke, leave his lunch in the mini fridge in the corner, and take a quick visual sweep of his desk. He has a framed photo of me. I look happy, but I’m not. My smile is wide and white. My cheekbones carve a subtle line in the sides of my face. An attribute my father passed down to me, or so my grandma explained. I’m wearing makeup and my appearance is blessedly free of kisses from his fist. It was taken at his work Christmas party last year. I’m always on at his work functions. The image makes my head feel light.

  How long will I feign happiness? When will true contentment with Roarke commence? I just need more time. Something is fundamentally wrong with me, I know. Any woman would be lucky to have my life. A tear forms in the corner of my eye, under my sunglasses. I leave it there for fear of wiping away the precious cover-up.

  I’m happy. I am.

  I open a side drawer in his desk, looking for a small pack of tissues. He keeps a package in his desk at home. I find three loose condoms instead. Closing the drawer with a loud bang, I leave Roarke’s office. I shouldn’t have snooped in his things. It’s my fault. A couple years ago I caught him cheating on me with his partner’s wife. No one knows except me. Since then he’s promised that he’s faithful. Sometimes a woman has to deal with certain things in life. This is my penance. We have never used condoms. At least he’s being safe.

  I’m happy.

  I wave at the blond, bubbly secretary on my way out the door. She calls out a goodbye at my back, but I don’t respond. I’m too upset. Plus, I can’t confirm she’s not the one he’s cheating with. What a fool I must look like. Climbing into my car, I turn it on and grab my cell phone. I email back the military man and confirm the date and time. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make it work out. Talking to a stranger is something I need for my mental health.

  I hold little to no control over my life. I’m flailing, drowning in an ocean of pain and grief. Something has to change. It needs to, because the more time that passes the stronger my outlook on the world gets.

  It’s better off without me in it.

  Chapter Four

  Smith

  “YOU’RE FUCKING STRONG, DUDE,” Moose says. Weights clank. The heavy metal music blasting through the s
peakers fades into another softer song. Sweat is pouring off my body as I bench the weight. It’s a new PR for me. Moose is spotting me from behind as I lie on the bench and put the weight up on the rack. Done.

  I’m out of breath and my arms feel like Jell-O when I sit up. Bending over, I put my forearms on my knees and attempt to catch my breath. “I’ve been trying to get that bitch up for a week now. Thanks, man,” I reply through jagged breaths. “Fuck, it feels good to be back.” Moving out of his way, I grab my water bottle and let him adjust the weight for his turn.

  “It’s good to have you back, man. I’m sure Miss America doesn’t feel the same,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

  I merely shake my head. Megan’s pageant days are behind her. She teaches fourth grade now. I’d guess she’s probably the hottest teacher that ever entered an elementary school. I cringed when she mentioned going back to school to teach high school students. Teenage boys. The guys at work will always only see her as a pageant queen and that’s bad enough.

  I pull my arms over my head to stretch them out. “She’s upset I’m joining in this work-up. We’ve been fighting about it. We’ve been fighting a lot actually.” A work-up is all of the training trips and the readying for a deployment. In other words, months and months of ignoring home life.

  Moose throws some plates around and gets his weight on the bar. “Everything okay?”

  “You know women, man. You never really know until it’s too late.” I laugh. He chuckles as he lies down and adjusts his lifting gloves. “I forgot you wear your little lady gloves. Have to keep your hands soft. Jacking off isn’t the same with calluses. Right?” I grin down at him.

  He smirks. “Keep your eyes on my lady gloves. Watch them beat your PR. Spot me,” Moose says. One of these days I’ll beat him. Today won’t be that day.

  Typically I avoid looking at the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that cage us into the gym on our base, but today, I’m feeling okay—excited actually. I give myself silent praise as I let my gaze flick over the muscles that I built from nothing. Again. I keep Moose in my peripheral vision as he grunts and groans. “You got this. You’re looking stronger than last week,” I say. He is. He loads the bars with more weight and gets the massive amount up and down with little struggle.