Havoc

by Angie Merriam

  “Yes, Sir,” I mask my pain once more and walk past Haven, eyes dead ahead on retrieving what I need from the garage, knowing that, if I meet eyes with her again, I might not be able to stop myself from breaking down.

  Outside, I focus my attention on the sun setting just behind the trees. I’m in total disbelief that today is actually happening. I've never had a day I wanted to escape from so bad in my entire life. And that says a lot. I have seen unneeded bloodshed, war, terrorism, yet I'm letting this day get the better of me? What is wrong with me? Sir was right. Marines do not behave this way.

  “Wanna talk about it?” Sir’s voice croaks from the doorway. He leans on the frame, one hand in his pocket, the other a home to a beer he offers to me.

  I need that beer, “Talk about what, Sir?”

  “What's clearly bothering you.” He steps out, shuts the door behind him, blocking out the chance of Haven hearing us, and hands me the beverage. I don't waste any time popping the top and taking a sip. If only this could make me forget this shittastic day.

  After a couple more long drinks, I stand up and relocate to the grill to check on the chicken. It's not ready for the BBQ glaze yet. Normally, it doesn't take this long to cook. Normally, it cooks too fast that I nearly burn it. How is it that, right now, it’s slow roasting like this day that I just can't seem to escape from.

  “Come on, Clint,” Sir says, sitting where I was and forcing me to remain standing.

  I place the beer beside the covered bowl of glaze that's waiting to be used. My arms fold across my chest as my eyes lock on Sir. He looks concerned. He looks as if he's worried about his son, not his solider. He's been looking more like that more often. I don't particularly give a shit for it. His chance to play father ended with Mom, maybe even before that. But, I can't help but wonder . . . What's causing him to shift? His new girlfriend hates kids, and Mindy's been failing at it for years. It couldn't possibly be Haven, could it? Geez, changing one Walker isn't enough—she wants to change us both?

  “Nothing major, Sir,” I do my best to brush it off with a shrug. “Rough day on base. Got in trouble at training. Mis-assembled my gun. Got my ass handed to me, Sir.”

  “Mind's been on Haven, hasn't it?” The accusation is one I can't deny. Her name makes the corner of my lip curl upward. Damn it. I simply nod. Leaning back, Sir sighs, “It's not that bad. I went through the same thing with your mom. The right woman will do that to you. It's like a huge storm going on inside your brain, but it'll pass, and you can resume to your duties as normal. Understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.” I nod and turn back around to tend to the chicken. Still not ready. Damn it.

  “And that thing with Howard?”

  The scumbag’s name makes me cringe. I pick my beer up, desperate to grip something so I don't punch anything. “What about him, Sir?”

  “I understand that, too.” Those words cause me to look over my shoulder, baffled. Yelling I was expecting. Another lecture on self-control, well-mannered behavior, proper solider conduct, but not that. “I once broke this prep school jerk’s nose and bruised his ribs for buying your mom a beer.”

  I turn my head back around to face the grill and smile, not really wanting him to see. At least I know where my hot temper might have originated from, well, before the years of shoving shit behind the brick wall.

  “I'm not condoning it,” he quickly clarifies. “I'm just saying I understand. I also know that there's more than you're letting on. I saw it in your eyes. So, be honest, Clint. It's more than just a bad day at work, a jackass hitting on your girlfriend, it's . . .”

  No response.

  “It's . . .”

  Silence.

  “It's . . .”

  Finally, the chicken is ready for me to glaze. I continue the silence. I paint the homemade sauce on top of the meat and stare at it sizzling away in front of me. All I want is for this day to be done. All I want is to forget that, a few days ago, I felt like I had it all, and now everything is slipping through the cracks of my existence.

  I decide to change the subject. “My orders got moved up today, Sir.” There's no response as I shut the lid on the grill and turn all the way around. I pick my beer up, “By a month.”

