Saved

by Hazel James

  “Great. I’ll double-knot it so you can just slip it over your head next time.”

  I’d be sad if it wasn’t for the light squeeze he gives my neck when he’s done. Committing that feeling to memory, I pull a tank top over my head and slide my feet into my sneakers, shoving all thoughts of molesting Clay out of my mind. “Where do you want to go first?”

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” The edges of his mouth tip up.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m the world’s worst Hawaiian.” I shoot playful daggers at him.

  “Hey, you said it, not me.” He holds his palms out, proclaiming his innocence. “Thankfully, one of us came prepared. I was thinking of a short hike and then maybe some paddle boarding.”

  It’s my turn to lift a hand. “The hike sounds fine, but one of us did not come prepared for paddle boarding. Unless you don’t mind going in circles.” His eyes crinkle as I simulate rowing with my stump.

  “Don’t worry, this place has two-person paddle boards.” He pulls the keys to our rental Jeep from his pocket and twirls the ring around his finger. “Ready?”

  Clay plops down beside me and taps his water bottle against mine. The hike to the top of the Ehukai Pillbox Trail was short and full of goading on both sides, making the trek equal parts entertaining and intense.

  “Can you believe this is real?” Our vantage point from the second pillbox provides an epic view of the North Shore. The water is a blend of blues and greens that, up until this trip, I’d only seen in a crayon box. With the sun on my shoulders and a slight breeze on my face, I whisper a silent thank you to the universe for the ineptitude of the VA hospital. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the patient advocate fiasco on Tuesday. God, was that only three days ago?

  “I always wanted to be stationed in Hawaii,” he says. “It’s too bad the palm trees in Baghdad didn’t come with the same sense of relaxation.”

  “You don’t talk about that deployment.” It’s as much a statement as a question. All the stories I’ve heard Clay share about his time in combat have been from his first deployment to Afghanistan.

  He props his arms on his knees, his trademark smile looking more like a balloon with half its helium. “I was part of a 26-man convoy security team. In eleven months, we logged more than a million miles in Iraq.”

  “That’s impressive, but I thought you said you were a parachute rigger?”

  “I was. Most of the guys on our team were. The Army wasn’t doing airborne operations, so they tasked us with other missions. We got to Camp Victory in the summer of 2005. It was hotter than anything I’d ever experienced and had this powder-fine sand that got into everything. All my clothes from that deployment were stained light brown.”

  He takes a long pull from his water bottle and continues. “Our vehicles had ‘Mad Max’ armor, which was nothing more than steel plates they added on in Camp Buehring, Kuwait. My mom freaked when she found out I was on a convoy team. I spent most of my deployment reassuring her that being in the last position meant my truck was the safest.”

  “Was it?”

  “Every vehicle is the most unsafe, and whichever one you’re in is always the one they want to blow up. It didn’t help that I was the gunner. We drove around with a target on our heads for a year.”

  “Since you’re still here, it looks like they had terrible aim.” Instead of smiling at my lame joke, he drops his head and releases a breath through his nose.

  Oh shit.

  “There were seven other security teams on our base. We always lined up our trucks when we came back from a mission to make it easier the next time we left. Whoever got back first parked first. One night, our team was delayed several miles from base. When we finally made it to our gate, we were right behind the guys from Fort Lewis so we parked behind them.”

  He pauses for another drink of water. “We rolled out the next morning the same way we’d done hundreds of times. The Lewis team was about a mile ahead of us when we heard an IED go off. Turns out, it hit the last truck. The gunner took shrapnel to his neck and upper thigh and died before we got there. If we hadn’t been delayed the night before, that would have been my team. My truck. My position. That was just a few months before we came home.”

  I want to say something, anything to erase the pained expression on his face, but I don’t dare open my mouth for fear that the words “I’m so glad it wasn’t you” would tumble out.

  “Anyway,” he rubs his forehead, “that fucked with me for a long time. It’s one of the biggest reasons I started drinking like I did.”

