Semper Mine

by Lizzy Ford

  “You have to wear yours. We’re a team,” Jacob says firmly.

  I laugh, not expecting to have left such an impression on them. I pin the spider to the collar of my long-sleeved polo.

  “What did you bring us?” Jenna asks.

  “Nothing, sweetheart. Not this time,” I reply, smiling.

  “Will you next time?”

  “From Iraq?” I ask skeptically. “What do you want?”

  “A camel,” Morgan replies instantly.

  “Desert spider,” says Jacob.

  “Maybe …” Jenna is thinking hard. “A pyramid. A little one.”

  “Those might be a little bit much,” a woman says from behind them. “I heard a lot about you, Captain Mathis. I’m Morgan and Jacob’s mother, Teresa.”

  I stand to shake her hand.

  “They had quite the time at camp this summer.”

  “They’re good kids,” I reply, smiling.

  “Jacob’s talked about nothing but becoming a Marine like Captain Mathis when he grows up. You helped them through a rough patch. I appreciate it.” She smiles at her kids.

  “It’s my pleasure,” I respond.

  “Are you coming back next summer?” Jenna asks, large eyes on me expectantly. “You can sneak us bacon.”

  “More bacon, more laps,” I remind her.

  She sighs.

  “I’m okay with that,” Jacob says. “As long as you’re there.”

  “We’ll see,” I reply. “It’ll depend on my schedule.”

  They don’t seem too happy with that caveat. I can plan my career up to retirement but nothing outside. I’d like to say yes. I’m not about to give them false hope if Katya wants me gone for good.

  “Are you going to see the animals?” Jenna asks.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll go with you.” She takes my hand.

  It still feels weird holding the soft, tiny hand of a kid. The three walk with me towards the petting zoo, stopping to marvel at the rabbits wearing Santa hats. I spot Riley, Petr, Carson and his plus one, and the small shape of Katya on the balcony. Her back is to me, and she’s wearing a maroon, crushed velvet dress that falls above her knees and a Santa hat.

  Seeing her makes me want to hurry the kids. My gaze skims down her feminine shape. Warmth races within me.

  It’s like I just saw her. No part of me believes it’s been a few months since we last interacted.

  It’s not the sign I was hoping for. Or maybe it is. It’d be nice to have a conversation with her that doesn’t end in one of us upset. I don’t know if that’s possible when I always have such a strong reaction to her.

  “Jacob, keep an eye on Jenna,” I say to the boy. “I’ve got to say hello to Ms. Khavalov.”

  “Okay.”

  I’m not certain he heard. His attention is on Christmas rats pulling a miniature sled. Not too concerned, I make my way to the group on the balcony overlooking a Christmas maze. My adrenaline is spiking the way it does in battle and around Katya.

  “Hey, Sawyer.” Petr grins. “Good to see you.”

  I nod and join the circle.

  “I see they found you.” Riley indicates the spider.

  “Yeah, they did.”

  Katya is watching me. I glance at her.

  Fuck me. She’s more beautiful every time I see her. I always tell myself I’m not going to let her gorgeous hazel eyes draw me in. And every time she does. Her delicate features are lightly flushed, her gaze unreadable. For the first time since meeting her, I have no fucking clue where I stand.

  “So you do like cookies,” she says. Her gaze is on the cookies on a napkin in my palm.

  “We all live for cookies overseas,” Riley says and takes one of mine.

  Her gaze sharpens. “Petr says you don’t. It’s why I stopped sending them.”

  “I don’t like cookies,” Carson says.

  She glares at him.

  Carson steps back and grins. “I think I hear the cocoa calling me.”

  “Ah … yeah. Maybe I don’t either.” Realizing his mistake, Riley replaces the half-eaten cookie on my napkin. “I think I need some cocoa, too.”

  Katya raises an eyebrow at Petr, who is trying not to smile.

  “So, ah, good to see you here, Sawyer,” he says while backpedaling. “I’m going to make a strategic retreat before my sister body slams me.”

  All four of them escape, leaving me with Katya. She gazes up at me, and I can tell she’s as lost as I am right now.

