by Sarah Monzon
He reached across the table for the glass bottle of maple syrup and began pouring a waterfall over the three perfectly stacked circles. “No, thanks.”
Miss Too-Curious-For-Her-Own-Good server turned on her heel and retreated into the restaurant’s kitchen. Good-bye and good riddance.
He cut a man-sized bite plump with blueberries and forked it into his mouth. A moan vibrated in his throat as sugar crystals awoke every one of his taste buds until his tongue stood at attention. So good. And maybe the sweetness of his breakfast would work on the bitterness of his recent disposition. Talk about a mood taking a nose dive. He’d thought he’d conquered these thoughts and feelings of anger and resentment weeks ago, yet no amount of counting his blessings or railing against heaven or exercise to the point of exhaustion or single-minded avoidance or silent praying changed a thing. If anything, he had only momentarily diluted himself that his Pollyanna game was making any difference. More like he ran and went nowhere. As if life were a cursed treadmill.
The screen of his phone illuminated and then began playing his brother Trent’s personalized ringtone. He snatched it up off the table and mashed the accept button. “What?”
“Hello and good morning to you too.”
Michael took a swig of coffee to help wash down his sarcastic retort.
“Skipping the pleasantries this morning then?”
If he held the fork any tighter, the metal might start to bend. “I’m not in the mood. What do you want?”
“Oscar the Grouch called and wants his trash can back.”
The fork clattered against his plate. “What part of not in the mood didn’t you understand?”
Silence hung on the line for a second. “Hey, are you doing okay, man?”
The compassion in his brother’s voice nearly undid Michael, but he clung to his anger, something in his mind clicking that he did so out of fear. Fear of what? He shook his head. “I’m fine, but I warn you—if you start mouthing platitudes again like you did at the hospital, I’m hanging up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good.”
“I’m man enough to say I love you, bro. I’m here for you if you need me. We all are.”
Michael filled his lungs and let it out, the anger receding like the tide on a full moon. “Love you too.”
“And because you love me, you will be one of my groomsmen at my wedding.”
“I already said I would. You’re my brother, after all.”
“And you will smile and look like you actually want to be there.”
His mouth curved. “Now you’re pushing your luck.”
“Summer is stressing herself with seating arrangements and needs to know if you’re bringing a plus-one.”
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. Truth was, he wanted to ask Jackie to go with him. Meet his family, as his…his friend this time. He wanted to ask her as more than a friend, but what kind of friend would he be if he did? They were in a precarious place. She wasn’t good at masking her feelings. It was something he loved about her and something he was planning on taking advantage of in the future. Made him sick to his stomach, but it was for the best. As long as the only collateral damage was done to his heart, he’d be okay.
So he’d watch her. Make sure the interest and glimmer of hope that shone in her eyes when their gazes held didn’t grow into something more. He hated to disappoint her, but he couldn’t live with himself if he broke her heart. The only way to ensure that was to be certain it never got put on the line. Not for him anyway.
Which meant he needed to take a step back. No more holding her in comfort when she was scared. No more secret smiles and knowing looks, innocent glances that didn’t seem so innocent anymore. No more lingering touches to her elbow or shoulder, finding excuses to be near her. He’d do what he needed to protect Jackie from Mitch—already had a plan in the works on that front. The hard part would be to protect her from himself.
“Can’t decide which nurse, huh?”
“Funny. We aren’t all players like you were.”
“Touché. So, is that a no on the plus-one?”
Trent and Summer’s wedding was less than a week away. Would Mitch no longer be a threat by then? “I’ll let you know in a couple of days.”
“Summer kind of needs an answer now.”
He heaved a sigh. “Fine. Yes. Plus-one.” If he ended up sitting beside an empty chair, who cared?
“Really?” Surprise and piqued curiosity marked his response. “Do tell.”
“Don’t be a teenage girl.”
Trent laughed. “I love a good mystery. Can’t wait to meet her.”
Michael kept it to himself that they’d already met…sort of. “See ya later.” He moved the phone away from his ear and ended the call, placing the phone back on the table.
The pancakes on his plate had absorbed all the syrup, and steam had stopped rising from them halfway through his conversation with Trent. He cut off a section, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. Not bad. Not as good as if they were hot, but not bad. An hour remained until he needed to meet with Private Arlington. Plenty of time to finish his breakfast.
***
Hospitals had a way of bringing out the discomfort in people, Michael included. The unique smell of bleach mixed with distinct body odors singed his nostrils as he maneuvered the labyrinth of corridors to the fourth-floor east wing. Usually it didn’t bother him so much, hospitals being a relatively innocuous place, him not having spent too much time within their walls. Until lately. The memory still fresh of his own recent stay, however, had him itching to turn around and hightail it out of there. It was like someone who had been assaulted returning to the scene of their mugging. Facing the place of so much emotional turmoil created a visceral reaction. One he didn’t enjoy.