  “But you having PTSD and drinking is what led you to start Battles, right?”

  This time he smiles and looks at me like I’ve just solved world peace.

  “What?”

  “You get it. Making something good out of the bad.”

  His praise turns my cheeks pink. “Thanks.”

  “For the record, it took me years to see that.” He salutes me with his bottle and downs the rest of his water.

  “I’m sorry for bringing it up,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

  “It wasn’t all bad. One of these days I’ll have to tell you about using Saddam’s golden toilets. I even have some action shots.” Our laughter chases away the remaining tension of the moment, but I still have one more question.

  “Why’d you tell me all of this?”

  Clay leans over, tapping the bow he tied behind my neck. “Because you did something brave this afternoon. Figure I’d do the same.” He rises and offers me a hand up. A month ago, I would have swatted it away and grumbled about doing it myself. Today, I’m smarter.

  Much, much smarter.

  Quinn’s high-pitched laughter on the other side of the door adds one more knot to the growing collection in my stomach. I want to leave. I want to get up, walk outside, and let the salty air carry my worries away. Instead, I’m forced to settle for the soft breeze from the AC vent as I contemplate why humans aren’t equipped with tiny antennae to alert us of impending disaster.

  The morning of my Humvee accident three years ago, I’d taken a PT test. Push-ups, sit-ups, and a two-mile run were never difficult, not after years of gymnastics. Still, I’d been surprised at my score—only nine points away from a perfect three hundred. I had no idea those would be the last push-ups I would ever complete.

  On Valentine’s morning five months ago, Travis sent a dozen red roses to my bank. For eight hours, I stared at the most beautiful, fragrant flowers I’d ever seen while the other women complained about forgetful husbands and backrubs that led to mediocre sex. I counted down the hours until our date that night, not realizing it would become the moment my life split into BC and AD. Before Cancer, After Diagnosis.

  You’d think after two monumental events in my twenty-seven years, I’d be able to sense what was coming. That I’d feel a certain vibration in the ground or notice a shift in the universe. Something.

  But when the sun rose this morning, nothing was out of place. The air was warm and sweet, and the water beckoned us, so Clay and I ventured down to Sharks Cove, a rocky slice of heaven nestled in the North Shore. He put a waterproof case on his phone and must have taken a hundred pictures between snorkeling and wading in the tide pools. I’m disappointed I didn’t think of the same idea. I had the glory of looking at his semi-naked body and only had the mental images to show for it.

  He even got a picture of me being photobombed by a smiling sea turtle. I didn’t believe it myself until he showed me the photo. Do you know how hard it is to say, “No way!” around a mouthpiece without ingesting water?

  When our rumbling bellies finally led us back to land, we ate shrimp platters from the North Shore Shrimp Truck and had dessert at Anahulu’s Shave Ice. The concept is similar to a snow cone, but shave ice is powder-soft instead of crunchy and comes atop a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

  Basically, heaven in a cup.

  The best part of our perfect afternoon, though, was the artwork on the side of Anahulu’s—a larger-than-life-sized set o
f angel wings painted with a medley of white, magenta, blue, and purple. Clay grabbed his phone, capturing me in a series of silly poses as he tossed out questions like the paparazzi.

  “Miss Moretti, who are you wearing? Can you tell us about the upcoming movie? Are the rumors about you and Chris Hemsworth true?” The last one made me laugh. Even with the sexy accent, I’d pick Clay over him any day.

  When we left for dinner that evening, I was famished and ready to meet the rest of the team. They’d texted Clay to say they were starving, too, and would meet us at the restaurant instead of stopping by the hotel first. After a quick round of handshakes with Quinn Phelps, Brandon Allbaugh, and Kristin and John Simmons, we’d eagerly followed our hostess to a rectangular table in the back of the dining room.

  As the smallest in the group, I’d taken the chair in the corner, expecting Clay to sit beside me, or even across from me. Instead, Kristin and John flanked me on my right and Brandon took the chair opposite me, with Quinn to his left and Clay beside her.

