by Claire Cain
“Five?” I asked, incredulity in my voice.
“Yep. Three full year deployments, one that got cut short to ten months, and one that was right about nine months.” He said this nonchalantly, like it wasn’t an insane amount of time to be gone.
“That’s more than four and a half years, Jake. No wonder you like being at home.” I felt the impulse to thank him, but I swallowed that down, knowing he wouldn’t want my thanks. “That seems like too much.”
He let out a long breath before he looked back at me. “It feels that way sometimes. But I’m almost done.”
“You are? You’re only, what, thirty-three?” I remembered his birthday from his paperwork, remembered he was almost exactly six and a half years older than me, our birthdays opposite each other—mine in December, his in June.
“I went to basic training when I was seventeen. I’ve been active duty since the day I turned eighteen. I’m almost to sixteen years—will be in a few months.”
“That’s mind-blowing. You’ve had an entire career, and in all that time I’ve been in school. Just school and more school, not doing anything with my time. I’ve been out of my grad program for less than two years. I feel like such a slacker.” I swallowed down the real sense of panic that I hadn’t done anything, hadn’t started my working life in the way I wanted to, and watched as he peeled the last of the label off.
“You should. You should feel like a slacker, Dr. Elizabeth Kent,” he said and gave me a pointed look.
I gave him a closed-mouth smile, one of those regretful, chagrined ones, in response. “My point is, it’s amazing you’ll have completed a twenty-year career before you turn forty. That’s something to be proud of.”
“Thanks.”
We sat companionably for a moment and sipped our drinks. I heard him shift and set his bottle down on the table.
“Well, do you miss it?” he asked.
“Miss what?”
“New York. The City. The center of the universe, of course,” he teased. This was a far more lighthearted Jake Harrison than I’d ever encountered. I felt a little flustered by his chattiness and wondered what he was so chipper about.
“Oh! Sure. Yeah, I do sometimes. Mostly when I’m driving because I don’t like driving. But I like the space here. I love the space in my apartment. And I think I’m finally used to how quiet it is.” I smiled to myself and looked out over the grass of his backyard and beyond.
“I like New York. It’s overwhelming, but you can find these pockets of calm and wonder.”
Something about the word “wonder” coming from his mouth made me feel like I was walking sideways. It set me off kilter enough so I couldn’t tell what was up or down.
“That’s it exactly!” I exclaimed, and it was an exclamation. I sort of shouted it, revealing my amazement at his perfect word choice. I lowered my voice and continued. “That’s the perfect way to describe it, or… those parts of it. Those corners and neighborhoods and those silent moments alone with the Temple of Dendur or in the Masters’ rooms at the Met. It’s like you have the whole world, all of history to yourself sometimes.”
I glanced at him and he was looking at me, studying my face. “How do you know that? Did you live there? It’s hard to get that feel on a short visit,” I asked.
“My dad did a year at West Point when I was in high school. I went into the city a lot, and at that point he didn’t challenge me on much. He let me go, probably because he knew it could have been worse for him. I was straight-laced and studied hard, so he knew I wasn’t going off to get drugs or whatever. Looking back it’s a little insane he let me go by myself. But I’m glad he did.” He gave me a small smile.
“Well listen, I don’t want to be encroaching on your time at home any more than I have, even if you were my last resort pick for my break.”
“Yeah, I was about to kick you out. I need to pack,” he said and took the last swallow of his beer.
“Pack?”
“We’re in the field this week for an FTX.”
“FTX?”
“Field Training Exercise. War games, shooting ranges, stx lanes, all that good stuff. If we don’t freeze overnight, it should be a good week,” he explained.
“I hope you don’t freeze, and I hope it goes well. Have a good week.” I stood up and carried my bottle with me.
“You too, Elizabeth.”
I finished the last few notes for my first draft of the TESS project on Wednesday of that week. I emailed all of the participants a copy of the information and invited them to come in the following week for a meeting to explain the results. I was sure less than a third of them would come, but I liked to provide the opportunity for people who participated in a study to understand the outcomes and what their data meant to the project as a whole. This wasn’t always possible, so I liked that I was in a position to do it now.
I felt relief. I’d given myself six months, and I finished the project, in solid first draft form anyway, in four and a half. That meant I had plenty of time for editing and revision before I submitted it to the organizations that would use the information. I’d submitted my request for an expansion of the project in March, and I was hopeful that would provide me enough funding to do so.
It would also help me justify not going back to a teaching job within the calendar year. It would let me keep writing and hopefully get to a place where, by the end of the year, I could support myself with my writing full time. That would take an incredibly aggressive writing schedule, but I was ready. I had to take a deep, bracing breath and let it out at that thought. It still scared me.
I’d finished my book, or at least had made peace with it enough, and had been sending query letters to agents. I’d sent a few in the weeks prior but hadn’t wanted to pursue my top choices until the book was as polished as I could get it. Working weekends and nights had made me productive. I’d sent my latest draft to a girl in my writer’s group who’d offered to copy edit the work if I’d return the favor down the line when she had her novel ready, so of course I said yes. Her feedback was helpful in the last round of edits, and now I was ready for a break, ready to let loose a little, and having things wrapped up would be perfect. I was meeting Alex for brunch on Sunday and planned to spend Saturday doing whatever I wanted. Probably a long run, a movie, and whatever else I felt like, because I could. Guilt free.
