Almost Had You

by Rachel Robinson

  “I’d like to give you something else for you to remember me by,” Mercer drawls, shoving his hand into his pocket and comes out with a small jewelry box. “But the timing isn’t quite right for anything other than this.” He bounces the box on his large palm as my hands shake by my sides. “Which is a horrific, unfortunate thing,” he says, swallowing hard. His eyes dart to the sand and back up to meet mine. “Because I almost had you.”

  “You didn’t have to get me anything,” I rush out in one big breath. Instead of replying, he opens the box. It’s a pair of gold flower earrings. Camellias. Intricate gold petals form the flowers and they are stunning. I take the box from his hand. “The Alabama state flower. They are perfect. I love them so much, Mercer. I’ll wear them every day.”

  “You can remember our almost.” There’s an irrevocable tremor in his tone. A goodbye encased in a goodbye. He feels it too. My stomach sinks, but I know I have to be strong right now.

  Going up on my tiptoes, I place my hands on the sides of his clean-shaven face. “Maybe in our world, almost counts.” My voice shakes, but my body is pressed against his and responds accordingly. Fire. Gasoline. Burning. Burning. Burning. For a man who I only half have. Who I will always and forever only half have. Mercer picks me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. Forehead to forehead we search for answers in each other’s eyes. Answers we both know we won’t find. I clutch the earring box in my hands, a reminder of the past. I squeeze it until a corner hurts my palm until the reminder of home causes me physical pain.

  His lips brush mine. Back and forth, a feather-light touch. “It’s not going to be easy, Clover,” Mercer says against my lips. “I love you and I want you to be here when I get back. For me. Because you’re mine now and I will torch the earth to make my way back inside your arms.”

  “I love you,” I reply, kissing him more forcefully. “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” A lesson I learned the hard way many times. I’m better for it now, though.

  I can feel Mercer’s smile against my lips. “You do it right the first time, or you do it again,” he returns. That must have been the lesson he learned. I grin.

  “I can be strong enough. I want you. I want us. I want our almost,” I say, voice cracking. “Mercer, I’ve waited my entire life for a sign and I’m not even superstitious, or not really.” Mercer smirks. “I know that we are meant to be. I can feel it inside me. They say when you know, you know? I know. Go do your job,” I say, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “And come home. To me. We can finish what we started.”

  “I’ll let you be a little superstitious if it’s telling you to stay here and wait for me.”

  Scoffing, I lean back to study his face. “Then again, maybe it’s telling me to throw all your clothes into the front yard and see what they look like after six months.” He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone. It’s mission dependent, so it could be shorter than six months or longer. I don’t want to think about the latter.

  He kisses the sense out of me, and I let him. Sliding down his body, out of breath and turned on, Mercer takes the box from my hand and removes the earrings. The waves crash against the shore behind us and the scent of saltwater fills my senses. Mercer tucks my hair behind one ear and puts one earring in, using a soft touch. He repeats the motion on the other side and then steps away to look at his handiwork. “They look just as I thought they would on you. Perfect.”

  Reaching up, I touch the flowers and think about what they mean. “If I had more time, I would have gotten you something.”

  Before I even finish talking, he’s shaking his head. “Don’t even say it. I can’t bring much with me, and everything I take I have to be okay with it if it is lost forever. It’s like a life pause button. I would cherish any gift from you too much to be okay with losing it.” He blows out a breath and grabs my hands. “I do have a few more gifts for you. They’ll come while I’m gone though. One will take a while because it needs some prep work.”

  “Mercer, seriously. I’m not a child that needs gifts to feel happy. I’m an adult and I’ll be fine.” It’s imperative he believes me. I want to be the woman he sees. A strong, capable woman who can make it no matter what. Not the spoiled princess who lived a pampered life. “Don’t buy me presents.”

  He shrugs. “It’s already done. I know you don’t need presents, but put yourself in my shoes for a second. Maybe I want to give you presents because it makes me feel better. Makes me feel more secure in a situation where I have little to no power.”

  The emotion swells, a swift assault on my throat. “I understand that.”

