Battle Scars

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “We’ll make it work,” he said, a mixture of confidence and despair etched on his face. “If we both want it, we’ll make it work.” He paused. “Do you want to, Maggie? Because I’ll understand if it’s too hard. Fuck, I know it’ll suck giant monkey balls being away from you.”

  “Of course I want it to work,” I whispered, cupping his unshaven cheek. “More than anything.”

  His smile was full of relief as I kissed him on those soft, sensitive lips.

  “Three thousand miles is just an inconvenience,” I said, trying desperately to make light of a miserable situation. “I’ll fly out as often as I can.”

  “Twice a month?” he asked hopefully.

  “Yes, if I can. Lots of people make long distance relationships work.”

  He kissed me back, an edge of desperation in that tender, heated, questioning kiss.

  But as it turned out, I was tempting fate.

  Laughing at Fate

  BACK IN NEW York, the sidewalk was hot beneath the thin souls of my sandals and the heated air smelled like burnt paper. I’d been telling myself that I could put up with missing Jack for another two weeks until I flew out to see him. I wasn’t sure I believed myself.

  Feeling glum, I’d arranged to meet up with an old friend, a fellow journalist, to cheer myself up. I was also hoping that she’d have some insight into my current situation.

  Lee Venzi had been a war correspondent and written some amazing articles during her embedment with troops in Sudan, Iraq and Palestine. Like me, she’d met a Marine out in Afghanistan while she was working, and now he was her husband and they had three children. The difference was that her husband was no longer serving.

  She was already in the coffee shop when I arrived, and she waved when she saw me.

  “Got you a caramel latte Frappuccino waiting!” she smiled. “How are you, MJ?”

  “Great, thanks! And you look amazing. I don’t know how you do it when you’re holding down a full time job, running a house, and you’ve got three kids.”

  “Having a young husband helps,” she laughed, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder. “Although Sebastian is more trouble than the rest of them put together.”

  I couldn’t help laughing with her. I’d met Lee’s husband once and had to admit he was pretty darned hot, but these days I thought that he looked more like a surfer than a Marine, with his curly blond hair and year-round tan. He was a personal trainer, and worked with a lot of injured vets and people with disabilities, something he had personal experience of since he’d been badly injured in Afghanistan and still walked with a limp. I also knew that he did some modelling on the side for charity. He was certainly good-looking enough.

  The man was a hot mess and a force of nature, but anyone who’d seen him and Lee together knew that they adored each other despite the difference in their ages.

  “How is Sebastian?”

  “A pain in the ass,” she laughed. “And wonderful. Wonderfully annoying, annoyingly wonderful. Take your pick. He’s been working with a photographer named Michael Stokes on a new book, pictures of wounded vets.”

  “I know him. His photographs are amazing, really moving.”

  “Yes, they are. Sebastian hates showing his wounds, but that’s the focus of the book after all. Actually, that was something I wanted to talk to you about. Can you help with publicity at all?”

  I nodded.

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll get a piece in the news section as well as Lifestyles & Entertainment. That work for you?”

  “Perfect, thanks. By the way, great work on the Zataari story—it was so vivid. I just hope it does some good.”

  I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly.

  “Thank you. I hope so, too, but compassion fatigue, well, that’s another story. Oh, Marc Lebuin was out there. He says hi.”

  “Dear Marc! How is he?”

  I smiled, remembering the stresses and strengths of sharing a tiny tent with him.

  “The same. Totally focused, married to his work, although there was mention that he’s seeing a guy he met in Geneva. Could be the one. I get a good vibe from what he says.”

  “Ooh! Interesting! I’ll have to email him and find out. Now, what’s this I hear about you seeing a guy you met in Afghan?”

  I huffed quietly.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I talked to your PA, Allison. She couldn’t wait to tell me that there was a rather yummy new man in your life. So come on, spill.”

  I smiled and shook my head.

