by Claire Cain
“So, it’s just you and Henry now that your dad is gone too?” I asked.
He nodded again. “Yes, just us. And my grandmother, but she’s getting older. She lives in Florida in a retirement community. That’s why Henry goes to school down there.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that’s why.”
“Yeah, he sees her every weekend, almost. He’s a good kid. She raised us, even when we were stationed in Alaska and New York. She lived with us when my dad had to go TDY or whatever he had going on. She found me—saved me, I think.” His voice was thick and I found myself holding back tears. Maybe it was the whiskey.
“Saved you?”
“If Grandma hadn’t been there to keep loving us after Mom died, I think I would have stopped enjoying things and loving things. It’s not natural to me, still, but I think she kept me from becoming angry for too long,” he said. He took a drink of his now-refilled glass and eyed me over the rim.
“I’m glad she could be there for you. I’m glad Henry sees her a lot too. I bet that means a lot to her.”
“It does. I should go visit her more often. I call her once a week, but I should go see her more.”
“I’m sure she’d like that,” I said and looked out at the sky, dark and glittering with stars and satellites.
“She’d like you,” he said, and when I looked at him, he was studying me, his face serious but relaxed.
“Oh?” I asked, not sure what else to say.
“Yeah. She’d like you” he said and nodded in confirmation, agreeing with himself.
“Why do you think?” I asked and tried not to let the laugh I felt rising in my throat escape. It almost felt unfair, like I was cheating at some cosmic game, to let him keep talking. He should guzzle a gallon of water and pour himself in bed, not continue talking to me in a way I was sure he’d be embarrassed by in the morning. Although this man didn’t strike me as someone who got embarrassed. It was hard to imagine he did anything he didn’t want to do.
“She’d like your moxie,” he said matter-of-factly, like that was a word anyone used.
“My moxie?” I asked, wondering if I’d misheard him, my smile slipping through my formerly stoic face.
“Yes, your moxie. You’re determined and opinionated and stubborn as hell. I think she’d like you,” he said, like it was obvious what he meant. I chuckled as my cheeks heated. I felt a little buzz of pleasure fly through me at his compliments. At least, I thought they were.
“Thank you?”
“Yes. It’s a compliment. Deal with it,” he said a little roughly like I was frustrating him, and I shook my head.
“Ok then. Thank you.”
“Good. Now you need to go home,” he said in that same rough, demanding voice.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t apologize for being kind to me. It’s late, and I should go to bed and so should you.” He stopped and fixed me with a look to make sure I’d heard him and would comply. “Goodnight, Elizabeth,” he said from his chair, not moving to go inside.
I stood up and stopped in front of him. “Goodnight, Jake,” I said, my hand itching to reach out and run my fingers through his tousled short brown hair, to cup his cheek and bring my face close to his and tell him he was thoughtful and kind and that he’d be ok, but of course I didn’t. He nodded, and I walked across the grass, a small smile on my lips, even though my heart was breaking for him, for the Smith family, for the whole Rambler Battalion.
Chapter Seven
I didn’t see Jake again for more than a week. A solid week. I won’t lie and say I hadn’t thought of him and replayed the conversation we had that night about a hundred times. He was so clear about how he was affected by his mother’s death. He didn’t say much about his father, but what he had said was startling.
He ruined her.
Did he think that was what happened in marriage? Maybe if that was the only example I’d seen, I’d feel the same way. Fortunately, I had my parents. As peculiar as they were, their love for each other and their determination to support each other was blinding. At times as a child, I’d been annoyed by it. I took a moment to admonish myself for that stupidity.
And I thought about when the conversation had lightened a little bit and moved to his grandma and how Henry saw her weekly and how he, Jake, called her every week. That was adorable, and one more thing I didn’t need to know since it only made him more appealing and yet still just as unavailable. The conversation was the brightest spot to a dark, dark day, but I’d left feeling confused.