  He doesn't say anything. He merely stares on. It's as if, for the first time, he doesn't know what to say, or maybe he doesn't feel compelled to. He knows exactly what it feels like it. The number of times his deployment date changed was ridiculous. Mom never complained. She never held onto anger or gave him guilt him about it. She was always really great at accepting decisions revolving around his military career at face value. I hope Haven can learn to do the same thing, you know, once she's forgiven me for being a little irrational this afternoon.

  “I take it you haven't told Haven yet.”

  “No, Sir,” I finish up the last of the beer and set it down. “The whole Howard episode put a damper on that, Sir.”

  The smell of the chicken fills my nose. It's finally done. Smelling it himself, Sir rises to feet, steps over to me, places a hand on my shoulder, and insists, “Clint, do not wait to tell her.” After a single squeeze, he opens the glass door back to the kitchen, leaving me alone to load the chicken onto the serving dish.

  I know I shouldn't wait to tell her, but it's hard to explain to someone you love you're now leaving earlier when she isn’t even talking to you. When she can't stand the sight of you. When she can't even stomach the idea of you.

  Inside with dinner, my eyes zone in on Haven. It's the first time I've really gotten to enjoy her presence all day. I've dreamed about her the whole time I was gone, the way her hair falls in her face, the way her eyes lighten when she laughs, the way she fiddles with the ends of her hair when she's giddy. Right now, none of that is even on the horizon. Her face looks solemn, her hair pulled away from it, her attention focused on her plate. She's probably thinking about how much she hates me. I promised myself I would never be the reason she looks the way she does right now. A Marine is only as good as his word, so I guess that makes sense today. Piss poor words. Piss poor Marine.

  Sir tries to break the mood. “A meal in silence?” Neither of us respond. “No one is going to say anything to each other?”

  She finally looks up, and our eyes meet. For a just a second, I think I see a light at the end of this terrible tunnel.

  “Fine. I'm heading out for the night.”

  While he clears his plate, I stutter, “Excuse me, Sir?”

  “While your tiff is one that I would be glad to referee, neither of you are talking. And I don't have all day to sit around and wait for you to discuss the problems at hand like adults.”

  I know what he's getting at. He wants me to tell her the things I told him. He wants me to tell her what's going on, right here, right now, so he can lend her support, an explanation that that's how military life works sometimes.

  “You wanted this,” Sir's eyes land on me. “You begged for it. This moment. Right here. This is what relationships are about. There's more to them than hand holding and baseball games. Here, Clint. Here is where you sink or swim. Deal with it.”

  My eyes lower at the words I used at him just a couple days ago. I am an adult. I can handle my own problems without his help. I've done it for the last eleven years. I sure as hell can do it now. I can do another thirty if I have to. I don't need him. Not now. Not ever. Even if it was nice to have a little perspective from him that I've never seen before.

  “I have a date.” Sir heads to the sink. After the sound of running water hits the dish, he follows with, “And I will not be home until morning.”

  Sir grabs his keys and clarifies, “I do expect you on speaking terms when I return tomorrow.” He leans over, plants a soft kiss on the top of Haven's head, like she's the hurt one here. Like she's had a bad day. Like I'm not here for her when she really needs me to be. “Enjoy your night.”

  The door closes. It locks. Why can't I lock my brain down the same way? Separate what makes me Grim from everyone else. That's wh
o he expects me to be. That's who I need to be. That's the only man who can keep Haven safe. Not the dreamy hopeful child Slugger, not the absentminded, desperately-in-love Clint. I just need a minute to sort these things out from each other. A minute to breathe. A minute to focus. A minute to let the havoc die down. Just a fucking minute. I pick up my fork with my eyes planted on my food. Unfortunately, that's when Haven gets up to put her food in the fridge.

  She limps past me, her ankle still hurting, me still not being able to help her or tend to her needs.

  “You're not gonna eat?” I keep my voice calm and level, doing my best not to show weakness.

  “Not hungry.” The words are empty, as hollow as I'm feeling.

  Just like that, she's gone again upstairs to our room, leaving me alone once more. I slide my empty water glass over to me. This can't be happening. I can't have my life end up this way. I've had enough! I've had enough of all this bullshit! This feeling sorry for myself. Feeling angry about everything being out of my control. I can't take this river of rage constantly flowing from head to toe!

