My skin prickles. My chest aches. I begin.
Chapter Five
Carina
SMITH’S FACE CHANGES. HIS soulful eyes glaze over, and then he speaks words that will haunt me for the rest of time.
“The day everything changed felt like any other day. I didn’t wake up and have any bad feelings. Some people have those, you know? A friend told me he knew he was going to get shot. A prophet of death appeared in the form of a light breeze and his reality shifted. He told me he was extra cautious that day while on the mission. That caution is what ultimately led him to take a bullet in his left shoulder. He was half a second too slow. Thank the stars it wasn’t a full second, you know?”
I let out the breath I’ve held since he began speaking. “I don’t know, but I know about intuition and sensing things,” I manage to squeak out.
Smith nods, then looks away. “In retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t know that mortar was coming—glad I didn’t sense the impending destruction. Glad I didn’t know my best friend was about to die. I would have treated him differently, behaved in an untrue way. I would have looked at my hands one last time. I would have cried. For a past I would never remember and a future that was unsure. Mostly I would have cried for him. For his wife and newborn baby, for a friendship so solid not even selective amnesia could steal it away.”
My words lodge in my throat. I have to try to speak twice. “Where were you?”
He grimaces. “In my quarters on a base in Iraq. I wasn’t on any important mission, or saving lives that night. I was getting ready to go to bed, bullshitting with my friend Henry.” Smith turns his eyes skyward. What is he searching for? A memory? “I’ve never told anyone this. So you know. It’s hard.”
My hand that holds the recorder visibly shakes. “I appreciate this, your kindness, very much,” I say. I feel like a bully in this moment. I didn’t ask for this specific information, though it will more than likely end up being my main focus. “You lived and your friend died. That’s what happened to your—”
Leaning against the hood of my car, he says, “Yes. That’s what did this to me.” He lifts his free arm up in the air. It’s hardly noticeable unless you’re really looking for it, honestly. His face is still gorgeous in a roguish sort of way, and his smile more than steals all my focus anyways. It’s a genuine smile. I respect it even more now.
“You have amnesia?” I ask.
“Selective,” he says, smiling, finally meeting my gaze. “I forgot how to juggle and who my fiancée was.” He laughs. “I mean, you have to admit it’s kind of funny the extremes of it.”
I don’t laugh. “You’re still with her?” I ask, my voice low. “And you don’t remember her at all?”
Smith nods. “Of course I’m with her. It’s a learning curve, for sure. I owe it to her to start over regardless of whether or not I ever remember our past.”
This has little to do with his military experience, but I want to know more. I want to know everything about this unimaginable tragic story.
I swallow. How can I ask follow-up questions after that? Standing out here in a parking lot while he bares his soul for my tape recorder. “I’m sorry. That’s so sad.”
He stands, straightening his shoulders. “Did you think interviewing a veteran would be happy, Carina? Or should I call you Greenleigh? You are wearing your author hat right now.” He’s not being rude. Not at all. He’s truly curious. It is my pen name.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I guess I wasn’t sure what to expect with the interview. I’m curious, that’s all. I want to make a difference. You could have started with training or why you wanted to join the military. I didn’t expect you to launch into a dreadful love story with death and destruction.” I regret my honest word choice.
He laughs. “You didn’t expect that, did you? I guess I’ve wanted to tell someone that story for a while now. The fact that you’re a stranger makes it a little easier. Hand me your phone,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Come on. You have to get going, right?”
Narrowing my eyes, I turn to rummage my oversized purse for my iPhone and hand it to him. He shakes his head when he realizes it’s not locked. Then he launches into a two-minute lecture about how I need to have an alpha-numeric passcode on my cell phone to protect my personal information. He programs his cell phone number into my phone as he goes, glancing up at me every few seconds to make sure I’m listening.
Crossing my right foot over the left, I tuck a foot behind the other. I’m brutally aware of my self-conscious posture yet can do nothing to remedy it. “Did you ever think there might be a reason why I keep it unlocked?” I ask. Because Roarke demands it. I think. Even though I would never cheat on him. His phone is always locked. If that makes any sense whatsoever.