  “No one else will tell you this, but your cookies are terrible, Katya,” I tell her.

  “Your text etiquette is worse! What is this, Sawyer?” She pulls her cell out and shows my message to me. “You don’t call, don’t text, don’t write …” She’s trying hard to keep the mood light and then flushes. “Well you did write, but …” She clears her throat.

  “Want to start over?” I ask with a half smile.

  “Yes.”

  We gaze at one another in heavy silence. Any hope I had of not being attracted to her, of not thinking she was the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, vanishes when I’m standing before her again. From the plump lips to her flushed cheeks, I can’t stop scouring her features, trying to memorize them so next time, I’m not caught off guard by her looks.

  “Do you want to have coffee or something?” I ask, unaccustomed to feeling so awkward around anyone.

  “Yes,” she replies. “I, um, can’t now. I’ve got to keep an eye on this.” She motions to the club.

  “Petr told me you set it up.”

  “Do Marines like Christmas?” she asks archly.

  “Yeah. And this is amazing.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” She smiles, pleased. “Maybe after this is over?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can I give you a time range or will that make your head explode?”

  I laugh.

  “I can text you.” There’s an odd look on her features that I can’t read. “Are you staying at the house?”

  “I am.”

  “Good.” Her voice is soft. She’s staring at me. “I mean … better than destroying the environment driving somewhere in your truck.” Her blush is getting deeper. “Or something. You always do this to me, Sawyer.” Anger flares in her gaze. “You’re so calm! Just when I start to think …” With a sound of frustration, she moves away, thoroughly flustered.

  Smiling, I watch her. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge me again.

  For some reason, it makes me laugh. I have no idea what she started to say, but when Katya Khavalov is too emotional to talk, it means there’s something there.

  Something that gives me hope that my trip back wasn’t for a few nights of drinking and French toast. Something that tells me I better know what I want in my life, if I sit down for coffee with her, because things will only escalate from there.

  For once, I don’t mind adjusting the career path I’ve carefully laid out, not if she wants to be a part of my world. There’s a shit load of questions to answer before it’s a possibility.

  But I’m willing to consider the option that I might need to make a change to where I’m going in life. Our first meeting gives me a good idea of how this is going to play out. What I’m not sure about: if Katya’s figured it out yet or not.

  Chapter Twenty Two: Katya

  The nervousness I experienced about running the event is nothing compared to the emotions flying through me at the prospect of having coffee with Sawyer. I still can’t quite believe he’s here. Or that he actually spoke to me.

  He even smiled. Not the terse one he used to give me at camp, but a real one, like he gives others.

  After my letter to him, I didn’t think it was possible for us to meet again without there being too much bad blood between us. He was so calm and contained, though, I have no idea what he’s thinking. So he asked me for coffee. Maybe he’s being polite, for Petr’s sake, wanting to rebuild a bridge that can at least hold our weight so we don’t upset my brother. />
  I can’t read too much into this. If nothing else, coffee might give me the ability to say a few things I’ve been rolling around in my head. Closure.

  Then it hits me; he’s looking for closure, too. It dampens my spirits but does nothing to stop the fever inside me or the fact I have trouble focusing long enough to think straight.

  His smile and the way he regarded me with familiar intensity …

  It’s too much to think about.

  The rest of the day flies by. On the ride home, I’m trying to figure out if I want to text him now or wait until I get back. I don’t want to seem either eager or the opposite, unwilling. Because I’m dying for some time with him and dreading it at the same time.

  Disgusted with the emotions I thought had somewhat under control, I tuck the phone in my purse without texting.

  The party is raging out back when I get there at eight. The evening schedule was a formal dinner and after-party style night. Open bar, electronica blasting, a dance floor on the back lawn …

  My old scene. I wind my way through the crowd onto the deck, where couples are snuggled up together around fire pits. They appear cozy and happy. I’m trying to figure out if I’d ever be that relaxed around Sawyer when I trip over my own feet.