  “Good,” he replies. “It’s not like any gift I buy you will cost a million dollars. Don’t worry.” He smiles. “I’ll keep it low key.”

  I stomp one foot and cross my arms. “I wasn’t worried on that front. You’re so rude,” I tease. “Don’t worry about me is all I was trying to say.”

  He pulls me into a hug. “I’ll try not to. We have to get back before my ride gets there. I’m not good with goodbyes. Well, I’ve never really done them like this, but I think I’d like it best if we could say goodbye here. In my almost place.”

  Licking my lips, I reply, “Whatever you want.” His embrace is tight. “I’m not sure what to say right here,” I admit. “Have a nice trip? Don’t get blown up? Or shot? Or captured? Or good luck? That doesn’t seem politically correct. None of it does, actually. Tell me what to say?”

  “Darlin’,” Mercer rasps, drawing back to hit me with an emotion-filled gaze. “Tell me you’re mine, kiss me on the lips, and make me believe in forever.”

  I try to do what he says. I think he even believes it. The kiss feels too short, and his hands go from hot to cold on my waist. The wind whips around us a little too fast. The sand feels a bit more like quicksand as we walk back to the car. Mercer doesn’t look at me while we drive back to the house. He asks me about the salon, gives directions on how to get to the mall, who I can call if I have any problems, he rattles off the precautionary measures of our separation. Like a man doling out custody orders to an estranged wife. Except he loves me. He’s my forever. Mindlessly, without thought, the drive ends as I pull into my driveway and step out of my car. Mercer says goodbye, and his voice is hoarse.

  “Be good, Four Leaf Clover. Don’t take over the town before I get back, you hear?”

  I nod, tears forming in my eyes. “I hear. Don’t take over the world,” I fire back.

  He rounds the car and kisses me one more time even though we’ve already spoken our peace. A pick-up truck rolls up and idles in front of Mercer’s driveway. It’s a black shiny Ford that is jacked up with tinted windows. Not too far off from what the country boys in the south are obsessed with. It’s why I notice the vehicle at all.

  He looks over his shoulder, light and charismatic. The Mercer I’ve known my whole life says, “Everyone wants to be a Navy SEAL until it’s time to do Navy SEAL shit.” With a wink, he adds, “Pardon my French, darlin’.”

  Smiling, I put up my hand in a feeble attempt at a wave. I’m sure it looks more like I’m Spock, frozen in my signature greeting. It’s fitting that he rides off in a truck. I picture him heading somewhere with Bentley. I can pretend he’s going fishing, or hunting or mudding. Not heading back to the front lines. In another country, far away from me. In harm’s way. To war.

  My stomach flips as I reach up and touch a golden Camellia.

  Then my cell phone buzzes from inside the purse on my shoulder.

  A text from Goldie: Meet me at the salon. I’m here doing stock, and my friend Misty is heading in. She wants a fresh cut. I told her I have a woman for the job.

  New life begins now. And I get my period.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ___________________________________

  Mercer

  Four Months Later . . .

  I’M COVERED IN soot, head to fucking toe—I’d wager even the whites of my eyes are black. London, England. The peak of war for this country. The terror
ists shift continents and use encrypted web pages to communicate with each other and arrange attacks. We use counterintelligence to track them and try to stop the attacks before they happen, but it’s hard to keep up as they get smarter, wittier, hire new genius-level coders to try to trick us. It’s also hard when the will to destroy innocent life is greater than the ability to stop it. This war has raged on for countless years and while attacks have died down in America, the rest of the world is on fire. Everyone is tired. Maybe that’s the point. Grind the good down until we are a bleak, dull, piece of uncaring flesh. Indifference magnified by horrific monotony. The scene before me is why I needed a break so badly, why I craved the simple nature of Greenton.

