“Oh, good,” I say, when I open the door to Sean. “My groceries.”
He has four large, reusable sacks full. Walking into my kitchen, he sets them on the counter and turns to face me. I lost power for several days after the attacks and I’ve slowly but surely built back up my freezer stash by the way of Sean’s trips.
“How was the store,” I ask. “Is it still terrible out there?”
“You’re going to have to go out eventually, Carina.”
I start unpacking bags. “Don’t you start, too. I hear it all day on the news. I should go shopping like a million people didn’t die in horrific fashion, mind you, mere weeks ago. Don’t you tell me to return to normal life when I have to keep a pile of cash stuffed under my mattress.”
My writing is the only normal I’ve established.
“I started your car again,” he says, voice monotone.
“Thank you, Sean. I’m sorry. I’m in a mood right now.” Because Roarke, I want to scream. How dare that rat bastard try to take anything else from me? Another breath would be asking too much. I’m so mad I’m practically seething.
He clears his throat. “Perhaps if you changed out of your pajamas you’d feel better?”
My cloud of anger abates a touch.
“Hey!” I shout. “This is a dress. It’s as long as a dress, anyways.” I smile from ear to ear. “I was thinking of visiting Megan. Jasmine said she’s been transferred to a wing of the hospital that can have visitors now,” I explain. Looking down at my bag of canned vegetables and fruits, I get even angrier. Fresh produce is a thing of the past. The TV tells me it won’t be long before the farmers are up and on the roads again transporting their goods to stores, but it feels like it’s been forever. These are the new First World problems.
“Is that a good idea? Why don’t you start with the grocery? The hospital is still pretty awful. The structure dismantled fully. You remember how many beds they had in a room when you were there. It’s just as bad as when you left.” No corner of the world was left unscathed, copiously so.
I open up the bag of bread and shove a slice into my mouth. It’s white bread, so it sticks to the roof of my mouth. “I don’t know why I was lucky. Why her and not me?” My words are jumbled because of the food.
“God wanted you to OD on carbs. And luck has nothing to do with it,” Sean says. “Have you heard from Smith?” An unwelcome change of subject. Awesome.
I shake my head. “Nope. Still nothing. And I think that’s why I’m going crazy.”
Cracking open a bottle of water, I drink half and set the bottle on the counter next to the other twenty or so empty bottles. No recycling trucks are running. Garbage pickup resumed shortly after the attacks in an effort to keep society clean. The reminder of yet another way my life has been upheaved pisses me off. I knock the bottles over like damn bowling pins. “You’d feel better if you left the house. It’s scary, but at least it’s real. Sitting here and pretending isn’t doing yourself any favors.”
“It’s how I’m coping. Not even a single email telling me he’s alive. Not a text message. Nothing. Is this real?” I ask, waving my arm out to the side. Our cozy house, our life so briefly lived. “Because it feels like a fucking joke. A cruel fucking joke!”
Sean hangs his head. “I’ll see you in a couple days. Call. Email the work address if my cell doesn’t work, or tell Jaz what you need, okay?”
I feel like a jerk. “I’m sorry, Sean. I’m spun up today.” I make a move to approach him.
Sean throws both hands out, palms facing me. I halt in my tracks. “I get it. It’s fine. Everyone is on edge. It’s understandable. Just remember who’s here for you,” Sean says, walking away from me. His hand on the doorknob, he turns his head to the side. “I’ll be here for you as long as you want me to.” He opens the door, shuts it, and then uses his key to lock up behind himself.
I think this is when I realize everyone else knows something I don’t. Smith and I are over and I’m the last person to figure it out.
Chapter Twenty
Carina
ANOTHER THREE WEEKS PASS and I haven’t heard from him. The infrastructure of America is making progress in small increments—a slow moving process, or so we’re being brainwashed to believe. I’ve visited the grocery store and the salon. My friend, who is a hairdresser, opened her salon for a half day once a week to ease back into life. I figured it was as good a time as any to dip my baby toe back into the new real world. Today I’m headed to the hospital to see Megan.
