Sweetheart for the SEAL

by Alexis Abbott

  As if he would need to know what a W-2 form is anytime soon.

  Again, the kid is only five. He’s starting kindergarten in a few weeks. But he asked what grown-ups spend their money on, and I couldn’t not tell him, right? I fully expect this kiddo to become some celebrated, super-rich tech genius when he grows up. At this rate, nothing would shock me. He’s a good kid. I know he’s holding in his tears and trying to be tough, but I reach over to pat the back of his ginger head, stroking his soft hair in an attempt to comfort him just the same, even though he can’t see me.

  Hailey, the youngest and most babyish of the four, is now curled up in my lap, resting her little head against my chest. She’s sucking her thumb, whimpering in fear every now and then, but overall she is strangely quiet. I think she’s in shock, too overwhelmed and stunned by the newness and scariness of our current situation to even react much.

  She’s going into self-protection mode.

  I remember doing that as a little girl, myself.

  One summer when I was eight years old, my parents had painstakingly saved up enough money to take us on a family trip to Florida so we could go to Disney World. I was beyond excited, of course, chattering ecstatically about all the fun amusement park rides I was going to go on until it was time to board the airplane for my first flight ever. Something about the claustrophobic airplane cabin, the roar of the engine, the closeness of the other passengers— it sent me into a panic.

  But I was eight, and therefore too old to scream and cry. Instead, I just curled up in my seat and stared, petrified, out the window at the clouds drifting by for the duration of the journey. That’s what Hailey seems to be doing now. She’s retreating into herself, just trying to push out all the scary stuff and hide in a safe space. Her tufty, silky brown hair tickles the underside of my chin as she breathes in and out, and it hurts my heart to feel her own thumping so quickly. She reminds me of a hummingbird—so tiny and delicate. I kiss her on the top of her soft head, hoping that she won’t end up too mentally scarred by the hurricane.

  And then there’s my own daughter, Dakota, who is strangely (and fortunately for me) pretty tough for a three-year-old. She can handle the dark as long as there’s a night light plugged in somewhere that can penetrate the darkness a little bit. She is fiercely independent and a self-starter, the kind of child who prefers to figure things out for herself, even if it takes her three times as long as it would with my guidance.

  My daughter would rather try something a hundred times by herself and fail miserably on every attempt before ever asking for help, though sometimes I can prod her to accept my assistance before it gets to that point.

  When she was a toddler, just learning how to clumsily waddle around the house in nothing but a t-shirt and a pull-up training diaper, she used to bump into things all the time and fall down. Without fail, I would panic and rush over to pick her up, cooing and gushing over my little angel, terrified that she would be badly injured or traumatized by her fall. I was perfectly willing to just cart her around on my hip all day long, never setting her down long enough for her to learn how to do it herself. But she would calmly push my arms away, refusing to be picked up. She doesn’t want to be carried, and she certainly does not want to be coddled— she wants to do things on her own.

  Dakota is my first and only child, so for the first year or so of her life I was, admittedly, a bit of a helicopter mom. I was constantly fussing over her, trying to fix things, trying to make her environment perfectly safe and clean and bereft of obstacles. It took a lot of advice and support from my own mother to finally, gradually learn that by cushioning my daughter against the world around her, she would only learn to be weak. She needs to get those bumps and bruises so that she can toughen up and learn to handle herself in the big, bad world out there. That’s difficult for a mom to do: to back off.

  Sometimes I still find myself reaching to help her with something I know she can do perfectly well on her own, but I’m getting better. And so is she. My daughter is coping with the darkness and the storm and the uncertainty with quiet resolve. I think she tends to see herself as kind of the leader of the pack here at the daycare, since she’s the one who lives here full-time. She’s trying to be tough for their sake. The realization of this fact forms a lump in my throat. I’m so proud of her, but I’m also terrified for her. For all of us.