The fact that he said his grandmother would like me, and told me I was determined and stubborn, had given me no small amount of pleasure. It was a strange feeling in the midst of all of the sadness, and maybe that was why it felt so good. As much as I was drawn to Jake even more now that I knew a bit more about what made him him, and what made him that reserved, sometimes harsh man, I allowed myself to feel happy about taking another step toward friendship with him and refused to think about anything else. This guy needed a friend, and I was in the business of collecting good ones. That conversation certainly felt like a step in the right direction.
I was sitting out on my patio with my computer in my lap and my feet resting in a chair across from me on a warm Saturday afternoon. I’d moved outside because I was tired of my dark apartment when it was so gorgeous in the spring breeze. Even though I had to squint to see my monitor in the sun, it felt good to be sitting in the fresh air and to feel the sun warming my toes through my socks. I had my You Can Make Anything by Writing mug Alex had given me two years ago when I declared I wanted to write a novel sitting on the table next to me, full of inevitably cold coffee. Next to that, in my typical form of celebration, was a thin flute of bubbling Prosecco and a bowl of fresh strawberries I’d gotten at the Clarksville farmer’s market downtown earlier that day.
I was tapping away when a shadow fell over me.
“Hi,” he said, and I squinted up at him, the sky behind him framing him in blue.
“Hi!” I said and saved my work, set my computer down on the table. I willed the excitement at seeing him again to stay locked down so I didn’t start prancing around like a puppy.
“I wanted to say thank you,” he said from where he stood a few feet away, and I watched as his eyes moved over the table and its contents.
“Please sit down and tell me what you’re thanking me for,” I said as I pushed out the chair I had been resting my feet on. He moved around it and sat down. I crossed my legs in front of me, now aware of my shorts, coffee-stained t-shirt, and hair piled high on my head twisted into a bun held tight by my usual Bic medium blue pens. I tried not to be aware of his perfectly fitting dark green t-shirt and his relaxed jeans and tennis shoes. I tried not to notice he had a 5 o’clock shadow that was… more than a little attractive.
Shut it down, Elizabeth.
“For the other night. For sitting with me,” he said, leveling me with a surprisingly intense look.
“You don’t need to thank me for that,” I said, pursing my lips together to keep myself from talking anymore, and then grabbing a strawberry from my bowl and taking a bite. Maybe if I could keep my mouth full or closed, I’d make it out of this conversation without betraying my interest in him.
I’d been doing pretty well with remembering he wasn’t an option, and even felt secretly relieved by that since he was overwhelming and confusing and maddening all at once, but here in person, he was testing my resolution to forget about him as anything other than a friend.
I set the strawberry’s stem and its tiny green leaves down in a little bowl I’d brought out for that purpose. I smiled at the sweet taste and realized he was watching me.
“Strawberry?” I held the bowl out to him.
“Sure.” He took one off the top of the pile and his eyebrows rose up a little as he tasted the sweetness. “That’s a good strawberry.” He smiled at me, and I felt my belly flip a little at the sight of his white teeth and curving smile. Wow, i
t had been a while since I’d seen that, and never directed at me.
I loved the surprised look on his face, and that he’d forgotten to be serious long enough to let me see his real smile. As much as I wanted to stay and bask in the glow of that, I thought it might be weird if I just stared at him.
Calmmmm.
“They’re from the farmer’s market. I will say there’s very little I love more in life than early, farm-fresh strawberries.” I beamed at him, happy to be sitting with him for a moment, eating the berries I’d forgotten about as I typed away in the fading afternoon light. I popped another berry in and noticed how he watched my mouth as I chewed, swallowed, and licked the strawberry juice from my lips.
After a moment, a beat or two as his eyes blinked at my mouth and I saw him staring, he cleared his throat and asked, “Are you celebrating something?”