  Hastily, I stand up and throw my empty water glass across the room. It shatters against the wall, all the pieces raining down to the tile. My hands grip the back of my neck as I look at the mess I've made. Almost an exact replica of the mess I've made of my life. My personality.

  That's when it dawns on me like a knife wound in the side, sharp. Maybe the answer isn't putting back up the walls. Maybe it's shattering them. Maybe the answer isn't choosing to be Grim or Slugger or Clint. Maybe it's about making the tiny little pieces of my shattered life fit together in a new way. I can't just be one of them. I have to be all of them. And for God's sake, I hope that's something I can do. And someone Haven can love.

  After cleaning up the glass, I head upstairs to face my life head-on. Thankfully, the door is open. Even so, I knock.

  “You don't have to knock, Clint,” she rudely snaps. “It's your room.”

  “Excuse me, miss,” I pause to settle my emotions. “It's ours.”

  She plops down on the bed, still looking at me.

  Come on, Clint. You can do this. “About earlier.”

  “I'm not in the mood to listen to your excuses. I'm not in the mood to listen to how you just lost it for a second, Clint! The very first day I met you, terrified beyond words, clammed up, broken, damaged, you begged me to trust you.” Her fingers touch my tags. Our tags. “And I did. I have every day since, but for some reason, I don't get the same from you. I don't get the same from you! I wasn't even given a chance to speak up for myself earlier! You didn't even give me the chance, Clint!”

  “What do you expect from me?” Her words are tearing through me like shrapnel. “Tell me, Haven! What do you expect from me?”

  “I expect . . .” She seems taken off balance. Good. It's nice not to be the only one thrown off guard. “I don't know, more than you assuming that, because Howard and I are alone, because I am alone with another male, that I'm sleeping with him! And even if I was, though to be clear I'm not, what does it matter to you?”

  “What does it matter to me?” God, I hadn't even considered that she might have feelings for that maggot. It was never a possibility until she just said it. “What does it matter to me? What–”

  “Yes, Clint. I mean, I may be a little in the dark about some things, but I'm pretty sure hand holding, night snuggles, and passionate kisses don't make us a couple. I'm not even sure if they make us anything.”

  “You're not sure!” I shout, dizzy. Another problem with emotions, once they start spinning, they don't enjoy stopping. “God, Haven, I haven't so much as thought about another woman, barely other humans, since you walked into my life. And you're looking me in the face telling me you're not sure that means anything to you!”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “I'm in love with you! I've been in love with you since the moment your head fell on my shoulder and I felt a tear drop on it. I'm so head over heels, kick myself in the ass in love with you that I don't think straight! I have trouble remembering orders! I'm certain that, if I don't shut off my brain when I return to duty because I'm so engulfed with thoughts of you, I will get myself killed! Do you understand that?”

  “I–”

  “My world is you.” My body has somehow formed back into solider mode as if I'm pleading my case to the military court. To have them understand why I've been making mistakes. Pleading to my friends why I'm been blowing them off. “My first instinct is to protect you from anyone and everyone at all costs. No. What happened today was not rational, wasn't logical. It wasn't anything any Marine should ever do. Honestly, I've been trained by some of the best to make sure moments like that never happen. But with you, it doesn't ever make sense. I act first and think later.”

  Her eyes are filling with tears.

  “You're mine,” I simply shrug. “That's it. And I don't mean that in some sick, perverted way like that bastard who held you hostage. I mean that, with every bone in my body, as long as I walk this earth, Haven Davenport, you belong to me.” I walk straight over to her and throw myself to my knees at her mercy. “And I belong to you. Anything you want from me, anything you need from me, any part of me, big or small, is yours, whenever you call, whenever you ask. And even when you don't.”

  My eyes begin to burn. The feeling reminds me of when saltwater hits your eyes. The stinging is a realization that, in this moment of weakness, in this exposed-nerve scenario, my emotions can do more than show. They can do more than thrive. They can conquer. The tear on my eyelid is their flag of victory.