  The storm is still raging on, and it’s only getting louder and more intense as the minutes tick by. I have no idea how long we have been holed up in this bathroom. My arms are too preoccupied with snuggling these children close for me to reach out and grab my phone to check the time. Besides, what does it matter? We can’t go anywhere. We’re stuck here, for better or for worse. And then, suddenly...things do get worse.

  There’s a massive crashing sound from outside, almost like an explosion of some kind. All four of the kids gasp in fear and cling to me more desperately, and my own heart races so fast it feels like it might burst out of my chest. The whole house shakes violently, and I worry for a moment that the building might collapse. I wrack my brain, trying to picture what it could have been that caused the noise and vibration. As I sit here, soothing the kids, it hits me: a telephone pole or a tree must have fallen on the house. At the front of the house, it seems like. Which means... the way out must be blocked by something now.

  I realize with a jolt how serious this is.

  We might actually, truly be stuck here now. Even if I could summon up the reckless courage it would take to go out in the storm and strap four small children into my little sedan and brave the flooded, ravaged roads, it wouldn’t matter. We’re trapped.

  And just when I feel like it can’t get any worse, there is another loud sound coming from the same direction. Only this time, it doesn’t seem like an accident. There’s something oddly intentional about this cracking sound. It happens three more times, even one more forceful than the last. Someone is trying to break in.

  For a split second I hope it might be a neighbor or some cop or relief worker trying to get inside to save us, but that hope is quickly displaced by the more pessimistic prospect that someone is trying to get in to loot our house. That happens when disaster strikes. It’s sad and it’s ugly to talk about it, but I’ve seen the news stories. I’ve read the articles. I know it’s a possibility; that someone might see a storm not just as a chaotic disaster, but as an opportunity.

  “What is that?” Grant whispers tearfully.

  “Is someone here?” asks Weston.

  “I don’t know, just keep your voices down just in case. I-I’m going to go check it out, okay?” I tell them, gently disengaging myself from the cuddle pile.

  “Mommy, no! Don’t go!” Dakota insists.

  “I’m scared!” Hailey cries, clinging to her whale toy as I slowly let go of them and climb out of the bathtub.

  “I know, kiddo, I know. But it’s going to be okay. Miss Crystal is not going to let anyone hurt you, alright? You all just stay here and be brave for me. Keep each other safe, alright? I will be back as soon as I can,” I assure them. At first, they all move as though to follow me, but Dakota takes charge and opens her pudgy little arms to embrace the other three in a big hug.

  “Stay here. My mommy can handle it,” she tells them, making my heart soar with love.

  “That’s right. Mommy’s got this,” I agree, nodding as I creep across the darkened bathroom toward the hallway. “I’ll be right back.”

  It’s still pitch-black, so I have to reach my arms out and fumble along down the hallway almost blindly, just hoping I don’t trip over anything or walk right into danger. If someone is breaking in, then it’s up to me to make sure I stop them. Nobody is going to hurt these kids. Not if I have anything to do with it. As I make my way to the front of the house, I can see nothing but darkness through the entryway windows. The wind howls. The house shakes. And there is someone pummeling the front door with a heavy object.

  “Go away!” I try to shout, but I’m so afraid that my voice comes o
ut as more of a strangled whisper. I duck down just as the front door lock shatters and the door comes swinging open with a loud bang. I shriek and stumble backward, falling back onto my ass. For a moment, the wind blows a gust of heavy rain through the newly-opened front door, obscuring the figure from view as it steps inside. The intruder is frighteningly tall and broad-shouldered, and I can positively feel the raw strength emanating from him. I reflexively curl up and shield myself with my arms as the intruder slams the door shut and rushes over to me. I flinch, fully expecting him to hit me with a crowbar or whatever it is these people carry around, but instead, there’s a large, comforting hand on my shoulder.

  “Crystal?” asks the man in a low, deep, almost reverent tone.

  The voice is so intimately familiar, but at first I disregard that, since it doesn’t make sense. Why would I know this person? I’m trembling and shying away, still half-expecting to be struck.

