“I wasn’t prepared for what I saw either,” he says.
“What you did … your reaction. You were so fast. How did you—?”
“I wish I could explain how that made me feel. I’m sorry. That must have looked—”
He lets go of my hands and leans back against the wall, his shoulder to my shoulder.
As soon as he lets go, I feel like I’m falling, and the sensation is a horrible one. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Anything,” he says.
“Can I…?” I tentatively reach for his left hand with my right.
He grabs it quickly, pulling our forearms together.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yes. Thank you.”
We sit in silence and I feel the gentle pressure of his fingers against my hand. I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall, responding to his touch with a light pressure of my own.
I keep my eyes closed as I talk. “Thanks. This is helping.”
He moves a hand to my head and I feel his fingers lightly combing my hair away from my face. I open my eyes to watch. He’s so careful, like he’s making everything right again.
“Okay?” he says.
“Better. Thanks. And thanks for what you did.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he says. “I think you had it pretty well in hand.” He tries to smile, but it doesn’t turn out quite right. I’d almost say this has affected him worse than it has me.
Maybe I can help get us to a lighter place. “Did you bring something to eat?”
He holds my eyes for a moment longer, then rises and walks to the door, where he dropped a bag when he first walked in.
“I’ll get some water,” I say.
I return to the table with bottled water from the mini-fridge and he lays out our meal—steamed rice and roast pork. He splits it onto two paper plates before handing me a pair of chopsticks.
“This is perfect,” I say, hoping to elicit a response.
He offers a tight-lipped nod only.
We eat in silence, and the longer we go, the more worried I become.
“Eric, are you okay?”
He looks at me carefully before answering. “No.”
His gaze shifts to my arm that rests above the table, his eyes roving up and down the bruising. “What are you going to do?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Report it to Captain Magruder, of course.”
I consider this for several long moments. “I don’t know. I don’t want to make this a bigger deal than it is. He was drunk—”
“What? You can’t dismiss this—”
“He was stupid, he was drunk, I handled it.”
He stares at me, incomprehension written across his face.
“I handled it,” I say, glad when the phone rings so I can escape his admonishing stare. I cross the room to answer.
“Ma’am, we need you back down here,” T-Bear says. I press the phone well to my ear to hear him through the noise in the background—barked orders, chaotic shouts, muffled grunts.
“No problem. I’ll be right there.”
I hang up the phone and Eric is already standing.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “I’ll run to the ship, grab my uniform—”
“I’m fine.”
He shoots me a sharp look at the word “fine.”
“Eric, I can do this.”
I don’t wait for an answer, grabbing my uniform from the bed and changing in the bathroom. But when I look in the mirror, I’m shocked. The bruising is glaringly obvious against the stark white of my short-sleeved shirt.
I walk out, Eric takes one look, and his mouth hardens into a tight line. I spy my backpack on the bed and think of a solution, not a navy-regulation solution, but it’ll have to do. I fish out a thin black sweater that I threw in at the last minute and hastily put it on.
“Can I walk down with you?” he asks, opening the door.
I nod my assent and we move through a corridor of red and gold to reach the elevators—red and gold carpeting, red and gold wallpaper, red and gold fixtures and frames. Eric stares intently ahead.
It’s not until we enter the elevator that he finally speaks. “I need to run to the ship for a minute, but I’d like to come back. It’s going to be busy for you tonight, and I don’t care if I sit in the shore patrol office the entire time. I’d just feel better that way.”
I’m about to disagree. I don’t need help. I can do my job just fine by myself. But wait. He backed off on taking your duty, so you should probably give a little, too, Sara.
“Okay,” I say.
His shoulders visibly relax.
The elevator doors open and we enter the banquet room, now teeming with dozens of inebriated sailors under escort from dozens more shore patrolmen. I spot a group of chiefs, including the translator, clustered in the corner and decide that’s where I need to be.
But I stop short. Wait a second. Is that—?
“What is it?” Eric asks, following my gaze to the opposite side of the room.
“I know that man. That’s Animal, I mean, Commander Amicus, a pilot in our squadron. I just never expected to see him here.”
When I look back to Eric, he wears a slightly changed expression, one that’s hard to read.
“Yeah, I suppose this isn’t the likeliest place to bump into someone,” he says. “I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”
Eric walks away, and beyond him, Commander Amicus presses through the crowded group of sailors. Both disappear into the lobby.
Strange. I could have sworn I just saw a nod of acknowledgment between the two.