I’ve put the errand off for so long that now it’s awkward. Then, by calling it awkward I’ve also labeled myself important. It’s a serious case of self-contrived bullshit. I dwelled with the decision for so long, that it came back full circle, and here I am heading in the hospital’s direction, my hands on the steering wheel at ten and two.
Driving is scary. There are road blocks and guard checks every few miles along the freeways. It makes traffic almost unbearable. The radio has the same feed as the televisions and it barks out orders about curfew and the importance of adhering to our new, normal rules. I turn it off as I enter the crowded parking lot. Cars are parked everywhere in a haphazard nightmare. There weren’t enough spaces, so visitors park wherever they find an empty spot. The curbs and sidewalks are lined with cars and the grassy area in between lots is slammed full. There is no way I’m going into the parking garage. Not today, and maybe not ever again.
The empty space I find is at least a mile away from the hospital. Sweaty and out of breath, I show my driver’s license, walk through a metal detector, sign in at a security checkpoint, and then sign in at the hospital’s front desk to obtain my visitor’s pass. A gruff nurse with a wart on her chin directs me to the area where Megan is. I focus on my breathing as I ride the humid elevator up to the fourth floor and turn down a barely lit hallway. The faint scent of antiseptic and blood clings to the air, tainting my oxygen and reminding me why I’m here. She’s inside the last room on the right. There are more beds shoved inside the space than should be, but it’s still easy to spot Megan right away.
A large, hunched male figure is slumped over, resting on the side of the bed by her thighs. My heart catches in my throat and the scent of rubber gloves and betrayal mix with the former smells, and I throw a hand over my mouth. My stomach flips.
“Carina,” Megan says.
I gag. It is perfect timing, really. Her face has healed by leaps and bounds since I last saw her. The blond, silken perfection that she calls hair is patchy, but returning to its former luster. I plaster a weak smile on my face and walk toward them.
He lifts his head. “What are you doing here?” he asks, lifting one brow, his face washed out with confusion and accusations.
I sigh. “Moose.” I let my shoulders slump in relief. Not that I have any right to be relieved, but it gives me some piece of hope. Hope of what, I’m still not sure. “I wanted to see how you were doing,” I direct at Megan.
She smiles and the warmness draws me nearer, like a moth to flame.
“I didn’t know I had to go through you to see her,” I say, flicking my gaze to Moose. Huge arms on the bed and his looming size force the image of a watchdog to mind. Moose loves Megan. It’s so clear to see. Does she? Or is it blatantly ignored in favor of a past nothing can compare with?
He leans back in his metal chair and folds his arms behind his head. “You don’t need my permission. I figured you’d want to see Smith. That’s all.”
The room spins. His words seem a different language for a beat or two. “What do you mean see Smith? I haven’t even heard from him.” Saying his name out loud brings a whole new set of emotions. I can practically feel him here with me.
Megan coughs, then grabs her side as she winces, her pretty nose scrunched up just so. Moose lays a hand on her arm in what I think is a comforting gesture. “He left here just before you walked in. He’s headed to your house,” Megan says.
“Oh my gosh,” I whisper, slumping down into an empty cha
ir on the other side of her bed. “Why didn’t he call me? I didn’t know. How could I possibly know?” A tear sneaks out. “How long are you guys back for?” I ask. Dread turns to panic when I gauge Moose’s appearance for the first time. He’s tired—dark circles look drawn underneath his drooping eyes. His T-shirt is stretched out and his jeans look five days worn. I close my eyes.
“We leave again soon. In hours, not days,” Moose says.
I won’t make it back in time. There’s no way. The traffic. The security check points. It’s futile.
“For how long?” My voice cracks. “How long will you be gone this time?” I forget to breathe, so I place a hand on my stomach and force my exhale to move it in toward my body.
Megan takes my hand. “Thank you for coming. I understand if you want to leave, Carina.” Her nails are absent of polish and the red scars are almost completely healed. They remind me of Smith’s scars. Smith. My heart cracks into two.