  Again, the man says, “Crystal. It’s okay. I’m here.”

  I know that voice. I’ve been replaying it in my head for four years now. But it’s impossible. He’s gone. There’s no way it’s really him. It can’t be.

  Still, I can’t resist any longer. I slowly lower my arms and peek at him through my fingers, and when I see the startlingly handsome, familiar face in front of me, I gasp in shock. I drop my arms and my eyes go wide. I can’t believe it.

  “Duncan?” I murmur breathlessly, unable to believe my eyes.

  He nods and pulls me into his arms, stroking my hair and rocking me back and forth slightly. I’m so surprised I can’t even find the words to say at first.

  “You… you’re here. I-I don’t understand this. Any of this. How are you here right now? Am I dreaming? Am I dead?” I splutter. Duncan chuckles softly, a comforting sound that vibrates down through my whole body.

  “It’s me. I came for you, Crystal. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. This storm— well, I didn’t plan for that part,” he says.

  I shake my head as I pull back to look at him wide-eyed. “No. Nobody did. This morning, just hours ago, they were calling it a mild tropical storm. And then bam! Out of nowhere it’s this huge, scary hurricane. None of us were ready. I wasn’t ready. I’ve just been hiding in my house and the power went out and I know the roads are flooded and—”

  “Shh, slow down. It’s going to be okay. I’m here now,” Duncan says gently, cupping my face in his huge, calloused hands. God, he looks good. Even with his dark hair all flattened down with rain, even through his soaking wet clothes, he looks like a damn Adonis. He’s bigger and more muscular than I remember from senior year of high school, back when he was my first love. Back when he was my whole world, when the only future I could see for myself was spending the rest of my life by his side, two parts of a whole. Better together, we always said.

  But life has a way of tearing up your best-laid plans. We were supposed to get married or something. Whatever he wanted. Whatever would keep us close. But then his dream of becoming a Navy SEAL diverted our plans. I wanted college, he wanted adventure. We were going to make it work, though, long-distance and everything.

  He left, and I applied to colleges. Only to find out weeks later that my plans were on indefinite hold: I was pregnant with Dakota. I was terrified for myself and for Duncan. I loved him more than anything else in the world, and I wanted him to live his dream. Having a baby at eighteen was already going to derail my plans—I couldn’t do that to Duncan, too. So I kept it a secret.

  I know how cruel it sounds, but every time I wanted to tell him, he’d send another letter, gushing about his job, about how proud he was to be serving our country. I’d gotten so close, so many times. I wanted him to make his own decisions, but I was afraid, too. I didn’t want to be the anchor that kept him stuck here in this small town.

  I wanted him to have the adventurous life he craved, and that meant giving him up. It meant living a lie, harboring the truth like a stolen jewel as I became not just a teenage mother, but a single one. It was hard. I made it hard for myself. But I knew that if I truly loved Duncan, it was better to set him free. He was going to make the world a better place, and he couldn’t do that if he had a baby to worry about. We kept up communication for a while, and then gradually we drifted apart—mainly because of me. I didn’t want him to miss me. I didn’t want him to know there was anything to miss.

  And now he’s here. Out of nowhere, looking like the long-lost action hero of my wildest fantasies. He’s here to rescue me, even though I don’t understand why or how. I realize quickly, though, that this is no time for a drawn-out catch-up session. Maybe some other time. Right now, though, we have to get down to business.

  “Duncan, it’s not just me here. I-I run a daycare out of my home. I have four terrified little kids hiding in the bathroom. I left them there to come check on the intruder, only...it’s not an intruder. It’s you,” I ramble, nearly forgetting to take a breath.

  “Well,” he says with a hint of that old humor I loved so much, “I am technically still an intruder. But I’m here to help. Those kids— where are their parents?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “Grant, Weston, and Hailey’s parents are all at work or something. Cell service is screwed up because of the storm. I can’t get a hold of them.”

