Fighting for Arielle

by Karina Sharp

  “You want something to eat? It is Sunday, you know.”

  “You know me so well,” she says, sitting up, smiling, and exposing her bare chest. “Except, it does seem a little excessive to eat Shells and Cheese first thing in the morning, so I will opt for a more traditional breakfast food.”

  She stands up and stretches. Seeing her bare body first thing when I wake up is very tempting, but I push on.

  “You? Opting for ‘traditional?’ I never would have pegged you for that kind of girl.”

  “I do what I can,” she laughs. “But some things just can’t be avoided. That being said, I call dibs on the bathroom. Or invoke the tradition of ‘ladies first.’ See? Sometimes it’s just not worth it to rock the boat.”

  We eat a light breakfast of fruit and cereal- Arielle’s lighter than mine -and we talk about our plan for the day. It’s still raining intermittently, which prompts us to begin the question game Arielle proposed yesterday. We each take a few minutes to ourselves to think of and write down questions. I have so many, but one of the rules is that it has to be a generic question that both of us can answer, so no “How did you get into burlesque?” or “Why a tortoise?” As the day and game progresses, and we think of other questions, we can put them in the mix.

  Arielle suggests we put the questions in a hat. She goes into my closet and selects a hat from which to draw the questions. She skips over my many baseball caps and selects an everyday uniform hat of mine. She insists it’s because it’s flat on the top and won’t fall over. I suspect it’s really because she likes that it has shiny gold adornment as she seems to have a penchant for all things bright, colorful, and shiny.

  Arielle aptly names it the “Hat-O-Questions.” Originally, she wanted to call it the “Cool White Hat of Getting to Know You Queries,” but we compromised on the shorter title.

  Arielle insists that I draw a question first since she thought of the game. I think it’s fair since she will have to answer first anyway.

  “Who or what is your favorite singer/band?” I read aloud.

  Arielle’s face lights up and I can see the wheels turning in her head.

  “Too many to name. I love pop and dance music, but indie music is really what speaks to me. I have an unhealthy obsession with The Avett Brothers. I love love love Mumford and Sons and the Kings of Leon. I also love The Head and the Heart, Florence + The Machine, and Lord Huron. Oh! And I can’t get enough of Cold Specks. Cold Specks and The Avett Brothers have helped me through many a tearful night.”

  I can see she wants to continue, but she stops herself.

  “How about you?”

  I ponder my response for a moment.

  “I don’t know that I have a favorite favorite. I love all genres of music, but I guess I would have to say that I am drawn to classics. I love Sam Cooke and Otis Redding. But, I’m also a child of the 80’s and 90’s, so I love Pearl Jam, Guns n’ Roses, and U2. You know, the usuals.”

  Arielle nods in agreement.

  ”Oooo...I love oldies too! I love Creedence Clearwater Revival and Simon and Garfunkle and Fleetwood Mac. I love me some Lindsey Buckingham. And Dave Grohl does no wrong in my eyes. And- I think you catch my drift. I will stop talking now.”

  I don’t mind her talking. She’s cute when she rambles.

  Arielle draws a question and reads it, trying to sound serious. “What instrument(s) do you play, and when/why did you start playing?”

  I know this question is one of hers that she’s been dying to have me answer.

  “Violin, viola, cello, bass- pretty much anything stringed. I began playing the violin when I was six or seven. My mother insisted that my brothers and I all play an instrument of some kind as well as speak a foreign language. I also play the piano. I don’t know how long I’ve played, but I know I learned from watching my mother.”

  She stares at me intently.

  “Do you play the banjo?”

  “No, but I could probably pick it up fairly quickly.”

  Arielle claps her hands together. “That would be so insanely hot. I love guys who play the banjo. Well, I’ve never known one, but I’ve always fantasized about knowing a man who plays it and having their little banjo playing babies.”

  Only Arielle Abbott would have the banjo as her instrument of choice.