“Why did he come here first?” I ask. Either Megan’s or Moose’s reply will satisfy me. They don’t reply, but they do share a look that scalds me to the core.
“It’s not my place to say,” Moose responds. I think it’s mostly so Megan doesn’t have to, and he’s all about sparing her any grief or pain. I hear the patient in the bed next to Megan laugh and it makes me enraged.
With a small squeeze she says, “This is part of it. You’re not familiar with the deployments and his absence, but it’s part of loving him. You have to trust that everything will be the same when he comes back. If you don’t then you’re wasting your time.” She swallows, and I can tell it is painful. “Even if you know nothing will ever be the same you have to allow yourself to believe it will.” How morbid. How unromantic. This isn’t anything how I pictured our relationship. Or lack thereof.
I close my eyes once again. To think about Smith and to block out her pain. “He hasn’t called me once. He hasn’t emailed me once. I didn’t know if he was dead or alive. He came here before he came home. What am I supposed to make of that?” Now I’m angry. “How can everything eventually be the same when a person is gone? No communication?”
“It’s like riding a horse,” Megan says, nodding her head. She’s trying to comfort me and something about it irks me. “He comes back and everything falls back into place until the next deployment comes around.” I should want her advice. She has firsthand knowledge I don’t, but I can’t get the image of Smith here, visiting her, out of my mind. I thank her for her advice and wish her well. I tell her I’m sorry and I’ll never forgive myself for choosing the left side of the table. She tells me not to worry over it another second, because that’s just how she is.
“I should go. Where are you flying out of? Any chance I can catch him there?” I ask, turning for the door.
Moose shakes his head and explains they’re flying out of the airport on base. No one is allowed except those authorized, and with the heightened security there is no way they would make an exception. I rush out of the door and hold my breath all the way to the elevator.
“Wait up, Carina,” Moose says, coming up behind me. “I want to talk to you.”
“We just talked,” I reply.
He sighs and leans both palms against the wall next to the elevator. “It’s better if you miss him right now. He’s not himself,” he says, chancing a glance in my direction.
That makes me want to see him even more. “What’s wrong with him?”
“You know he’s the most loyal and honest person I’ve ever met. That’s no secret. It’s deeper than what it seems on the surface. After Henry died, he promised to live a life in his honor, to warrant barely escaping a fate he thought he deserved. I guess, right now you could say he’s in the largest moral dilemma of his life,” Moose rasps. Taking a deep breath, I wait for him to finish. “He’s wrapped himself in work so completely that it’s no surprise you haven’t heard from him. He loves you, Carina. Remember that, okay? He’s not even calling his parents.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” The elevator pings open and I step in quickly. What would I say to Smith if I could talk to him face to face? Would I fall into his arms and forgive him because of all he’s dealt with? I’d like to hope I wouldn’t. I’ve grown stronger than that. “Do you know how my mind has played tricks on me all this time? I doubted he even existed. Sometimes I even wondered if claiming me was a fun game. Make Carina fall in love with me, have sex with her…finally, and then pop smoke,” I say, stabbing a finger in the air. It’s not Moose’s fault, but seeing him is as close to seeing Smith as I’ll probably get until God knows when.
He shakes his head. Standing in front of me in the elevator, the doors close behind us. “It’s not like that at all. Trust me. He’d be devastated if he heard you talking like this.”
“Him? Devastated? He came here to visit her before seeing me,” I say. Traitorous tears flood my vision. “I saw you hunched over her bed when I walked in and I thought it was him. I thought it was Smith. And that would make perfect sense. Then you looked up and I was relieved. Maybe for one more minute I could pretend he truly is still mine.” Sniffling, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand in the most ungraceful way possible. “He’s not mine, though, is he?” I turn my head to meet his eyes.
Moose winces, looks away, and then down at the floor. Shaking his head, he says, “He was never yours to take, unfortunately.”