  “You said four kids, though. What about the fourth one?” Duncan asks, frowning.

  My heart skips a beat. Should I tell him?

  No. Of course not. Not right now.

  “She’s—she’s my daughter, actually,” I tell him quickly. “Dakota. She’s… she’s three.”

  I can see the cogs already turning in his head, even though he looks totally surprised. “You have a daughter?” he asks softly. Tenderly.

  Three years old. He doesn’t need to know she’s almost four. He doesn’t need to know that just nine months after our time together, I gave birth. Not right now.

  I nod, already feeling the tears burn in my eyes. “Yes. I do. And I don’t know how to keep her safe from all that out there. I don’t know what to do, Duncan. I’m scared.”

  “Well, take me to them,” he says decisively, offering me a hand to help me up. “Those kids need to be reunited with their parents somehow. I’ll help you figure it out.”

  Duncan

  I should be speechless. If this weren’t in the middle of a literal storm, I would be, in more ways than one. This is all almost too much to take in.

  Crystal is far more beautiful than I ever remembered. She’s more pristine than a painting, one that someone perfected in the four years since we’ve seen each other. I feel guilty that I’ve been thinking about her the way I have, because it doesn’t do the real Crystal any justice. Her blonde hair and blue eyes were what drew me in the first time I saw her, and now, I feel like I could get lost in them, if I only gave myself a few seconds to do so.

  But I can’t. We have so many more pressing matters to tend to.

  And her daughter…

  I can’t let myself think about that, not right now. The very hint of the thought makes my heart do flips, and that’s exactly the kind of emotion that’s going to keep me from doing what I consider my duty now. I’m a protector, and I’m going to do my job.

  “The roads are partly washed out by now, but there’s a Coast Guard blockade on the main road,” I say. My instinct is to pace, but I learned long ago not to do that. I maintain confident, calming body language, standing still and moving my hands occasionally as I speak. Crystal listens intently. “You said you’ve got four kids here total?”

  “That’s right,” she says, and she turns to the hallway and gestures for me to follow. “They’re in the bathroom. Kids!” she calls as she guides me along. “Someone’s here! He’s a...a friend of mine!”

  We arrive at the doorway to the bathroom, and I look over the four little ones. I don’t see that many kids in my line of work, so seeing them all huddled together here in the middle of a storm guts my heart. Each of them looks up to me with a terrified look on their faces,
except for one. One of the girls, a blonde with green eyes, just looks up at me with wonder and curiosity.

  “Who are you?” she asks. Her looks are a dead giveaway— this must be Crystal’s daughter. There’s a kind of brilliance in her eyes that is so familiar and yet so novel that I’m stunned for a moment. I don’t know what I should be feeling, and what I am feeling is a dizzying rush of sympathy, protectiveness, and love. I have to remind myself yet again not to let myself start thinking too much about this or asking questions. Now isn’t the time.

  I kneel down slowly so I’m not as intimidating to the four kids, for whatever that’s worth.

  “I’m Duncan,” I say simply. “I’m a friend of Crystal. I’m going to get you all to your parents, is that okay?”

  The kids exchange glances with each other, then look to Crystal, who nods softly. I look over my shoulder up at her.

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Do you not?”

  The question takes me by such surprise that I furrow my brow and tilt my head, then remember that most ordinary people do not, in fact, march half the way on foot through a hurricane to get where they’re going. I shake my head.

  “I landed at the airport just a few minutes before they started diverting flights, and I rented a car to get down here. The storm hit about halfway. I had to... take a few shortcuts on the way, and I happened to get flagged down by Anne.”

  “Wait, Anne from high school?”

  “I know, right? Small towns,” I chuckle. “Her husband got trapped on the other side of the bridge, and I wasn’t about to just turn around and leave with her or abandon her there. I let her have the car, hiked the rest of the way over here, and decided we could take your car to get the kids somewhere safe.”