My cell buzzes in his hand, and he looks down at it. “Roarke says you have fifteen minutes to get home. Or else.” He hands me back the lit phone. I tap a quick message to let him know I’m on my way now. Smith sighs. “Or else what? I can’t, in good conscious, send you back to a man who did that to you. That makes me just as bad as he is.” He lifts my sunglasses and brushes my bruise with the side of his thumb.
Although the gesture has no meaning behind it, I can’t help but blush. I blush out of embarrassment and desire. This man is a stranger, but somehow hearing a tiny snippet of his life’s story brings him closer. What will I feel when I know more? Why am I so anxious for that moment to come to fruition?
I don’t desire any one thing more than another. I desire Roarke to be as dedicated to me as Smith is to a woman he doesn’t even remember. What must a love like that feel like? “Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine. He’s just joking. I promise. I really can’t thank you enough, Mr. Eppington. For your time and for being so…open with me.”
Smith brings his thumb across his lip and shakes his head. “Let me know when you want to meet again. Call me…I mean, call Sansa if you need anything. Okay?”
Clearing my throat, I smile and wave. I hoist myself into the driver’s seat and take in a deep breath when the door closes behind me. I watch his broad back as he makes his way across the parking lot to his truck. I start my own vehicle, but follow that blue pick-up in my rearview until it disappears.
I call Jasmine on my way back to the house, telling her everything that just happened. She’s my best friend first, but she’s also my literary agent. Jasmine sold my first fiction novel for an awesome six-figure deal. She supports me as much as she can in all ways. She also pretends she doesn’t know the extent of my relationship issues with Roarke, but it’s impossible to keep things from friends as close as she is. I wouldn’t say she turns a blind eye, but perhaps she wants to believe my lies.
Jasmine prompts me for more. “He even agreed to meet with me again. The material he gave today. It was amazing, Jaz. I mean, his story is better than fiction and just as sad as a Nicolas Sparks novel. I’m telling you. I think I can make this into something spectacular!”
“I’ve never heard you this excited before, Carina. Like, you’re seriously mad-dog excited about this. Is it the prospect of the story, or is it something more?” Her voice echoes through the Bluetooth speakers in the cab of my car. I’m speeding to get home to Roarke as quickly as possible. Or else. Somehow having Smith privy to his cruel words disenchants me further from Roarke after today’s condom discovery.
I’m not sure how to answer her question. “I think it’s a little of both. He’s so interesting. He has obvious scars from the trauma he’s been through. I’m thinking he’s going to leak his internal scars all over my laptop keyboard. He hasn’t told his story before. Do you realize what I have here?”
She laughs. “You have your next bestseller.”
“Don’t be so money hungry,” I tease. “This guy, this guy, is one in a million. More than that, I think his story is one in a billion.” I’m vibrating with excitement when I think about my tape recorder. I get to listen to it a thousand times if I want.
Jasmine and I bounce several story ideas
around and then I pull into my driveway. The dining room light is a beacon, signaling Roarke is home and waiting for me. “Hey, if Roarke calls, which I’m sure he won’t, our meeting tonight was in person. At our usual café.”
She swallows audibly. “Sure, babe. Call me later. Stay safe.” She clicks off the line, and I make my way into the house. Passing my office, I reach in to hang my bag on the coat rack hook and make my way into the kitchen. Seeing Roarke makes me visibly ill. I smooth down my sweater, directly over my stomach.
”How was your meeting? Took long enough,” he spits. A low-ball with ice rattles in his left hand as he hunches over the dining table. “Thank you for lunch.” An insult followed by a courtesy. It’s always his way.
The mention of lunch brings me back to earlier rummaging in his condom filled drawers. I could never bring it up. Not right now, at least. “My meeting went great. We polished some of the finer details for my next project. Did you eat yet?” I spy a bag of potato chips on the granite countertop.