  And, just like my previous two catastrophes, I had no idea everything was about to go down in flames.

  It started innocently enough. Quinn leaning toward Clay as she pointed at various items on the menu. Complimenting him on organizing an event like this thousands of miles from home. Laughing half a second before anyone else when he said something funny.

  Then came the stories. Remember when you bet my brother you could bench press him? Remember our picnic on the dock? Remember all the things that have nothing to do with Leilani? By the time the waiter brought our food, it all made sense.

  Quinn wasn’t just here to cook for homeless kids.

  I’d tried consoling myself with the knowledge that Clay never mentioned having a relationship with her. I’d heard about Anna and a couple of girls before her, but nothing about the chef he invited to Hawaii. And it’s not like I could have asked him right then, anyway. His ankle was too far away to kick, and I didn’t know Morse code for WTF.

  Instead, I’d spent the duration of our meal staring at the rivulets of condensation on my glass, the interwoven squares of my palm leaf placemat, and the mostly uneaten food on my plate. Anywhere but the train wreck across the table.

  When Kristin asked me if I was okay, I’d told her I had a headache from too much sun and excused myself to the restroom to splash water on my face. And because the universe clearly had it out for me today, Quinn popped out of her chair and declared she was joining me.

  Her drivel about the scenery turned into the number of times Clay brushed his knee against hers during dinner (six) and how she was glad he wasn’t intimidated by cougars (wink, wink).

  I was pretty sure cougar status required more than a few years on the man, but I’d kept my mouth shut. The other alternative—that Quinn was actually in her forties and didn’t look it—wasn’t one I’d wanted to admit to anyone, let alone to the devil herself.

  After we returned to our hotel, Clay, in his permanent role as Mr. Congeniality, had taken her suitcases up to our suite. John and Kristin headed to their room one floor down, and Brandon stayed up long enough to run some ideas past the rest of us before going to bed himself.

  That’s when things had gone from awful to disastrous.

  Clay had made an off-handed remark about tweaking his shoulder when he lifted Quinn’s suitcase, and she took that as an invitation, swooping in like a vulture on a fresh kill. You poor thing! Let me help! I watched with horror as she kneaded his neck and upper back while reminiscing about the day they met.

  I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t sit there while a woman with a head full of hair and two hands rubbed all over the man who’d taken up residence in my heart, so I retreated to my room. The only flaw in my plan? Having no escape route.

  For the last hour, I’ve been a prisoner.

  Waiting.

  Wishing.

  Crumbling.

  I’m torn between wanting to press my ear against the door to decipher their mumbled voices and locking myself in the bathroom to keep from hearing them at all. If Kiki were here, she’d tell me life is too short to watch the things you want pass you by.

  Maybe she’s right.

  Maybe, like Clay, I’ve been guilty of being too nice today.

  With renewed determination, I pull myself off the bed and take several fortifying breaths. There’s nothing special about Quinn Phelps. Sure, she’s known Clay longer and has a few body parts I don’t, but she lacks the deep connection he and I share. It’s time she realizes that.

  I twist the doorknob, ready to stake my claim, and find Clay standing in the middle of the living room. My eyes instinctively track to his lips.

  The ones I could draw from memory.

  That smiled at me all day.

  That I’ve longed to feel on mine.

  On hers, instead.

  All or Nothing

  A FRESH WAVE OF REGRET washes over me as I thumb through the photos on my phone. Leilani sleeping on the plane. Posing like Rocky on top of the pillbox. Pointing at a fish swimming past her at Sharks Cove. I scan them all, stopping at the last image of her in front of the angel wings, arms at her sides, one knee bent, and her head tilted slightly to the right. She’s relaxed. Happy.

  And I’d destroyed that in less than five seconds.

  Well, Quinn destroyed that, but I take full responsibility for putting manners before boundaries. Sagging against the bathroom wall, I dial DH, the only person I know with enough experience in the doghouse to help me out of a situation like this.