21
I walk back to my table in the far corner of the banquet room, breathing a tired sigh as I drop heavily into my chair. It took over three hours to clear up that mess—a barroom brawl, complete with property damage, injuries to civilians, and over twenty sailors sent back to their ships. Ugly. We arranged for reparations to the bar owner, and the translator had his work cut out for him. But in the end, I think we smoothed it the best a situation like this could be smoothed.
Eric times his return perfectly. As he walks toward me, I notice his demeanor has changed. He’s more relaxed, at ease. Maybe he just needed some time.
“Hey,” he says, pulling out a seat. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“How did that last brouhaha turn out?”
“It was a tad on the crazy side, but we got it settled.”
I’m so glad he’s back. And that reaction surprises me.
“How are you doing?” I say.
“Better. Thanks—”
His response is cut short due to high-pitched Mandarin wailing. A large family, a contingent over twenty strong—by the looks of it, grandparents, uncles, aunts, kids—enters the room along with a single American sailor sporting a fresh crew cut and Levis.
“Can you make out what’s happening?” I ask.
Eric listens as the group talks animatedly over each other, pointing and gesticulating to the sailor.
“Boy, you’re getting all the good ones,” he says.
“What is it?”
“The short story is that this kid is responsible for taking the virginity of that man’s daughter and now they’re insisting he marry her.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Serious as a heart attack.”
I look across the room. Our translator is already en route. “Wanna come?” I ask.
“I’ll just watch from here, thanks.”
And so it goes, one crisis after another, Eric sitting in the back monitoring it all. He doesn’t seem bothered by any of it. He’s not bothered that he’s not sleeping. Or that he’s spending his night in the shore patrol office. He seems content, even. And though I hate to admit it, it’s been nice to finish with each little incident and have him there waiting for me.
By the time we turn over with the new shift at 0700, I’m exhausted. It’s been a long night
in many respects. After retrieving my backpack from my room, I turn in my room key to the registration desk, and plod to one of the lobby couches to await van transportation back to the pier.
Eric is waiting. He motions me to the side and I practically sleepwalk to get there.
“I know how this is going to sound, but just bear with me for a second,” he says. “You’ve been up all night, you’re dead on your feet, and I thought you might like to sleep in a real bed and not have to go back to the ship. I got a room here and I’d like to offer it to you so you can sleep.”
I furrow my brow in a bone-weary effort at concentration. He has a room.…
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” he says, putting his hands up. “Please, don’t read into this. It’s a straight-up offer of a nice bed, that’s all.”
“I’m way too tired to argue,” I say. “Just lead the way.”
* * *
My eyes draw open with effort, my body heavy from a dead sleep. Paisley wallpaper—red and gold—fills my vision. I stare at it and I remember. I’m in the Harbourview Hotel … with Eric.
I roll over to find him. He sits in a chair in the far corner, his crossed legs resting on an ottoman. The blackout curtains are drawn, the only light coming from a small reading lamp on the end table.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“It’s four in the afternoon.”
“Four o’clock.” I rub my eyes. “Are you serious?”
“You were out.”
My brain circuits flicker.
“Nine hours…”
“Yep.”
I roll onto my back and rest my hands on my forehead.
“Wait,” I say, rolling my head back to him. “You watched me sleep?”
“I didn’t have anything better to do,” he says, lips upturned.
He watched me sleep … for nine hours.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I had no idea I was that tired.”
“Hey, you needed it.”
I raise my arms above my head and point my toes in an all-body stretch. My muscles vibrate to life with a rush of oxygen, then settle, relaxed, as I curl myself toward Eric again.
He looks so comfortable in his observation spot.
And I have a mortifying thought. “I didn’t snore, did I?”
“Well…”
My hands fly to cover my mouth. “Oh, god!”
“Joking! I’m joking!”
I shoot him an expression of mock indignation and retreat under the covers. Glancing under the blankets, I realize I’m wearing his maroon shirt and gray shorts. Uh-oh. He never mentioned the fact that I wore these clothes—his clothes—last night. Stands to reason, I suppose, considering the circumstances. But now, well, he’s been staring at the evidence for nine hours.
I lick my lips, chalky with sleep. Pushing the comforter away, I swing my feet to the carpet, grab my backpack, and shuffle to the bathroom. I note my uniform hanging in the closet. He must have put it there, because the last I remember, I had thrown it in a heap at the foot of the bed.