“I’m not hungry,” he says, standing from his chair. Roarke stalks forward. “You look hot right now, Care. Get undressed. I want to fuck you tonight.”
I take in a deep breath. I’m getting off easy. He’ll forget everything about my absence tonight. In between the alcohol and sex, my misdemeanor in his eyes will fade to black. “I love you too,” I say back, teasingly. “I think you look hot always. Shall we mix hotness in the bedroom then?”
He laughs, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes—not like Smith’s does. This is as close to the old Roarke as I’ll get. I savor it. Roarke hasn’t always hit me, although he’s always shown violent tendencies. After we became engaged, his monsters arrived and made their appearance as a broken nose on my face. It’s still a little crooked.
I take him by the hand and lead him to our bedroom. When the door is closed I start my slow assault on his clothing. He loves when I take charge in the bedroom. It’s the only time he accepts a power exchange. I don’t care that he’s using me. I only care about getting him off so he will pass out for the night.
Then I’ll get to spend the rest of the evening in my office with my laptop and the tape recorder. Right now, I’ll do whatever it takes to get back to my happiness more quickly. The cold hard facts are staring me in the face. I connected to a damaged, confused stranger in one hour, more intensely than I’ve ever connected to Roarke—the man I’m engaged to be married to.
As he kisses my neck, I realize this is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. My awakening. The reason I am where I am. Where purpose meets something remarkable. I smile to myself, my thoughts bringing a newfound clarity.
Chapter Six
Smith
I’M NOT DOING ANYTHING wrong, but I can’t shake the feeling Megan might feel differently. I’ve yet to tell her about my meeting with Carina. I haven’t even told her the full story of what happened the day of my accident. It’s for selfless reasons. I don’t want to burden her with anything more than she’s already endured. Megan feels so much. My pain is her pain. It reflects in her eyes so delicately that it twists a knife in my heart. I got back from my skydiving training trip and she cried the second she saw me walk through the door. She’d been waiting by the window. I think it was tears of relief, but I’m never sure anymore. She’s distraught more than she’s happy. I’m confused more than I’m moving forward.
I keep things from her in an effort to protect our paper-thin bond. Carina is on her way over to my house right now. We’re going to continue the interview in a less public venue. It was her idea to meet at my place, and I wasn’t in any position to tell her no. Megan is in Georgia visiting her parents this weekend and essentially, I’m chomping at the bit to see Carina—to talk to her more.
When the doorbell rings I jump out of my skin. As Carina walks in, shoulders slumped and head down. I try not to look at her in any other way but friendly. “We have an hour,” she says matter-of-factly, smiling weakly as she turns back to face me. “If you have any monumental stories like last time, we should get to them first things first.”
I can’t help but return the grin. She’s straight to business. A fact that should please me given our circumstances.
Carina starts unloading her leather bag.
“I started with the bombshell—literally, in our first meeting. Hopefully everything that follows will be breezy,” I say.
She nods in return. She’s hoping for more.
My nightmares returned the night after I recounted my story. I’ve been told most people have false bad dreams—scenarios of an awful caliber that would never happen in real life. My nightmares, bless them, are the actual night the mortar launched into our world, destroying it completely. Henry’s smiling face as he joked about something he had for lunch. The green, watercolor screensaver on my open laptop; my hands, my scar-free hands clutching the rail of the top bunk as the whistle of the mortar pierced our senses. Reality forms my nightmares and it’s always too much to bear. I wake up in a cold sweat, praying for my amnesia to take something else. It never does.
As I close the front door, I catch sight of my neighbor across the street. Damn Mrs. Waters. She waves at me stiffly, her unruly gray curls peeking out of the bottom of her huge gardening hat. I put my palm up quickly and shut the door. She thinks the worst, and I can’t blame her. Mrs. Waters, like most women her age, lives for the daily gossip. I’ll have to tell Megan about the meetings. It’s not a conversation that will be easy, nor one she’ll understand, but my neighbor just made it mandatory.