  She plants her forehead firmly against mine. “I love you too, Clint.” Thank God. “But I don't deserve you.”

  “Haven.”

  “No.” Her arms fall onto my shoulders. “I'm broken. I've been through so much and had so much taken from me. I'm not even sure I know how to love or that I deserve love, let alone the love you're willing to give me. I don't deserve this, Clint.”

  “Enough.” I shut her up. Any woman on this planet who can love the slices of myself, the ones I hate and the one I tolerate, isn't broken. She's not even earthly if you ask me. It takes a special kind of soul to love someone as damaged as me. An angel. How much more proof do you need? “You're perfect.”

  Quickly—after all, I've been waiting all damn day to do it—I kiss her. It's sloppy. Slippery. Hot. Desperate. A victory kiss. Both of us are winners, our prizes both a little damaged but perfect for each of us.

  35 Days Till Deployment

  Perfect. The day. The feel. The vibe. The shot. My entire life is perfect.

  “I see Grim got his guts back,” Glove gripes, removing his headphones and lowering his firearm. “Just when I was getting used to the idea of being the new Grim Reaper.”

  I chuckle, “Not in your wildest dreams, Glove, could you ever do half of what I do.”

  “Well, aren't we in a chipper mood?” Lordy sets his weapon down as well, and the targets move toward us, mine with all straight shots to the chest and head.

  “So.” My shoulders shrug as I admire my own handiwork. Ever since I confessed my feelings to Haven, I feel like a new man. I act like one too. Smiling without reason. Obeying Sir with more ease. Being better about separating duties and responsibilities from joys and pleasures. My life has order back in the chaos. I need that order.

  “Dry spell must be over,” Glove states, placing his weapon back in its case. Target practice is done for the day.

  “Why's it always about sex with you?” And, no, the dry spell isn't over. We've been tongue heavy, making out like teenagers with chastity belts on. No moves ever make it too far, no matter how much either of us desires more. I don't want to rush things with her. We did just admit we love one another out loud, but goddamn, if I don't taste more of her soon, I might be breaking glass out of sexual frustration this time.

  “Why is it never about sex with you?” Glove whines as Lordy chuckles, putting away his own gun.

  I snap my head at him, “And wh
y do you encourage him? You know he's like an oversized child.”

  “I am. And I like things that bounce and shake, if you know what I mean.” The description makes me lower my face as I disassemble my weapon and place it in its case.

  “Beer?” Lordy introduces the idea.

  “After,” I shut the case.

  “After what?” Their question in unison makes me roll my eyes. Too much time together. They should date each other.

  “I get my tattoo.”

  Glove growls, “We're not back to this again, are we?”

  “We're not back to this. This is what's happening,” I head toward the exit with them behind me.

  “This is a stupid idea.”

  “Don't start,” I turn around and point a stern finger.

  “And what are you gonna do? Get her name tattooed on you, show up, and say, 'Look, honey, I got your name on me, aren't I a romantic?'” Glove's impersonation of me stops me in my tracks.

  “I don't sound like that.”

  Lordy chimes in, “He's got a point though, Grim.”

  “Look, her birthday is coming, and I think it'll make a great gift.”

  “Can't you just be a normal guy and get her a crown or pony or something?” Glove's suggests.

  “She's not six, Glove.”

  “How are you gonna hide it?” Lordy's question doesn't seem like he's trying to stop me. “I mean, you see each other naked.”

  Actually, no, we don't. In fact, we don't even change in the same room. This simple fact has many downsides, all of which have parts of me turning blue, but I'm a gentleman. I'm respectful. She's been through enough, and having me hump her leg like a dog or Glove wouldn't help ease her into a more intimate situation. Patience is the key, though that key is getting worn as each hour passes by.

  “I'm sure I can sidetrack that for a few days.” It's bad enough they think I don't get laid enough. There's no way in hell I'm bringing up my sex life or lack thereof with them. It's not their place. And I don't have the tolerance for it.