  “Is that what you meant with ‘unhealthy obsession’ with the Avett Brothers?”

  I turn my head and look at her through the sides of my eyes.

  She puts her hands over her mouth and rocks her body slightly. “You caught me!”

  She continues laughing, but answers in turn.

  “Anyway, I began taking piano lessons at the age of eight. My older sister took lessons and played well, so my mom asked me if I wanted to learn. I’m gung-ho for learning anything new, so I did. I hated practicing though. That’s it. I was more into dancing and singing.”

  It’s my turn to draw again.

  “What’s something on your bucket list?”

  Arielle wrinkles her nose, which I find to be incredibly cute.

  “Let me preface this by saying, I don’t have a ‘bucket list.’ I don’t like the way that sounds. It’s as if you check off things on a list, and life is done, complete, poof! over, and you can now die happy. I have a ‘List of Things I Wish to Experience.’”

  “How is that any different?” I ask, dubious as it just sounds like semantics to me.

  She looks at me and takes an accusatory tone. “It’s very different. There’s always something new to learn or experience, and as we go through life, our activities and desires shift and change, always evolving. Thus, my list is all encompassing and ever changing. But, to answer your question, I’ve always wanted to receive a love letter, and not one that you get in grade school with the ‘check yes or no’ boxes. I’m talking a true, bona fide love letter, like the ones you see in museums from the Civil War era or from which movies are based. Ones that have withstood the test of time and the direst of circumstances- hand carried across continents and oceans because those words are so meaningful and important, people sacrifice life and limb to deliver the message.” She gently puts her lips together and turns to them upward into a smile. “Also, I want it to be full of cliché and sweet nothings.”

  I’m impressed with her beautiful and eloquent response. She truly does think about things thoroughly.

  I think of my bucket list, which wasn’t much until recently. “Well, after yesterday, I had to come up with a new one.”

  “What did you check off your list yesterday?” She looks confused.

  “Kissing you in the rain.”

  We pause the game to repeat some of yesterday’s events. I guess she really appreciated my answer, and she showed me how much so.

  ***

  After a shower and dinner, the day is winding down, and like every Sunday evening, I wish I could slow time down. I wish Sunday could last forever, and she didn’t have to return back to her apartment. Not only do I miss her when she’s gone, I’m beginning to miss Swanks too. He’s quiet, but he does bring a certain positive vibe with him, and I’ve gotten so used to hearing his feet click across the floor. Sometimes, I think I hear it during the week when he’s not here.

  We sit outside on the lanai to enjoy the sunset and stretch out our time together. I bring my hat out with me.

  “I think it’s time to draw from the Hat-O-Questions, and I believe it’s your turn to draw,” I say, reaching over, grabbing my hat with an ever growing mound of slips of paper with questions scribbled on them.

  Holding the hat out with my left hand, Ari plunges her right hand in, stirs around a bit, and pulls one out gripped between her thumb and pointer. I place the hat to the side as she unfolds the sliver of paper and clears her throat.

  “What is your biggest pet peeve?”

  She looks at me with her lips slightly pursed, and I know she is probably curious about this one.

  “Bad drivers. Can’t stand them. Pick a lane. Get over if you’re going to get ov
er. It’s not rocket science.”

  I throw my hands up in frustration. I really cannot stand bad drivers.

  “That’s so you,” she says, shaking her head in a scolding manner.

  “What about you, Miss ‘I Love Everyone?’ What annoys you?”

  I fold my arms across my chest and sit back into my chair, waiting for her to reveal something that bothers her.

  She furrows her brow and looks toward the ceiling in thought for a moment, then takes a deep breath, continuing with her eyes cast upward.

  “This is really random, but…when obituaries say he or she ‘loved to laugh.’ I mean, who doesn’t love to laugh? Like someone is just feeling tortured and miserable because they’re laughing? Come on. It’s cheesy and ridiculous, and if anyone puts it in my obituary, says it in my eulogy, or puts it on my tombstone, I will come back and haunt them in the worst of ways.”