  He picks up after the third ring. “What’s up man?”

  “I need your advice.”

  “Aren’t you in Hawaii? What time is it there?”

  “A little after three a.m.”

  “Shit. Are you in jail? Hang on, let me grab a pen.”

  “Dude, I’m not in jail. Why would you even… never mind,” I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I have a situation involving two women.”

  “Ah, say no more. In my experience, you can’t convince someone to do a threesome if they’re not ready. I learned that the hard way. Killed the whole mood.”

  “Christ, DH! That’s… No.” I’d bang my forehead against the wall if it wouldn’t wake Brandon up. “I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to call you.”

  “Because no one is as good as I am at fixing shit they’ve messed up. Now lean your head on my shoulder and tell me what’s wrong.”

  The smile in his voice replaces some of my lost hope. “Woman A kissed me, and Woman B saw it and got upset.”

  “She probably just felt bad for interrupting. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.” Exhaustion lures me to the floor as I recall the look on Leilani’s face for the millionth time.

  “Why not?”

  “Because feelings are involved with Woman B,” I mumble, tracing the tiny square tiles beside me.

  “On her part or yours?”

  I think about all the times I would glance over at her, only to catch her already looking at me. “Um. Both, maybe?”

  “So why were you kissing the first chick?”

  “You don’t listen for shit. I told you, she kissed me.”

  “And how did that make you feel?”

  “Terr—” DH laughs the moment I realize he’s throwing one of my counselor questions back in my face. “You’re such a dick.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” His laughter grows, ending in a pronounced cough. “Let’s get back to the crisis at hand. Woman A kissed you, and now Leilani’s upset and you need help to fix everything.”

  “Exactly.” A relieved breath whooshes past my lips. Now maybe we can get on with figuring out how to—Motherfucker. “You knew? How?”

  “Did you forget I have a membership to your gym? You stare at her like a love-struck teenager every time she walks by. It’s kind of pathetic, really.”

  “For the record, I hate you so fucking bad.”

  He fills my phone with even more
laughter, still at my expense. “What was it you used to tell me? You don’t hate me. You just hate it when I’m right.”

  “I also used to help you figure out what to do. Think we can skip the ridicule and get to that part?”

  “Fine,” he says, drawing the word out. “You can’t just tell her you’re sorry. You have to show her.”

  I wait for the rest of his advice but nothing comes. “That’s it? That’s all you got?” For a man who pissed off most of the women in central Oklahoma before he got married, I figured he’d have something more eloquent than that.

  “Yup. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a breakfast date with a hot blonde.”

  I thank him—for what, I don’t know—and end the call with a heavy sigh. How the fuck am I supposed to show her I’m sorry when we’re stuck in a hotel with no hope of privacy?

  Silently praying no one screams, I twist the knob and open the door. Entering a woman’s room without permission goes against everything my father taught me, but even he would make an exception this morning.

  Once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I close the distance to Leilani’s bed and gently nudge her foot. “Hey,” I whisper.

  She stirs but stays asleep, so I do it again. “Clay?” she yawns, pushing herself to a sitting position.

  “Shh.” Making sure Quinn is still sleeping, I take a few more steps and bend down, placing my mouth just above Leilani’s ear. “Can I take you somewhere?” I resist the urge to brush my lips against her cheek as I pull away.

  Please don’t tell me to go fuck myself.

  Pleeeeease don’t tell me to go fuck myself.

  I mean, she has every right to, but still.

  She taps the button on her phone to check the time. “It’s four fifteen! Have you lost your mind?”

  I swallow and wipe my palms against my cargo shorts. “It’s possible.”

  She stares at me for several seconds and releases a breath through her nose. “Let me get dressed.”

  Leilani spends the hour-long trip across the island curled up like a hedgehog with her feet propped on the dash, while I white-knuckle the steering wheel and analyze all the ways my plan can fail. My only comfort is the contents of the bag behind my seat. I’ve never put more thought or hope into an idea, so if I crash and burn, at least I can say I tried.