I have to give her credit for making a valiant attempt at masking her terror.
“I knew that,” she says, rolling her eyes.
Glancing at the door to make sure we’re truly alone, I settle my hands on either side of her ribcage and look her straight in her piercing blue eyes. “There’s always a point in life, a moment that stands out as the one. The moment that changes things—forces you to realize that despite what you want, the world is giving you something else. Yes, I wanted the airport,” I admit, pulling her closer. Lowering my voice even further, I say, “Then I danced with you in front of your window. The moonlight. Your voice when you asked what I would do if you took off your dress. The way I walked away. That was a moment when I realized I could thrive within the parameters of restraint. Because I want you. All of you. For as long as you’re willing to offer yourself to me.”
She breathes out deeply, alternating her gaze betweenmy eyes and lips.
“We can define the wordcommitmentif you want, but to me? That’s fucking commitment.” I shake my head. “I don’t want anyone else. There isn’t anyone else for me.”
“Pie is getting cold,” Mr. May bellows from the other room. Caroline looks like she’s about to reply but then thinks better of it.
Taking me by the arm, she holds my hand. “Thank you for saying that,” Caroline says as we take our seats and dig into the pie. Part of me wonders if she thinks I’m saying it to say it, that I don’t truly mean what I’ve said. The fact I want in her pants so badly can’t lend to my advantage. What would I say at this point if it meant I could fuck her into next week? The answer comes quickly:anything.
Escaping work conversation was easy before, but now they’re asking more specific questions about the attacks, and it’s hard to share stories without getting too graphic or striking a nerve. Everyone has a story about what they were doing when the terror attacks rocked our world and fundamentally changed America. I was already a SEAL, and if I’m being honest, we pray for work, action, and a place to showcase our skills. That being said, no one wanted something so severe and life-altering to happen. Caroline tells the story about how she was in the diner, serving at the counter, when the television in the corner started replaying scenes of explosions and destruction in different cities across America and around the world. In her initial confusion, she dropped a steak knife and wascut. She moves the hem of her dress up more than I am comfortable with at the moment and shows the thin, red scar from the cut.
Mr. May was at the airport when he got a call from his wife, who was having lunch with a friend two towns over. It helps that the attack connects us all, even if it’s in a terrifying way. It happened. We can’t undo it, so we move forward. Together. More unified as a country than we’ve ever been.
Caroline cuts off the conversation when Mr. May asks about what type of missions I’ve been on. She looks at me curiously, as if she really wants to know the answer but in the end isn’t ready to hear it. The only people I talk about this stuff with are my brothers and my father after he’s had a few too many beers. Our relationship was strengthened through our patriotism, and our bond was reinforced by our commitment to serve our nation in good times and in bad.
Instead of waxing poetic about war, I tell them a story from my father’s glory days, and that appeases them.
“We have to get down the hill,” Caroline blurts during a lull in conversation. Standing, she clears our pie plates and hugs her mother.
Mr. May stands, wobbles a little because he’s downed another Budweiser, and goes to shake my hand. “I’m proud to have you dating my daughter,” he says. “The airport and the skydiving aside, I’m glad you’re going to take care of my sweet Caroline.” His jaw tics.
Swallowing hard, I made my departure with theweight of expectation weighing on my mind. We rode here on our bikes, and now that the sun has set, Caroline leads because she has one of those weird lights beaming on the front of her bicycle.
I’m left pedaling behind her on a well-worn path leading down to the airport. You can see the road off to the side. The absence of cars doesn’t surprise me anymore, but it does remind me how different my life is now. The trip to NYC to use my God-given skills is probably a well-needed dose of reality—it will remind me of who I am at the very least. Caroline calls back to tell me to watch out for a tree root protruding from the ground, but it’s too late, and I hit the damn thing at full speed and tumble off the bike.
I only stop rolling because my body slams against a small tree. By that time, Caroline has stopped and is walking her bike back up to me.
“I told you!” she cries, looking me up and down. “Are you hurt? Your arm is bleeding!” Her voice echoes off the trees. “I knew we should have ridden on the road instead,” she muses to herself. “Let me see the cut,” she orders, taking my arm into her hands.
“Only my pride is wounded,” I sigh. “It’s a scratch.”
She shakes her head. “This bike is too small for you. You need to look into a bike for a giant or something. It was only a matter of time before this happened. Anytime I see you on the thing, it looks like you’re teetering on the edge of disaster.” It’s cute how she’s fawning all over me, so I let her. “Tahoe, you could have killed yourself!”
“Sunny, you called out the warning about ten seconds too late,” I say, smiling. “You’d be a horrible SEAL.” I lean up to a sitting position and eye my bike. The front wheel is bent. “I might need a new bike, though.”
She laughs. “I called out the warning in plenty of time,” she argues. “You were probably looking at my ass or something instead of paying attention to the trail.”
Now it’s my turn to cackle. I make a big production of standing and then fake limping over to my bike. “What hurts?” she asks, practically yelling. “You need x-rays, don’t you? It’s because my parents approved of you, isn’t it? You’re sabotaging everything!” It’s one of the few times I’ve seen Caroline joke around.
My bike leans to one side. “Well, you’re the one that didn’t believe I was committed.” Taking off my shirt, I press it against my bicep to catch the blood before it drips down onto my jeans. Jeans don’t get washed but once a month. I’d hate for a little blood to move that date up. I have standards to uphold.
Caroline’s gaze drops to my bare midsection. Clearing her throat, she says, “Here’s the thing: I know we are supposed to mess around tonight, but I think we should have a discussion about expectations first.” I pull the shirt off my arm and examine the cut. The bleeding has stopped for the moment.
“Oh?” I ask, raising one brow. “What with my injury and all?” I joke. “I can assure you this arm is fully functional. I’ve been through worse.” Tossing my shirt over one shoulder, I start rolling my mangled bike downthe path.
She looks away and then down to the ground. “We need to get it cleaned up as soon as we get home.” I like how she says home. Like I belong there as much as she does. I’ve lived in a lot of places, but no place has ever embedded itself deep enough to be considered home, not even the one I built. My friends who have wives and long-term girlfriends say it happens when a person becomes home. I didn’t know what they meant until now. Caroline feels like home.
The outside hangar lights hit our bodies like spotlights, and it’s a short distance to park our bikes before we head inside. The first thing she does when she closes the apartment door behind us is go into her bathroom to grab her first aid kit. I sit on the sofa because I know what comes next, and I know not to argue about anything she feels the need to do.
She clears her throat and dabs the cut with a piece of gauze. The scent of the medical-grade cloth makes my heart pound. My mouth waters, and I close my eyes, trying to inhale her scent, any scent, other than the cloth. I’m not in another country. I am not in a hospital bed. I am not getting bullet holes tended. No. I’m sitting in Caroline’s house. Deep breaths. Then one more.
“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” Caroline asks, putting a hand on the top of my pec muscle.
Opening my eyes, I’m met with blatant concern pooling in her clear, see-through soul eyes. This is another of those moments. The urge to lie is there, but ifI don’t, it means something. “I didn’t hit my head,” I say, leaning over to peck her lips quickly.