  There’s nothing random about Arielle, and that’s what makes me love her.

  “Remind me to leave a binder of directions on things to do and not do for future generations as not to upset your spirit,” I say with sarcasm.

  She drops her eyes to me and smiles. “That’s a great idea. While you’re at it, make sure you note that I don’t want some sort of sad funeral, and I don’t want to be dressed in a drab, old lady outfit. I don’t care what age I am. I demand a party with dancing and fun music and cool lights. Also, I demand to be buried in an awesome sequined and fringed dress.” She’s bouncing up and down when she gets to the last part of her directions.

  I put my hand on her thigh under the table and pat it lightly and playfully.

  “Only you would think so much about that and have the most specific and off-the-wall demands.”

  She pulls away and sits up, looking toward me with widened pupils in which I think I can see my reflection. Or my soul.

  “That is not even close to off-the-wall, but I’ll take it as a compliment. I’ve made a commitment to live my life to the fullest and appreciate everything it has to offer. When my body stops working, and I leave this realm, I want to be remembered for that, and not in some serious, somber way. Memorials and funerals are to remember and celebrate a person’s life, who they were, and what you loved about them. I’m a loud person, so why would I want a reverent remembrance? I don’t know where we go after this life, but I hope it’s some place with a giant dance floor so I can keep doing what I love.”

  “Just one more thing to love about you, Arielle Abbott.” I take my index finger and tap the end of her nose.

  “You don’t think about those things?”

  “No. Why would I? The thought of anyone’s death, especially yours, is not something I want to think about. The thought makes me sick with heartache, so no, I don’t try to feel that.”

  Arielle begins playing with her fingers in her lap while she looks at them. “I think feelings, good or bad, are wonderful to experience. As humans, we have the privilege to not only feel an entire spectrum of emotions, but we have the ability to emote, empath, and verbalize them. I think experiencing emotions of all kinds is not only a privilege, but beautiful.”

  She looks up at me with the most undiluted gaze. “Think about art in its purest form; art is an expression of emotion. There’s something so pure and perfect about expressing, experiencing, and understanding raw, unadulterated emotion. I think it’s the most honest a person can be with oneself, and its expression is a gift.”

  I look into her pure face and think how she is a gift. I can’t remember what life was like before her, but I don’t want to remember, nor do I care to try.

  “My turn to draw,” I say, lifting the hat.

  I dig my hand in, pull up a piece of paper, and unfold it.

  “If you were any type of worm, what would you be?”

  I shake my head and wonder where she comes up with things like this.

  She closes her eyes, as if she hasn’t already thought of her answer to this question before I drew it out of the hat. “If I were a worm, I'd be a silkworm. They are awesome. They attach to one another and build beautiful tapestries and fabrics that leave a long lasting beauty and mark on this planet, and they don't even know it.”

  I want to give an answer as poignant as hers, so I am pensive, but then the perfect answer comes to me.

  “If I were a worm, I would be a glow worm.”

  She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Because you think you're so bright?”

  “No, Ms. Know-it-all,” I say, returning the same attitude.

  “Do tell.” She raises an eyebrow of interest.

  I smile compassionately, but don’t look at her directly.

  “So I could light the way for you- illuminate your path out of the darkness. I want to show you the way to love and adoration and everything else you so deserve. You deserve to be cherished, worshipped, caressed, and never to be taken for granted.”

  Arielle takes in a breath.

  “Wow. I didn't expect that.”

  I didn’t either, if I’m honest with myself.

  “I guess you could say I enlightened you.”

  I am on a roll with perfect responses right now.

  “Oh my good llama! You are such a dork!! But, you’re the most adorable dork ever.”

  Arielle, reaches over to me and gently massages my ear as she searches my face- for what, I’m not certain. Then, she leans into me and kisses me delicately. I love all of her kisses. They all speak different words and sometimes even different languages, but I understand each and every one.