“Yes, actually. I hit the halfway point of editing my book, and it’s in better shape than I thought it was going to be. I decided I’d incentivize the process, which I tend to dread, by promising myself Prosecco and strawberries if I got to a certain chapter by noon today. I did, so—voila.” I gestured to the berries and sparkling glass next to me. “Want a sip?” I asked as I held out the flute to him.
He took it from me, his fingers grazing mine as I handed him the thin stem of the glass, and I tried not to think about the fact that I hadn’t touched him in months, not since we’d shaken hands in my office on the day we officially met. He raised the glass to me and said, “To your editing progress,” and took a small drink.
He handed the glass back, and I took a sip too. “Thank you.” I offered him another berry which he took, and we sat there eating berries quietly for a few moments. I was comfortable just sitting there, being quiet next to him. It was rare that I could sit without having something to occupy my mind and even more rare that I could sit quietly next to someone. My internal dialogue tended to seep out when I was near another person for too long, always ready to debate or discuss, or at the very least, embarrass myself with painfully awkward small talk. But with Jake, it wasn’t uncomfortable, and even though I was happy to see him after our more serious conversation over a week ago, I was glad to just sit there with him.
Well, mostly glad. But I did need to clarify. “Jake, I hope you know you don’t need to thank me.” I eyed him, hoping he’d know I was talking about that night.
“I can see you believe I don’t, but I do. It would have been much worse without you.” He looked back at me, his usual intensity not faltering for a moment.
I didn’t know how to respond, but I was glad he said it. As my mind leapt around trying to think of what to say next, he spoke again.
“I wanted to apologize too. I said a lot, and I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.” His eyes narrowed as though he was trying to peer inside my mind to see if I was upset by the conversation.
“Please don’t apologize. You didn’t make me uncomfortable, and I hope you know what you said is safe with me. I won’t repeat it.”
“I wasn’t worried about that,” he said before I stopped talking.
“Oh, ok. Good,” I said, feeling a bloom of pleasure grow in my chest. In some small way, I knew that meant he trusted me. I knew, too, the list of people Jake Harrison trusted was short.
I could see his eyes dart around and felt sure he was about to leave, but I wanted him to keep talking. “Are you… doing ok?” I asked.
He looked at me for a moment, his eyes shifting back and forth between mine. He picked up another strawberry, and before he bit it, he said, “Yes. I’m all right. Are you?”
He was still looking at me, and something in his look made my whole body take notice. I felt my heart start beating faster, my chest rising and falling a bit more rapidly, and I swallowed down the rush of nervousness that appeared out of nowhere. It was like the air around us shifted, like it knew something I didn’t, and yet my body certainly knew the secret. “Yes. I am.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes like amber in the afternoon light, and I felt lightheaded. Maybe it was the Prosecco getting to me, though I’d had less than half a glass.
“Good,” he finally said and sat there a beat, then stood. “I’ll get out of your space and let you continue your editing. Have a good evening, Elizabeth.”
“You too. Thanks for coming by.” I tipped my Prosecco toward him and then took a sip, mentally berating myself for the thanks for coming by moment, obviously my smoothest move of all time.
I sat and watched him walk away toward his apartment, the pastel sky lit by the setting sun backdrop, and I felt the warmth of the bubbles in my belly. I felt a little glowy—yeah, glowy. I felt like I had an Iron-man-like light radiating from my chest. I’d accomplished a lot in the last few weeks, and my novel was in great shape. I’d been focused and productive on weekends. I had a bowl full of perfect, sweet strawberries for my enjoyment and still half a glass of Prosecco. And now, I thought, I had Jake Harrison’s friendship. A fledgling thing, but I couldn’t keep myself from a smug smile as I sat and enjoyed the sunset in a place that felt more and more like home.
And the view of Jake’s retreat wasn’t half bad either.
The next day was Sunday, and after a morning at church and grocery shopping, I spent the bulk of the day editing. By early evening, my mind was mush and I knew I needed to take a break or risk feeling exhausted before the week ever started. So, without thinking too much about it, I grabbed two beers from my fridge and wandered over to see if Jake was home.