  Soot rains down as we move through a building trying to evaluate if anyone lived. It’s highly unlikely. What started out as fashion week, which I guess is a real fancy event where models walk runways to show designer’s new clothes, ended in tantamount devastation. The government tells the people to go on with their lives as if it’s any other day and to not give power to the enemy by being afraid to live life, but this is the risk you take. I step over a body. Then another. The corpses are holding hands, both heads have white blonde hair that are saturated in thick blood. Grange stoops to check for a pulse even though he knows they’re dead. An unnatural twist to their limbs says more than blood can. I swallow a lump of bile down and cast my gaze ahead, to the next body, the next casualty, the next person I wasn’t able to save.

  It’s quiet now, our officer on the comms talking to headquarters about where to land the Medi-vac is the only noise that cuts the morose silence. We were too late, and if I’m being honest, there’s no way we could have done anything to stop this bombing today anyway. We should have been here days ago when they were setting up the stages and hauling in props for the extravagant sets. That’s how the bombs came in, how the enemy breached such a highly-populated crowd without notice. We didn’t hear the chatter of something awry until a few hours ago. Sifting through the debris and finely clothed bodies is easy. Explaining to the world how this happened? Hard as fuck. I wouldn’t want that job. These people who died today were famous. They had money, influence, and power. Their families will want to place blame. The hunger to avenge their loved one’s deaths greater than the patriotism for their country. The terrorists strive to pull apart nations, turning neighbors against neighbors, and allies against allies. Their end goal is simple: eradicate the world of everyone who doesn’t believe what they do. There’s no stopping that kind of hate. Not with kindness, not with meetings or rational declarations.

  “Front left area is where we need to place this group of bodies,” Grange says, standing, fidgeting with the rubber glove on his hand, pulling on it. He’s the trained medic in our team, and at this point, it’s obvious we’re too late to use military skills. This is a clean-up operation and a job for Intel to unravel. We missed another one. The acrid taste in my mouth doesn’t leave as I move out of the building on orders. The scent of burnt flesh is overpowering and even if I’m unaffected by the carnage before me, the smell brings me back to reality and I nearly heave when I reach the fresh air outdoors.

  Grange claps a hand on my back, but we don’t meet gazes. The secondary team rushes by us into the building now that we’ve cleared it to make sure there aren’t any more bad guys lurking. Spoiler alert: they weren’t here today. The timed bombs went off seamlessly, activated from a remote location. “What good are we doing? This is so fucked up,” Grange mutters, snapping his gloves off.

  I snake a rag that I have tucked into my back pocket out and hold it over my mouth and nose. It has a sweet-smelling oil on it, and it neutralizes the putrid scent still clinging to my nose hairs. Even after we leave, I’ll smell it for days—a phantom reminder of what I saw today. “We don’t have a fucking choice,” I remark, keeping alert, watching the buildings surrounding us. “We needed them when the U.S. was falling apart, and this is how we make good on promises.”

  “By not being able to help at all? We are these highly trained machines and we are useless.” My friend has never been big on eating humble pie. “We are no good here. They need to send us back home.”

  If I agreed with him, I’d feel like a traitor, but he’s right. There’s nothing I want more than to get back home. But I’m a good guy and it seems the whole world is on a short supply of those these days.

  Rexy walks up, hearing our conversation, he says, “Maybe they will send us home. It’s obvious we need to recalculate how we operate. This isn’t getting us anywhere. Showing up after” —he motions to the building behind us— “everything is changing and it’s changing quickly.”

  All of my gear and helmet feel as though they weigh a ton. I wipe the sweat off my brow as people exit the building holding a stretcher with a beautiful brunette. She has long brown hair and full lips. I avert my eyes quickly when I recognize her from American television.

  Rexy follows us away from the scene, helmet tucked under one arm. “You guys off tonight?”

  “I am,” I say, engaging in perfectly common conversation inside of a violent tragedy. A day off doesn’t look like it you’d expect it to. I usually sleep and make phone calls home most of the day. There is zero desire to go outside and explore the city. I can’t do it without being on high alert. It’s safer for my sanity on base where I know I won’t run into something I’m not supposed to.