I wondered if I should call my parents and tell them. I could tell them about the project completion and the book—maybe that would soften the blow, or double excitement. That was far from likely, but it seemed like a good way to let them know the book and my writing were still happening. We’d been steadily avoiding any mention of my writing for weeks since it only brought out tension between us.
When Saturday rolled around, it was a rainy, dark morning. I’d decided to go to the gym for my run instead of braving the rain, knowing I wouldn’t last. I couldn’t stand having wet feet.
Hours later when I pulled into my spot, I saw Luke unloading something from his truck on the far side of the parking lot and then noticed Jake pull in a few spaces down from where I’d just parked. My stomach fluttered, and I rolled my eyes at myself. Even though I knew we were friends, I found myself thinking about when he might be back, whether I’d see him that weekend, and how things had gone in the field.
I was sweaty and my long hair was pulled back into a now-disheveled knot. I’d run for a long time at the gym and was ready for a long, hot shower, clean clothes, and a good book.
And food. Definitely food.
I pulled on my rain shell over my tank top, ignoring the slightly nauseated feeling I had as I stood up out of the car. I knew my legs and feet would get wet, but I wanted to wave at Jake before I ran to my apartment. By the time I was out of my car, he was pulling bags and other items out of his trunk.
“Do you need help?” I half-yelled as I approached him because the rain had escalated to a downpour. Water was running down my rain jacket, down the bridge of my nose, down my legs, into my shoes,
everywhere.
Jake turned around to face me, and my eyes widened at the sight of him. He was wearing his camouflage uniform, which was soaked. He had his patrol cap pulled low on his head, and his face was painted with dark streaks of olive green, brown, and black paint. He looked dirty and savage and rough. He looked wild.
He looked insanely, magnificently hot.
He set down the bag he was holding and took a step closer to me. Without thinking, I took a step back. His eyes ran from my neon pink running shoes up my bare legs to my shorts and then my open rain jacket and my soaked tank. My chest was rising and falling like I’d just stopped running, though it had been a half hour or more since I left the gym. His gaze was a palpable thing, like he was running his hands along my body, and I felt my chest, neck, and cheeks heat.
He stepped toward me again, water spattering off the bill of his hat, soaking into his uniform, running over his paint-darkened cheeks. He stood right in front of me, maybe twelve inches away. He took each side of my rain jacket in one of his hands and slowly snapped three of the buttons—one at my belly button, one at my chest, one at my sternum. He didn’t actually touch me then either, just the jacket, but it felt like he had. I swear I could feel the snap of the buttons between his fingers on my skin. I could feel his eyes lingering on my chest, then my neck, then my lips.
Then he reached up and gently took my chin in his hand. His warm, rough thumb swept over my bottom lip, wet with rain, and he said, “Go home, Elizabeth.” He held my eyes captive with his for another moment, my own incapable of looking away (not that I wanted to), and then stepped away.
As he was grabbing his bags again and slamming his trunk door, I shook myself out of the fog he’d created by standing next to me. I forced my feet to move in the direction of my apartment, rain squishing in my socks and between my toes, and I did not look back.
Chapter Eight
When I closed the door to my apartment, I leaned back against it and stared out into nothing for a few moments. I couldn’t bring words to mind. I couldn’t bring thoughts to mind either, except one thing.
All I could think of was his warm, rough hand on my chin, his thumb on my lip, and his eyes. They’d slipped over me like a silk sheet, liquid and smooth and suggestive.
What.
Just.
Happened.
I shook off the daze and looked around the room, wild-eyed, feeling frantic. My adrenaline was dropping, and I registered that I’d run nine miles and hadn’t eaten anything since before the run hours ago, so first, sustenance. I grabbed a banana and shoved it in my mouth, chewing, swallowing with ravenous focus on one corner of my hallway carpet that curled up and I constantly tripped over.
I was soaking wet and still sweating from both my run and the subsequent encounter with now suddenly extremely sensual Jake Harrison, so I jumped in the shower. I thought very carefully about my mile times, the next time I’d run, the way my knees felt, how sore my hamstrings already were, and avoided any thought of Jake. It was far too soon for him to join me in the shower.
Oh good grief.
I thought of the slightly chalky feeling of my tongue after the banana, which was still mostly green. I thought of how much water I’d need to drink and that I should start my coffee maker.
When I got out and dried off, I found sweatpants, my phone, and the couch, pulling my long hair into another damp bun on my head. I wore my contacts that day to avoid running in glasses, which I realized when I reached up to shove them back on my face and found them missing. Right.
Alex picked up on the third ring.
“Alex,” I said, my voice serious.
“What’s wrong, El?” I could hear the concern in her voice.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” I said. I needed my brain to calm the eff down because I knew I wasn’t making sense.
“What do you mean? Start from the beginning or give me something so I know what you’re talking about.”