  “Okay, fine. I met him in Helmand. He saved my life, then chewed me out for putting myself and his team in danger. We got in a massive argument. We both apologized. I said I’d buy him a drink if he was ever in New York, and a couple of weeks ago he showed up out of the blue to collect on that.”

  She narrowed her hazel eyes at me.

  “That is a terrible story! Call yourself a writer? Don’t write romance novels, MJ, because you’d stink at it.”

  I laughed.

  “Okay, that’s the short version,” and I sighed, my smile falling away. “How do you do it, Lee? How do you handle being married to an ex-Marine? You’ve spoken about Sebastian’s issues with PTSD and that sounds really tough at times. I’ve never dated a guy in the military before. It’s unknown territory, and I have to say it’s a little scary. Or maybe it’s scary because he’s . . .”

  “Special?” she said gently. “You don’t have to say it, MJ, I can see it in your eyes. You really like this guy.”

  “I do,” I admitted. “I think . . . I know that I’m falling in love with him.” I gave her a wry smile. “Slightly inconvenient seeing that he’s 3,000 miles away in San Diego.”

  Lee gave a commiserating laugh and squeezed my hand.

  “Okay, well, here’s what I’ve learned: being a Marine wife 101. First, you don’t ‘handle’ a Marine. They’re a breed apart, different from any other man you’ll ever meet. They’re trained to be single-minded and focused, self-reliant to the extreme. That can make it hard to get through to them, difficult to make them share what they’re thinking or feeling. Can you handle that?”

  I thought about what she said. Lee had been married to Sebastian for several years and I knew that they had their ups and downs. It wouldn’t be easy, but I suspected I was already in too deep with Jackson to walk away.

  “Yes, I think so. Jack’s actually pretty open about what he feels. It’s . . . refreshing.”

  Lee’s eyes widened.

  “Then you’re already ahead of the game. Nice going, MJ. And I have to say, their single-minded focus has an upside, too.”

  “I think I can guess,” I grinned at her, “but tell me anyway.”

  She leaned forward, her lips pulling upwards in a conspiratorial smile.

  “It makes them very skilled lovers,” she said.

  I walked back to the office with a smile on my face. Talking things through with Lee had really helped clarify my thinking. She and Sebastian made time for each other and worked at being a couple, taking nothing for granted. So although she didn’t sugarcoat anything, I felt more confident that I could make things work with Jack, even though we were a long way apart. Yes, I worked for the New York Times, but these days, lots of correspondents worked from home rather than the office. Technically, I could work from anywhere.

  I was still thinking about that when I walked into the boardroom and took my seat for the monthly meeting with the editorial board.

  Dean Baquet, the Editor, called the meeting to order, and we discussed the way the paper was handling the Presidential elections and the coverage it was giving to both candidates. Then we moved onto overseas stories.

  At the end of the meeting, I had half a dozen assignments to organize and delegate to other, more junior writers, but as I left the table, Dean stopped me.

  “A word, please, MJ.”

  “Sure, Dean,” I said, surprised.

  “Good work on the Zataari stories. Very passionate. I liked
them a lot.”

  “Thank you!” I said, glowing with pleasure at his praise.

  Dean was a hard man to please, so hearing him say that he enjoyed my work was a big deal.

  “Did you hear that David Kirkpatrick is leaving the Cairo desk?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

  “No, I hadn’t heard that.”

  I knew David slightly. He’d been the Middle East correspondent for several years now, and he was a fine journalist, very well respected.

  “Yes, he’s coming back to the US—family reasons. He’ll be home by November.” He gave me a sharp look. “So . . . I’ve been following your work for a while now. Very impressive. The job is yours if you want it: Middle East correspondent, Cairo desk.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “You’re offering me David’s job?”

  He gave a thin smile.

  “Yes, I am. Some say it’s not job for a woman—I say you’re just the woman for the job.”