  I’m alone in this sentiment. Just because I’m equipped to deal with anything doesn’t mean I want to. “Gonna stay in your room and fuck your hand all day?” Rexy snaps, eyeing me from the side. Jokes that I’d brush off with Southern charm in the past now annoy me.

  “Fuck off, man. You go have yourself a merry little time in the brothels. They’re going to run out of penicillin shots in the clinic if you keep up your pace.”

  The seedy parts in any big city flourish in war times. Criminals are more active doing things that might have gotten them arrested back in the day, but now the police and military have bigger problems than prostitution, theft, and drugs. They have entire events being blown apart. I tell the guys I’m heading back to base, check with my officer to make sure we’re clear, and find my way to one of our idling, armored vehicles. I’m alone with my thoughts for a few more minutes as we wait for more men and set off for base, using back roads and driving a cautious speed.

  I’m uneasy when I’m not behind the wheel, when I can’t control every facet of my life. There’s a pit in my stomach all the way back. I grab the handles in the car and keep my eyes on the road ahead. Someone tries to engage me in conversation, but I brush them off, favoring the silence where I can stay attuned to my surroundings. A few ambulances, their sirens blaring in that unfamiliar off-kilter tune Americans aren’t accustomed to, zoom toward the direction we just left. When the SUV rumbles up to the gate protecting our compound, we show identification to the gate guards. They check our vehicle thoroughly before we’re granted access. It’s not until the gate closes behind me do I feel safe enough to relax. The tension eases out of my shoulders as I release a breath. Ironically, this is when the adrenaline hits—my body processes the danger it was just in. I thank the driver as I swing out of the vehicle and start for my room on the back side of the base, the farthest from the entrance. London rises up around all sides of our compound and it’s an odd placement, not like any sort of base we’ve ever stayed on before. We’re not on a boat, or in the desert, or butted up to water. We’re in a thriving city. I can hear the city, smell it, soak in the energy, feel the danger from all angles.

  I use my key card to scan into the empty housing building and start shrugging off my gear piece by piece. My room requires another scan of a card. The skin on my arms prickles with cold. The heating and cooling units only have two settings: balls freezing or hot as hell. Now, it’s arctic cold. It’s dark, only a swinging light bulb illuminates the space the size of a large storage closet. There’s a twin bed pushed against the wall and a small rickety desk by the door. My bags are stuffed under my
bed and the folding chair stays leaning against the wall when I’m not using it. I have a small sink and a mirror above it. The showers and toilets are in a shared bathroom across the hall. I take off my boots before I step into my room and place them outside of my door. Ash and blood and whatever the fuck else is on the bottom of my boots can stay out there.

  I don’t let myself think of anything else when I’m working. To do my job perfectly, I need single-minded focus. The type that comes when you aren’t thinking about anything other than what I’m doing or what I need to do. The kind of focus that comes when you prioritize your career above all else. The balance is tricky, if you can even call it balance, and I know that my family and friends back home feel the strain of the relationships. Clover especially. At the thought of her, I sigh. That woman is my guilty pleasure. A thought I cherish so reverently, that I have to ration my attentions or they’ll consume me completely. Pulling off my chest plates and removing my weapons, I set them on my bed. I cover the air vent on the floor with a Kevlar plate to staunch the flow of air before settling at my desk in the folding chair.

  Opening my laptop, I check the time and a swirl of excitement hits when I see what time it is. I open up an encrypted messaging app and send Clover a text. It should go directly to her phone and her computer so there’s a maximum chance she’ll see or hear I’m messaging. We had a scheduled call in an hour, but I’d kill to see her now. It’s been so long, and I’m frustrated in every aspect of my life. A bit like a ticking time bomb. A bit like a boat sinking. A lot like a man who hasn’t fucked in almost a year. Falling for Clover was fast and hard, and it took a mere moment. Sometimes when I’m drifting to sleep in this cold room, the time spent in Alabama on leave feels like a dream from a different lifetime. This will be the first time I’ve seen her since I left. She’s sent me a random selfie or two, but between the bad connectivity and my schedule, it’s been near impossible to get alone time. The time zones don’t help. The terrorists help even less.