“Jake Harrison. I like him. He doesn’t like me—I heard him tell his brother he had no desire to date me. So, like any sane woman I have continued to enjoy his physical attributes while doing my best to not think about him since he was so unequivocal about his lack of interest in me.” Professional summarizer. That was me.
Alex choked a little and sputtered a cough. “You think he’s not interested?”
“I know it. I heard him say it.”
“Um, ok. Then, what’s wrong?” she asked.
“I just… He just… I don’t know. I saw him in the parking lot, and it was strange.” That’s putting it mildly.
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Go home, Elizabeth.’ That’s not what was strange, though. It was the look he gave me,” I said as I remembered the way he looked at me and felt myself sink farther into the couch.
“What look did he give you?” she asked, and I could hear her voice becoming pitched with frenetic energy.
“It was like… I don’t know. I could swear it was like he… wanted me. You know… Wanted me.” I felt my cheeks flush thinking about his eyes again, how intense and hungry they’d seemed. My heart was wild in my chest as I waited for her to laugh at me. It felt so stupid to say that out loud.
“Oooh. Oh that’s a good look on him, I bet.” I could hear the smile and excitement in her voice, and I shook my head.
“I’m probably wrong. I haven’t dated in years. I have no idea what I’m talking about, really,” I sputtered, trying to reason my way out. I jumped up and started pacing a path from my couch, to the front door, along the entryway, turning just before the kitchen and back around to the front of the couch.
“Give yourself more credit than that, El. You’re not an idiot. It sounds like there was a moment. But, he didn’t say anything else, or do anything else?”
“He said, ‘Go home, Elizabeth,’ and then he grabbed my chin and ran his thumb over my lip.” I blushed again at the memory, my fingers running over my lips as I remembered the feeling of his on me.
“Oh. My. Shortcake. Yeah, he wants you. That was a moment. I can confirm. A man doesn’t touch a woman’s lips unless he wants to kiss them. I’m sorry, but no, that doesn’t happen.” She sounded giddy.
“But, I heard him. He said he wasn’t interested. Plus, I happen to know he doesn’t date nor does he want any kind of serious relationship. And he’s never done anything like that. Any time we’ve been near each other, it’s been totally platonic, not even any flirting. Definitely no touching.”
“I don’t know what to tell you El, but it sounds like Jake Harrison has the hots for you,” she teased.
“Ugh, I am not mature enough for this,” I said as I slumped back down on the couch, curled my knees up to my face, and rested my forehead on them.
“What do you mean? You’re twenty-seven years old.”
“I mean, like, what do I do now? What do I say when I see him again?” I felt anxious at the prospect already. I had no idea when I’d see him again, but my heart was hammering like he’d knocked on my door.
“I think you act normal, my dearest. Or… you act like yourself. I think you wait to see what he does next, but otherwise, you do whatever it is you’ve been doing. Onward.” Her voice was reassuring and solid now, and I felt myself relax a little.
“Normal. I can do that. Onward. Yeah.”
Because normal is a thing that people can be. Yeah.
Especially me. Especially around him.
Totally.
On Tuesday morning, I received an email from Jake. It read:
Dr. Kent,
* * *
I apologize for my slow response. I have been in the field and did not receive your email until yesterday. I am interested in reviewing the summary of the TESS project data and learning about your associated conclusions and recommendations. Could we schedule a time to meet next week?
* * *
Very respectfully,
And signed with his Outlook email signature. I was used to this, and expec
ted nothing less, though the formality floored me for a minute. Then I realized that, even if he did like me (just thinking that made me feel like I was in junior high), he wasn’t going to convey that in an email. For this guy, it may have even been his way of showing me respect, a kind of scholarly, super serious flirting.
Sure. Suuuuuure.
SFC Harrison,
* * *
I’d be happy to meet with you. Are you available next Wednesday at 10:30? It shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes of your time.
* * *
Very best,
* * *
And my signature block.
And there we had it. He replied, just as formally, and confirmed he’d be attending the meeting next week. I felt… flummoxed. I wasn’t sure how he’d act around me, but I suspected that in the professional context of my office, it might be just as standoffish and formal (that word again!) as it was the first few times we met here.
That would be good—that would guide me. If we met in my office, on my terms, and I knew what I would be discussing with him (the study), I wouldn’t spend the entire time wondering if he’d touch me again or if I’d catch another glimpse of the heat with which he’d looked at me the weekend before. The fact that I felt irritable and restless at the thought that it’d be over a week until I’d see him in that context was more than a little annoying.
I had no business wanting him. Whatever that was in the rain—however appealing it was to be the recipient of his attention in that way, I couldn’t hope for that to happen again. I shouldn’t hope for it, and if it did happen again, if I were being a smart person, like I tended to think I was, I should shut it down.
Because he’d made his interest clear in the form of the overheard rejection when he spoke to Henry, and I knew he had no interest in a future based on more than one conversation with him. I had no interest in a fling with my extremely attractive and ever-present neighbor—I knew myself. First, flinging wasn’t my thing. Second, the unfortunate reality that I felt much more for him than attraction made anything on my end the opposite of casual.