  I catch my balance, tug off the high heels and continue through the kitchen and up the back stairs. Padding down the hallway where my room is, I frown when I see my door open. I walk in and toss my jacket and shoes on the bed. The closet light is on.

  “Petr!” I complain before I get there.

  “Just showing Sawyer the ammo depot,” he calls cheerfully.

  He calls my shoe closet the ammo depot, because of how well I throw shoes when I’m pissed. I’m not sure if he’s seriously proud of the fact he organized it alphabetically by designer a few weeks ago or if he’s messing with me. Having him home is great, except for the fact that he is always straightening up everything of mine. I like my messes the way they are.

  “I don’t think Sawyer is interested in my shoes,” I retort and enter, crossing my arms.

  “It’s fascinating,” Petr replies.

  I have a couple hundred pairs of shoes, if not more. They’re over by the Jimmy Choo rack.

  “This pair cost half what my Land Rover did,” Petr says picking up a rare pair.

  “Definitely couldn’t buy these on a captain’s salary,” Sawyer mutters.

  “I buy my own shoes!” I snap. “I have a trust fund.”

  “This is what you use it on?” Sawyer glances at me. His intent gaze lingers. The combination of his chiseled features, direct look and the cling of his dark sweater to his lean frame cause the base of my belly to grow warm.

  It’s something like his reaction to my shoes that indicates we might be too far a part for any bridge to connect us. I’m not sure how to answer. Or even if I can right now. I’m staring at his body.

  “The good thing is that you don’t have to buy her shoes on your salary. Her trust fund will last a few lifetimes,” Petr says. “You’ve got one thing going for you at least.”

  We both look at him. My brother sounds crazy right now. He’s definitely not helping the growing tension.

  “Just in case anyone was wondering.” Petr shifts uncomfortably.

  I roll my eyes and leave them in my shoe closet. God knows why anyone but me is interested in my collection. Snatching clothes to change into, I escape to my bathroom and swap out the dress for jeans, grateful to be back in comfy clothing after the long day.

  My phone chimes, and I glance down. My stomach flutters to see Sawyer’s name pop up.

  Coffee/cocoa on the deck, 5 min?

  Part of me wants to mess with him and say I need at least seven minutes.

  Another part wants to run down now and melt in his arms.

  “What is wrong with me?” I’m twenty-five and feel like I’m fifteen.

  I don’t answer but end up rushing anyway, the way I did at camp when he told me to hurry and I told him I had no intention of doing so.

  In a sweater, jeans and ballet-style shoes, I head downstairs. My hands are clammy, my blood humming with hope, dread and disbelief.

  Sawyer is seated at one of the fire pits, two mugs of steaming cocoa in his hands. I draw a deep breath of the chilly winter air and the scents clinging to me from the event before approaching with what I hope is calmness.

  I sit down beside him, too aware of the distance between our legs, the firm shape of his swimmer’s thighs.

  He offers me a mug, and I take it wordlessly.

  I’ve had a list of things I wanted to tell him, if I ever had the chance. I can’t think of one of them right now.

  In fact, I can’t think of anything to say. I give him a sidelong glance. He’s always so calm and put together. Is he anywhere near as nervous as I am?

  Nope. Not Iceman.

  Frustrated, I take a sip of cocoa and glance at his. He hasn’t drunk any, and he’s gripping it tight enough for his knuckles to be white. I realize he’s a little uneasy, though I’m not sure how to take it.

  “So … how’s life?” I ask finally, needing something to fill the silence.

  He meets my gaze, brow furrowed, like I’ve asked him what his shoe size is instead of the more general question.

  I laugh, a little giddily.

  “We were never good at small talk,” he replies. Setting the cocoa by his feet, he reaches into his pocket. “I brought you something.”

  I can’t imagine what he might have. He holds out his closed fist, and I set down my cocoa and hold out my hands.

  He drops dog tags into my palm. I lean forward, towards the fire, to see the name stamped on them better.

  Mikael N. Khavalov

  My breath catches. I read his name again.

  “I though you should have them,” Sawyer says softly. “Riley found them out on a mission recently.”