Mind over matter. Mind over matter. If I don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. Words he’d heard screamed in his face during boot camp replayed like a sound bite as he put first one foot and then a prosthetic down. Sweat dotted his hairline, and it wasn’t from physical exertion. Why this reaction now? He’d returned a number of times since getting discharged and had never reacted this strongly before. Straightening his spine, he narrowed his eyes, determined to press through whatever psychological wall his mind had erected.
By the time he reached the end of the hall, he had his breathing regulated. A turn to the left and he was knocking on Private Arlington’s door.
“Come in.”
Joel sat on his cot, television remote in hand. His large gray eyes blended into his pale skin, the only color in his face the blue vertical lines of his veins.
Michael winced, then berated himself. Didn’t he hate it when people did that when they looked at him? “How’s it going?”
Joel shrugged. “I’ve got good days and bad days. Just so happens this isn’t one of the good days.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
Another shrug. “It’s life.” The remote shook in his hand as he laid it on the thin white covers. He reached over and picked up his iPhone. Tapped on the screen a few times, then turned it and held it out to Michael. “I think I got what you were looking for.”
Three steps and Michael was there. He cradled the phone, his pulse quickening as he scrolled through the photos. Mitch in the pharmacy in front of shelves of prescription bottles. Mitch with bottle in hand. Mitch pocketing the bottle in his uniform. Mitch in a supply closet pocketing another bottle. A close-up of the bottle with the label OxyContin plainly visible.
Michael looked up with a grin. “Mind if I send these to myself?”
“Go ahead.” Joel coughed into his elbow. “Do you think it’s enough to put him away?”
He finished typing his info into the phone and pressed Send. “Should be enough to start an investigation at least.”
Joel let his head fall back to the propped up pillow. He shut his eyes, peace and satisfaction transforming his face.
“I can’t thank you enough for doing this.
Anything you need, you let me know, all right?”
Those gray eyes opened and peered at him through hooded lids. “Don’t be afraid to live the life you’ve been given. Some of us don’t have the chance.” He closed his eyes again and rested his hands on his chest. “Don’t waste yours.”
They were poignant, deep, Joel’s words. Something Michael knew he should take a moment to sift and ponder. Maybe later. When he had more time. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone. There they were. The pictures that would finally put Mitch where he belonged and far away from Jackie.
Now to end this once and for all.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Present Day, Maryland
From: Alice Abbott
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: 1940s WW II plane in need of restoration
Great! Your ticket should have been sent to you via e-mail.
Alice
Jack pressed a kiss atop Dominick’s downy head as she shut the book in her hands. The glossy sleeve of Goodnight, Goodnight Construction Site, with its yellow backhoe scooping the moon out of the sky, cast a glare from the bedside lamp. Dom scooted his oven-hot body closer to her, laying his head on her chest. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of his calming lavender baby soap she’d scrubbed him with at bath time, stroking a hand down the bare, smooth skin of his arm. Being an aunt was the best job in the whole world.
“Auntie Jack?” Her nephew raised his head and rested his chin on her shoulder, his eyes wide pools of contemplation.
“Yeah, bud?” She met his gaze only inches away.
“Is Daddy going to die?”
Her heart stuttered at the question. What to say? If only Amara were here. The perfect mom, she’d know the exact words to assuage the fear rimming Dominick’s big innocent hazel eyes.
She wrapped both arms around him and pulled him closer, as if her embrace could shield him from the pains of life. “Why do you ask, Dom?”
He thought a minute, his nose scrunching in the middle. “Remember Mr. Michael, the pirate at my party without the arm or leg?”
Jack nodded.
“He was in the navy too, and he got hurt real bad.” His eyes went as round as the squishy ball they’d tossed around that night. “He could have died. And if he could have died, then that means Daddy could die too, right?”
How to explain? She searched her brain for something the four-year-old would understand. “Do you know what a hero is?”
“You mean a superhero like Batman or Superman?”
“Exactly.” She smiled down at him. “Well, the men and women who serve in the military, in the navy like your daddy and Uncle Brett and Mr. Michael, they are real, live superheroes.”
His nose scrunched again. “But Daddy doesn’t have any superpowers. He can’t freeze things with his breath or run superfast.”
She laughed. “No, he doesn’t have superpowers like that, but he has the same thing all superheroes have.”
“What’s that?” He nearly whispered in awe.
She placed her hand on his chest. “A heart to help others. To protect them. To sacrifice, if need be, to keep other people safe.”
“What does sacrifice mean?”
Oh dear. Was there some sort of dictionary for kids? “Sacrifice. Well…” Now would be a good time to come up with something profound. “Hmmm…”
“Don’t you know what it means?”
“Yes, smarty-pants.” She tweaked his nose.
“Well?”
So this was what a cornered rabbit felt like. She didn’t want to say anything that would cause her nephew to be afraid again. Like his dad was willing to die if it meant saving someone else. But that was the truth of it.
Maybe time for another tactic. “Do you think your daddy is smart?”
His head bobbed. “Yes.”
“And you know that he loves you very much?”
His eyes rolled. “He tells me that all the time.”