The mid-April evening was cool and quiet, aside from the sounds of kids playing on the playground across the parking lot from the apartments. Sure enough, Jake sat on the porch, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his cell phone to his ear, his head nodding up and down. When he saw me his eyebrows quirked up, and I held up the two beers. He nodded to the seat to his left, the seat I always seemed to end up sitting in, and I could hear him say, “I love you too, Grandma,” as I sat down.
He hung up and put his phone on the table between us, then leveled me with a questioning look. “Hello, Elizabeth.”
“Hello, Jake,” I replied, a small grin on my face. “Thought you’d have a beer with me before I go cross-eyed from editing.”
“Don’t you take breaks?”
“Well, no. Not right now. I don’t have that luxury since I’m juggling a few different balls in the air, and I need them all to stay there for now. I have to keep working until I can drop a few, and then I can work out a better schedule that lets me off a few days now and then. But for now, I write whenever I’m home.”
“So, I should be honored you’re here and not still pecking away at your keyboard?”
“Yes. Yes, you should,” I joked and took a sip of my beer
“Well then, I’m honored you chose me to spend your very small and inadequate break with,” he said and tipped his bottle to me. I met the neck of his bottle with mine and when they clinked together, I smiled at him.
“You weren’t exactly first choice, but…” I trailed off and he laughed.
“I see how it is. I’m the default because I’m your neighbor.”
“Yes. Your proximity is advantageous.” I nodded enthusiastically, and he shook his head at me.
“Noted.”
“What do you do on the weekends, Jake? Besides call your grandmother.” I nodded to his phone on the table next to him.
“Every Sunday, I call Grandma. I also usually talk to Henry, but that’s a little less reliable. I don’t know what else…” He looked around for an answer. “I work out. I hunt, depending on the season. I read. Movies. Regular stuff.” He seemed shy about his response, inspecting the bottle in his hands instead of looking back at me.
“Did you answer my ‘what do you do for fun’ question by saying ‘I work out’?” I smirked at him and his head shot up to look at me. When he saw I was joking, he shook his head again.
“Well I do, just like I know you do. I’m a pretty boring guy.” I decided not to comment
on the fact that I found him to be anything but boring or enjoy the fact that he somehow knew I worked out. Whether this was simply from observing me in exercise clothes, or seeing me jog around the complex, or something else, I didn’t know. But I was not impressed with myself that my reaction to this news released a little bevy of butterflies in my chest. My body was failing to listen to the logic my mind was all-too-frequently trying to smother it with—this man was not interested in me, and those butterflies might as well be moths in a cedar closet.
“You don’t, like, go out with friends? Or anything?” It slipped out before I could stop it, and I felt the embarrassment trying to push forward into my face, but I willed it back. I hadn’t outright asked him if he was dating someone, although I did want to know, despite the fact I knew better than to be asking or hopping down that rabbit trail with him mentally. He’d made clear he wasn’t interested when Henry was in town, and that wasn’t going to change just because we shared a drink or two.
“Not really. Most of my friends are married with kids at this point. I’m the old, single guy.” He raised an eyebrow at me, as if asking what I thought, but then continued. “What about you? You don’t go out with Alex?”
“I do. Sometimes. But she’s busy with Luke, and she works some weekends in Nashville, so it’s not all that often. I’m kind of a homebody at heart, so I don’t mind being at home, doing what I want to do in my own space.”
“I get that. After my first deployment all I wanted to do was go out and be with people and do whatever I wanted to when I wanted to because I hadn’t been able to do that. After the second one and every other one since then, I’ve wanted to be home. The normal routines, the space, the quiet, the food—I like those predictable, familiar things.”
“How many times have you deployed?” I was surprised I didn’t know, but then, we hadn’t talked about stuff like this in our meetings in my office or in any other conversation.
“Five times to the Middle East,” he said, and I watched as his thumb scratched at the edge of the label on the bottle he held with his other hand.