  I swallowed, my emotions thrown into chaos. It was everything I’d worked for, everything I’d ever wanted—until I’d met a certain blue-eyed Sergeant of Marines.

  “I . . . thank you,” I stammered. “Can I have some time to think about it? It’s a big step.”

  His lips thinned with disappointment.

  “Yes, of course. Think about it over the weekend. But don’t wait too long to say yes, Ms. Buckman. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day.”

  We shook hands and I left the office. My first instinct was to call Jack and tell him the news, but then I hesitated. I felt the foundations of our fledgling relationship shift, and I wasn’t sure what would happen next.

  Miles To Go Before I Sleep

  I NEEDED TO see Jack.

  We’d already planned for me to fly out to San Diego two weeks from now, but I couldn’t wait.

  I’d made a split-second decision, bought a ticket, and now I was packing a bag ready for my first trip out west to see Jack.

  When I phoned him with my flight details so he could meet me at the airport, I couldn’t keep the tension out of my voice.

  Three times he asked what was wrong.

  Three times I laughed and said, “What could possibly be wrong?”

  His tone was serious when he replied.

  “I don’t know, Maggie. You tell me.”

  We’d been apart for just over a week, and it had been one of the longest of my life. And now I had this huge decision burning a hole in my heart.

  “Jack, I’m coming to see you this weekend,” I said lightly, swallowing past the lump in my throat, “and I intend to spend as much naked time with you as possible.”

  He knew I was being evasive, but he didn’t try to force an answer out of me, although I could tell that he was disappointed. I wanted to tell him about my job offer, but face to face, not over the phone. I wanted to see his eyes when he heard my news. And ideally, I wanted to have made up my mind about what I was going to do before I saw him.

  Which sounds harsh, but I needed my head to make this decision, even though my stubborn heart kept shouting louder and louder.

  Eventually, he sighed and gave in.

  “I’ll be counting the hours, Maggie,” he said softly.

  “Me, too.”

  Because I knew how short time could be.

  My flight was delayed by over an hour, which wasn’t a great start to the weekend. But when I saw Jackson, my gut tightened with apprehension.

  He wasn’t in uniform, but there was no mistaking that he was military, a warrior.

  His arms were folded across his chest, and his lips were pressed together in a thin, hard line. And he looked pissed. Really pissed.

  He seemed tough and unapproachable, more like the man I’d met in Afghanistan than the one who’d worshipped my body with soft kisses and gentle words.

  The tide of travelers flowed around him as he stood granite-like, an island in a vast ocean of swirling humanity.

  I took a deep, shuddering breath as I watched him from a distance, my small suitcase weighing heavily in my hand like my doubts.

  I’d only brought carry-on luggage with me, so I’d be able to go right to him without wasting precious time, but now I wished I had a few more minutes to prepare.

  As soon as I took my first step forwards, Jackson saw me immediately, his eyes narrowing. There was no smile of greeting or happiness to see me.

  Time’s up.

  He unfolded his arms, his expression grim as he strode forward.

  “Did you fly three-thousand miles to break up with me, Maggie?”

  I froze, taken aback by the aggression of his words, by the pain hidden behind his expressionless face.

  I swallowed and forced myself to man—woman—up.

  “No. But you might want to break up with me.”

  He didn’t even blink, just the same stony stare boring through me.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Can we go get a coffee? And I’ll tell you everything.”

  “I think I’d like to hear it now.”

  A flare of irritation rushed through me, but I pushed it back.

  “Jackson, I’ve been on a stuffy, overheated plane for nearly eight hours—ninety minutes of which was spent sweating on the tarmac at JFK. I’m tired, gritty, and thirsty. I’d like to get a drink before I discuss my news with you.”

  His eyes softened and his head drooped.

  “Shit, I’m sorry, Maggie. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. But I’ve been standing here wondering if . . .”

  “I’m not breaking up with you,” I said gently. “But I do need to talk to you. And, if it’s not too much to ask, a hello hug would be nice.”