An arrow shot directly into my heart would hurt less. “I have to go. Thanks for the talk.” He follows me out of the hospital and into the parking lot. I sense him close behind. “And for what it’s worth, I think you should tell Megan how you feel. She deserves more than an honor relationship.”
He stays silent, but still follows me all this distance out to my car. To make sure I get there safe, I assume. It irritates me, and at this point I’d do anything to hurt him the way he’s hurt me. Even if it’s truly Smith who has hurt me. The hot sun beats down as I stew with the words on the tip of my tongue and my heart hardening by the second. “I’ve got it from here,” I whisper, grabbing the door handle of my car to unlock it.
Moose clears his throat. “I respect Smith too much to ever pursue her in that way. I can be her friend. I can try to fit in the spaces that he’s left, but he’s all over her body. He owns every inch of her skin, her soul, her heart. Forever.”
An angry sob rises in my throat. “Never forever!” I yell, remembering the words Smith whispered before he left me alone in that hospital. “Forever doesn’t exist. Only dimensions of time that can be calculated by happiness or sadness. Sadness? That lasts forever. Happiness is never forever, Moose. It’s not. Don’t fool yourself into thinking any different. I got a few months of it, and I’ll take it for what it’s worth and move on. She won’t love him forever. Not after what he’s done. Reach out and take what you want. Not because I think it would make my life easier, but because who the hell knows how much longer we have on this planet.” I sob again and start my car with the door open. I point to the hazy, smoke covered sun. It still doesn’t look the way it did before.
Moose is leaning over, one hand on my side panel and one wrapped around the side of his head, soaking in my words of wisdom. Maybe someone will have a better day than I am. “I have to go. If there’s any chance of catching him, I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t try.” I close my door and roll my window down.
He’s still silent and stoic.
“Tell Megan I’m sorry and she’s beautiful, okay? This wasn’t how I envisioned this visit going.”
He nods. “Thanks, Carina.” A dimpled smile is the last thing I see before I pull away and head toward the freeway. I use my Bluetooth to call home and alternate with Smith’s cell phone dozens of times. The lines are down right now. It’s useless. With each security check I become more and more impatient. The officer that’s checking my trunk and back seat at the entrance to my neighborhood is friendly enough, but I might as well be spitting nails instead of pleasantries. It took two hours to cover several m
iles to home.
Smith’s truck isn’t in the driveway when I pull in. I cry some more and beat on my horn like a maniac. The radio blares some news about an imposter attack at the White House. The perpetrator didn’t get close, of course, but it’s still a suicide vest with intent to kill. I cry some more for the state of affairs that ripped my life apart. Pretending isn’t an option anymore. I exit my car with a face full of wet mascara and my oversized bag full of mace and empty notebooks.
The second I push open the door I smell him. Smith was here and the tragedy of that forces a pit in my stomach that powers me to a toilet to be sick. The house is warmer somehow. Complete. And he’s already gone. I can’t ask him anything. Or talk to him about how he’s doing. I can’t tell him about Roarke or Sean, or show him my new hair color. Truthfully, it’s as if a stranger passed through my home while I was out.
I open the door to the room where he keeps his gear. A few large Tupperware boxes have been shifted. I close the door quickly and head straight for my marker board to write down the title of the book. I know without a doubt what suits it best. With shaky hands and a red Expo Marker, I tell the world, and myself, too, what this story will be. After I write it down on the board I sit down to open my laptop to email it to Jasmine. It’s ready. I’m ready for her to see my scars. I’m ready for her to sell them to the highest bidder.
That’s when I see the letter. It’s one page, written in Smith’s neat scrawl on a piece of computer paper. It’s not folded. It’s sitting on my keyboard, sandwiched by the screen and the keyboard. “What have you done?” I ask him, as I glance over his words.
My beautiful, sweet, kind Care,
I missed you. I walked in to an empty house that felt like you. Missing you has been painful, but feeling you and smelling you and not seeing you is heartbreaking. I don’t have a lot of time as I’m headed out again, but I need to tell you a few things.
Black and White Flowers (The Real SEAL Series Book 1) Page 17