  I didn’t think it was possible for Sawyer to pull these emotions from me once more. I no longer feel anger but sorrow and an intense yearning to see my brother again. These are his. Something he touched, something he kept with him at all times.

  Something Sawyer knew would mean the world to me and brought them to me from all the way around the world.

  “Thank you.” I manage not to start crying. I can’t believe how sweet the gift is or how thoughtful Sawyer was to hang onto them.

  Leaning back, I wrap my hands around them. I wish they were big enough to hug. It takes me a moment to recover.

  “Let me guess – you came back to bring them to me.” I try to lighten the mood.

  “Something like that.”

  I sneak a look at him and find him gazing at me. Sawyer is so damn hard to read. I want to strangle him right now, because my emotions are completely at his mercy while he’s playing it cool.

  “You don’t approve of all my shoes, do you?” I don’t know where the words come from. I think I need to pick a fight. I do better when I’m mad at him.

  “If they make you happy, I don’t care,” he says then leans back in the chair. He rests his head against the edge, gaze on the fire.

  “You should’ve told Petr you were coming back,” I say. “How long are you staying?”

  “Two or three days.”

  “That’s it?” I’m embarrassed by the disappointment in my voice.

  He glances at me.

  “It’s a long trip back for two or three days,” I add quickly.

  “Yeah.” He’s amused.

  I’m struggling, and he’s got to be laughing internally. This coffee date isn’t working. I’m too stressed out.

  “Stop trying to be crunchy and relax,” he orders quietly.

  “I can’t relax!”

  “Let things unfold, Katya.”

  I don’t know what the hell that means, but fire is moving through me, along with anticipation. My face grows warm, and I decide there’s no really good response. I rest back in the bench.

  For a second or two, until I’m still long enough for my th
oughts to take off again.

  “No. I can’t do it,” I say, straightening. I face him and brace myself for what I have to say. “I owe you an apology.”

  He’s listening. I can’t look at him. This is hard enough.

  “I can’t even list the things I need to apologize for. There’s too many,” I add with a frustrated sigh. “But mainly I think it’s for … hurting you. I think, of everything, that’s what bothers me most. Because you didn’t deserve it, and I was angry. Well, I’m always angry. Totally different topic, but I was wrongfully angry this time. And I made a promise that if I ever saw you again, I’d tell you that I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Katya.” He takes my hand and squeezes. “I understand the grieving process.”

  “That’s a terrible answer.”

  “What would you rather I say?” he asks, chuckling.

  I consider, afraid anything I say is going to dive back into the deep end. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Normally, I relish it, but tonight … with him … and me not knowing if he feels anywhere near what I do …

  I’m tired of being hurt. I don’t want to risk my heart and soul tonight and end up devastated.

  “Make it up, like we did introductions at camp,” he suggests.

  I don’t know why it makes it seem easier, but it does. “So, fictional Katya apologized, and Sawyer forgave her. Even after the horrible letter she wrote, the way she pissed him off every time they met, the fact she didn’t try to contact him for five months, and will probably argue with him the end of the world. She did a ton of stuff that just totally irked him, like collecting shoes worth more than his truck.”

  He’s smiling.

  “But he also knew she’s she’d come around and realize what they had or could have, so he wasn’t about to give up on her. One day, he traveled thousands of miles to visit her, to see if maybe, just maybe she …” feels the same way he does. I stop, the story becoming too personal.

  He sits up, still holding my hand. “Finish it.”

  “… wanted to have coffee.”

  He eyes me.

  “Oh, you wanted a different ending?” I ask sweetly. “Maybe they can have tea.”

  “All right. I’ll play.” He pauses to think before speaking. “While fictional Sawyer was playing games with Katya, she was thinking about the gift she sent him, whether or not he received it. She’d sent it after months of silence, because she wanted him to know he wasn’t alone, to remind him that there are people who care about him, even if he was determined to spend the holidays in Iraq. Because secretly, Katya kinda likes him, enough to hope she saw him again and that the next time they met, maybe, just maybe they could escape somewhere where it was just them and…” He pauses dramatically.