  He wrapped his arms around me, nuzzling my neck through my hair.

  My eyes drifted closed and my whole body sank into him, the feeling of being in his arms, just held. No questions, no judgement, just Jack. For a second, I felt peaceful, as if nothing else mattered but this moment, this man. As if the world wasn’t waiting to claim us again.

  “It’s so fucking good to see you, Maggie. I’m sorry I was a jerk.”

  “You’re forgiven.”

  And he was. How could I blame him when he cared? He cared so much.

  I ran my hands over his t-shirt, feeling his muscles tremble from my touch. His eyes slid shut and he breathed deeply. I felt a little of the tension drain from his stiff shoulders, and he pulled me toward him more tightly.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  His words rumbled against the soft skin of my neck, and I felt the weight of them, understanding what they cost him.

  “I know. Because I’ve missed you, too. Now buy a girl a cup of coffee, Sarge, before she expires from thirst.”

  He loosened his grip and kissed me lightly on the lips, lingering for a second before he stood upright.

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Then he scooped up my small bag with one hand and wrapped the other around my shoulders.

  His ride wasn’t a car, of course, but a Jeep—something that looked battered and bruised, as macho and masculine as Jack himself.

  He shrugged sheepishly when he saw me eyeing the rust bucket. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see duct tape holding it together.

  “Not a Sedan, then,” I teased.

  “It’s got character,” he muttered.

  “I don’t know, Jack. Is it possible to have too much character?”

  I raised an eyebrow, and he mumbled something under his breath as he tossed my bag into the back seat.

  “Buckle up!”

  His order was gruff, but I hadn’t missed the smile tugging at his lips.

  It took twenty minutes for Jack to fight his way through the San Diego traffic and out across to Mission Beach. We didn’t say anything important. Even though there was much to say.

  I was so thirsty by the time he pulled up outside a tiny beach-hut café, that I would have considered drinking seawater. Well, maybe not, but when the waitress brought us each a glass of iced wate
r before taking our order, I could have kissed her.

  “So, what’s this big news?” Jack asked, unable to hold himself back any longer.

  I looked into his dark blue eyes, wishing that I had different news to give him, and took a grateful sip of cold, cold water.

  Then a longer one, gulping the water as it streamed down my dry throat, ignoring the cool trickle over my chin from drinking too fast. Jack reached across the table and caught the stray drip with his thumb.

  It was a gesture so tender and caring, so natural and loving that I wanted to cry.

  Instead, I gave him the respect he deserved by telling him everything.

  “I’ve been offered my dream job. Foreign correspondent. Cairo office.”

  He sucked in a deep breath as he fought to hold back the riot of emotions that ghosted across his face. He certainly wasn’t as impassive as he’d seemed at the airport.

  “Cairo, huh? Congratulations, Maggie. You deserve it. I know how hard you’ve worked,” and he forced out a smile. “How long you goin’ to be there?”

  How long? I didn’t know.

  “It’s a permanent position,” I said softly.

  His eyes widened and then he looked down. Still avoiding my gaze, he picked up his water and took a long drink before placing the glass carefully on the table.

  “Permanent?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, absorbing the information as my heart catapulted around inside my chest and my fingers fisted under the table as I fought to remain calm.

  “I won’t be allowed to visit you, Maggie,” he said, looking over my shoulder at the ocean and rubbing his eyes. “They’ll never give me permission to travel there, not to the Middle East. All movements have to be approved, and if you get caught lying, it’s a court martial. Hell, I can’t even go to TJ.”

  Of all the things he might have said to me, I hadn’t considered that his being a Marine would restrict his travel. I really, really should have. So stupid. So naïve.

  My lips started to tremble, so I pressed them together. My dream job was turning into a nightmare.

  Jackson sat with his head bowed, his hands held loosely in his lap.

  He was still staring at the table when he began speaking.