“And that he’d do everything he could to always be with you?”
Another nod.
Her lips met his wide forehead. “Good. That’s all you need to know. Now”—she smiled big—“did you and your daddy have fun today?”
He erupted in a bundle of energy, telling her all about the trampoline park Eli had taken him to that morning. To punctuate his excitement, he demonstrated his big jumps on his bed.
Jack caught him midair, laughing. “Okay, my little kangaroo. It’s time to say good night.” She settled him back under the covers and pulled them up to his chin. Two kisses on his cheek and she pulled the cord on his lamp. The room plunged into darkness except for the night-light in the corner that sent a carousel of fish swimming in circles on the ceiling.
“Love you, little man.”
“Love you too, Auntie Jack.”
She left the door open a crack and went to check on baby Cayden in the nursery. The infant’s fists were closed, arms spread wide at her sides. Her chest rose and fell, and she made a little snuffling sound in her sleep. So precious.
As Jack shut the door and made her way downstairs, her phone vibrated in her pocket.
A text from Amara: Everything all right?
She texted back: Great. Both are in bed. Stop worrying and have a good time.
Emotions were high for everyone. Eli rejoined his unit in the morning. From the almost-empty case of La Croix in their pantry, four cans remaining, Eli still had four more months of his operational tour. Not that she needed Amara’s unique method of counting down, one can of La Croix for each month of deployment, to know when her brother returned to American soil. She had her own calendar marked at home for both her brothers.
Vibration again. That woman seriously needed to stop being a control freak with her kids and enjoy her last night alone with her husband. Jack retrieved her phone. She blinked. Not her sister-in-law.
Michael: I need to talk to you.
Straight to the point. Typical military fashion. Her thumbs hit the letters on the phone’s screen. What’s up?
The ellipsis showing the other person was typing did the wave in the bottom of her text screen.
Michael: Might be better to talk in person.
Serious. Her stomach clenched. Was it something about Mitch? Or Brett? Dear God, was Brett hurt? People only gave bad news in person. Happy news could be shared in any way.
Jack: You’re scaring me. Is it Brett? Did something happen to him?
She held her breath through the torturous ellipsis, waiting for another blow to sucker punch her.
Michael: Brett is fine, as far as I know. Sorry to scare you. Just need to discuss something.
Should she be glad he wanted to talk to her face to face? Maybe that was an excuse to see her? Of course that was what she’d think if she was to overanalyze everything. Which she wasn’t going to do. Had never done it in the past and wasn’t going to start now. Right? Right.
Jack: I’m at my brother’s house babysitting. You could come over if you want. The kids are asleep.
Michael: Be there in 20.
Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to keep her brain from running down rabbit holes, to stop her pulse from racing, to keep her body from reacting to the knowledge Michael would be there soon.
Just friends. He’d used those words. They seemed like a line drawn in the sand. A definite marker…maybe even a warning? Brett seemed to think Michael was using “just friends” as some sort of heroic gesture on his part. Even Jack had named him among the real heroes, someone willing to sacrifice. Was that what he was doing? Sacrificing because he thought she wouldn’t want him the way he was? Didn’t he know that everyone came with scars? Some were just more visible than others.
She picked up the remote and scrolled through the channels. Something had to be on that would take her mind off Michael, her own feelings, and what she was going to do about it. When a knock sounded on the door, she still hadn’t found anything on TV. Punching the Power button, she
turned the television off and opened the door.
The porch floodlights illuminated him like a thespian taking center stage. His dark hair had grown a good two inches since she’d first met him, long enough now that he’d gelled it in waves with a side part. He smelled clean, as if he’d recently showered, and his jaw was smooth from a fresh shave. A dark-blue hoodie with the US Navy logo emblazoned on front kept out the chill from the late spring air.
She opened the door wider and stepped to the side. “Come in.”
He stepped over the threshold, and she admired the grace in his stride. Barely a noticeable hitch. He took a seat in Eli’s recliner. A strategic move? She lowered herself onto the corner of the couch and brought her legs up to her side. For some reason the coffee table between them seemed a physical, tangible object set on his metaphoric line.
“Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coke?” What she really wanted was for him to get to the point. The atmosphere felt stilted and uncomfortable. Like she sat across from a stranger, not someone she’d grown to care about these last few months.
“A Coke would be great, thanks.” He rubbed his hand on his thigh. Wiping away a sweaty palm or massaging sore muscles like she’d seen him do a dozen times?
She opened the refrigerator and retrieved two cold cans. Sierra Mist would have been better, but Eli and Amara were out of her favorite. At least the can would give her something to occupy her hands.
His fingers grazed hers when he took the soft drink, and her stomach flipped. Just like she’d always read happening in romance novels. Clichés were clichés for a reason it seemed, and Michael would have had to have lost his sense of touch not to feel the currents of electricity buzzing between them. That or be stellar at pushing past raw emotion. A boot camp–learned tactic she desperately hoped he wasn’t employing on her.
The soda popped open and fizzed, carbonation tickling her nose as she took a sip.