Carina is perched on my sofa, eyeing one of the dozens of photo albums Megan leaves out. To help me remember. It’s Megan trying to forget. “Go ahead. Take a look. It’s part of my therapy.” I air quote the last word. Gently, Carina slides the album closer and opens it up. “My fiancée is a photo aficionado,” I explain. “I think she documented every single moment since we first started dating.” I laugh. Mostly, because it doesn’t make one damn bit of difference. The photos could be of strangers for all that they mean to me.
She looks up at me confused. “The photos are all in black and white.”
“Ah. Yes.” I swallow down the lump in my throat. It lodges there for several reasons.
Carina asks, “Why?”
I sit down next to her. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“Sure, water. Please. I’ll still want to know why, though. Are all of these albums in black and white?”
I glance at the photo she’s examining. It’s me carrying Megan in my arms. Running away from the camera into the ocean. Her blond hair cascades down over one of my arms. The caption explains it’s a vacation cruise stop.
Heading for the kitchen, I nod, knowing she can see me. “Black and white lasts forever, Carina.” I chuckle under my breath. “It’s more permanent in some finite way, I suppose. That’s how Megan explained it anyway. My memories are gone, but they’re still there. On those pages. Color fades, sort of like memories. Black and white, though?”
“Is forever,” she finishes for me.
I laugh once more.
“That’s not funny. It’s actually quite romantic,” Carina says, closing the thick book. Folding her hands in her lap, she fumbles with her tape recorder and scratches a few lines down in her notebook.
I scratch the side of my head. “Is it really that romantic, though?” I hand her the water with my question. I tap the linen cover of another album sitting on a side table. “These books don’t contain my love story. Not anymore.”
She unscrews the cap and takes a long sip, her almond eyes focused on my face. “When you put it that way, I guess it’s tragic. I understand why she does it, but as a woman, I think deep down these photos are more for her. At this point anyways.”
I grin. “You stole my thoughts. I humor her. She’s a beautiful, kind woman. I love her in a different way now. I respect her.”
“I can tell,” Carina says, tabling the water and leaning back into the sofa. It’s a light brown leather that Megan
and I chose a few years back. I don’t like it any longer. “She’s a very lucky woman.”
I sit in a chair opposite her and lean back, folding my arms behind my head. “Some would argue that, but thank you.”
Her gaze draws to my forearms. That’s all it takes to get the conversation back on track.
Carina presses the record button. “Okay, Smith. Tell me why you joined the military. Make it good.”
I laugh, and it brings a beautiful smile to her face. She shakes her head as her gaze darts down to her hands. Her black eye is healed. Her olive complexion is even and smooth. The way it should always be. She has the type of skin that doesn’t blush, but it scars easily. That I’m sure of. “I was eighteen and I wanted to kill Bin Laden,” I say.
Carina tilts her head shyly. “I think that’s why most our age got into the military.”
I sigh. “It is and it isn’t. I wanted to make a difference. In what way can a solitary man make a difference in the kind of world we live in? Truly, though. I went through many options when I was deciding how best my one human soul could affect the world the greatest. When I realized there’s no way for me to cure cancer in one lifetime, or solve the world’s greatest problems in one lifetime, the answer was easy. Join the Navy. Become a Navy SEAL. Make a difference with my brothers beside me. Try to rid the world of bad one bad guy at a time. It’s a daunting concept if you really think of it.”
Carina’s eyes are wide and enrapt. I smirk. She swallows. “Daunting how?” she asks, voice small.
“Trying to make a difference by chipping away at a huge stone with a toothpick. I know I won’t live to see the end of this conflict. Knowing that and having that knowledge, is overwhelming. I wish I could do more.” I open my arms to the side and clasp my hands between my knees. “I want to save the world.” I want to save you.
“What a philanthropic heart you have, fine sir.” Carina crosses her legs at the ankle and shifts on the sofa. My gaze draws down, but I quickly look away.
Black and White Flowers (The Real SEAL Series Book 1) Page 4