  We hold hands as we get up from the table and walk into the grass, which is cool and soft. We sit next to one another, she lays her head on my shoulder, and we look out onto the moon reflecting off the water. I hear Arielle taking in controlled and deliberate breaths as if she’s gearing up to say something. I wait patiently for her to say what she needs to say.

  Upon completion of a few more deep breathing exercises, she keeps her head on my shoulder, looking out onto the water, and says hesitantly, “Show me the way.”

  Not sure that I heard her correctly, I ask to clarify. “What?”

  She keeps staring at the water, but grips my hand tighter.

  “Show me the way. I trust you to light the way. Lead the way, and I am right there behind you.”

  I think my heart may swell out of my chest, much like the Grinch’s did in the original Christmas cartoon, which is a ludicrous visualization at the moment. She lifts her head, searching my face in the darkness.

  “I'd rather you be beside me,” I say as I take in her soft and lovely features.

  Her eyes show a degree of uncertainty. I smile in response and brush her wavy hair behind her ear.

  “I will hold your hand the entire way.”

  Arielle’s face is illuminated by the moonlight, and I can see signs of both worry and hope in it. Her expression is earnest as she asks, “Promise?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  I kiss her knuckles one by one as she nestles her head closer in my shoulder.

  I am both thrilled and fearful of her trusting me so unconditionally. The gift of holding someone’s heart is a monumental responsibility with the potential for very grave and detrimental consequences. It is not a decision to be taken lightly, but Arielle trusts me enough to give it to me, and I will prove to her that I am worthy of her tribute. I need to show her what she means to me and how seriously I feel about her. I need her to know, without a doubt, that she too holds my heart, and together we are complete. I will protect her and devote myself to her happiness, because from this moment forward, my life and future is no longer I or me- only us.

  I run my hand over her soft hair and inhale her. I brush my thumb behind her ear and move it down her cheek, across her jaw, and to her chin. I gently pull away, leaving her chin resting in my hand, and lower my head so that my eyes are level with hers.

  I look into her uncertain, yet trusting eyes.

  “Let’s wrap the moon around us and feel what it is for me to worship you.�
��

  Chapter 18

  Arielle

  Last Sunday, McCrary said he would worship me and that is certainly what he did. Over and over again. My body is still reeling in gratification from the bliss that he thrust me into multiple times over the course of that night as I think about it. I hope more of that is on our agenda for today’s Day of Rest, but first, we are supposed to visit the Navy Exchange and Commissary to pick up some things so I can introduce McCrary to some authentic Mexican food. I allow a reprieve from Shells and Cheese for the week because I am really craving food like my grandmother made for us when I was growing up.

  Before we set out on our foray into public together for the first time since we officially crossed the relationship boundary from professional to personal to intimate, we devise a plan to split up and each gather some specific items so we are not seen together. The longer I work on base, the more I’m beginning to see what a small and tightly-knit community the military is. With Brody being in the fleet and stationed on Pearl Harbor, he’s part of an even smaller subset of that community. Unfortunately, I’ve been subjected to being around more of his fellow sailors than I would have liked. Not that they are necessarily bad people, I was just never myself and always a target of ridicule from Brody in their company. I have seen some of them in my morning PT sessions, as well as here and there in the gym. I’m usually surprised they even remember or recognize me, but somehow I manage to leave some sort of lasting impression on them.

  We exit McCrary’s Jeep in the large parking lot of the Exchange mall and Commissary, and I’m singing the Mission Impossible theme in my head. If I’m going to have to be secretive, I’m going to pretend that I have to be incognito. I playfully duck between cars and peek around the corners as if I’m looking out for bad guys or fellow spies. McCrary tries to stifle his laughter, but he can’t. He walks into the large, automatic doors first, shaking his head and laughing at seemingly nothing, and I decide he looks just as curious to passersby as I.