I indulge in a non-navy shower, which is to say, a long one—a rare treat during a ship-based deployment. I tip my head back, close my eyes, and let the hot water do its magic, my muscles going limp in the tranquilizing steam. My pores open, my skin breathes, and after several minutes, I start to sway, dizzyingly free of tension.
I step out, grabbing a towel, thinking how nice it would be to crawl back under the covers.
I wipe the mirror, creating a momentary steam-free circle, and comb my hair before gathering it into its requisite ponytail. Twisting the last loop of the rubber band around my hair, I stare at my naked self.
I’m naked … and Eric is sitting in a chair less than twenty feet away.
They say the spinal cord transmits information at a speed of one hundred meters per second at a capacity of one gigabyte per second.…
My body reacts, blood rushing, face flushing, and I lean on the swirling granite countertop, gripping the sides. I told myself no more, and yet …
This is too much. Way too much. You need to stop this absurdity, get dressed, and get out of here.
I re-dress in his shirt and shorts, add sandals, check myself in the still-foggy mirror, face clear of makeup, as always, and breathe in a lungful of resolve.
I open the bathroom door, tugging on the strap of my backpack, and peek around the corner. Eric remains where I left him, sitting with his feet up.
“I, um, I’d better go,” I say.
“Okay.”
I’m not sure what I expected to hear, but it wasn’t that.
“Thank you. For all of this,” I say with a sweep of my hand around the room. “It was really thoughtful of you to do this for me.”
“Anytime,” he says, unmoving.
What are you waiting for, Sara?
“Well, okay,” I say. I lift my uniform from where it hangs in the closet and turn for the door. Flipping the latch for the deadbolt, I push down on the handle, opening it partway. I step forward, one foot out, one foot in … and here I stay. My backpack grows inexplicably heavy and I can’t seem to find the energy to continue forward.
I linger, facing the hallway, sensing him before I see him. He approaches from behind, his hand rising above my head, holding the door.
“I’ll see you around, okay?” he says softly.
With his chest to my back, his breath wafts across my neck. He doesn’t wear cologne, just aftershave. And nothing over the top, just him.
My eyes lose focus, the sound of his breathing amplified, my backpack growing heavier still. And though it defies the laws of physics, the air is charged here, pulling me in only one direction.
“I don’t want to go,” I whisper. I’m not sure if I’ve just said that to myself or to him. I step back.
With his arm still high on the door frame, he gently pushes the door closed. The space around me becomes very small, my back to the wall, and his eyes search mine like he’s going to crawl inside. His breathing is the only sound that registers in the stillness, which is when I become aware of the absence of mine.
He reaches to my face, brushing his hand lightly against it, his lips turning upward when I finally exhale. His fingers trace a delicate line under my chin, along my jawline, and through my hair, his hand coming to rest there. His thumb caresses my cheek, my nerves alight, the yearning overwhelming.
I lean forward and he presses his lips to mine.
Something cracks. Invisible and intangible, it breaks and crumbles. Shuddering, I shake away the pieces, released into an unknown lightness, floating free, untethered, my arms slackening. My backpack quietly drops to the floor and the clothes hanger slips from my fingers. His lips move gently, his other hand reaching to cradle my face.
I raise my hands to rest against his abdomen, which feels startlingly like a hardened set of wooden shutters. My body hums, blindsided with a swelling need.
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him toward me, and my mouth opens. He responds immediately, lips parting, pressing his body to mine, pressing us both against the wall. Our chests now flush, my heart pounds. I curl my fingers into his skin as his kiss becomes increasingly urgent. His hands move down the length of my neck, his fingers slipping under my shirt, skimming across my collarbones—
He abruptly straightens, pushing back. Holding my shoulders, his breathing heavy, he looks into my eyes. As I try to find my own breath, I realize he’s asking my permission.
“We should … over there,” I mumble.
He takes a calming breath—several, actually—before lacing his fingers through mine and leading me toward the bed. Looking back, he speaks with surprising clarity. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
Guilty.
He pulls me toward him, his hands lightly gathering the maroon material at the bottom. “May I have it back?”
His hands slide underneath, and in one smooth motion, it’s off. It strikes me that he doesn’t look me over, but keeps his focus on my eyes.
/> I point to his shirt. “May I?”
Without waiting for a response, I gather the edges and pull up. His chest now bare, he pulls me toward him, eagerly forming his mouth around mine. His hand smooths across my back, unhooking my bra and sliding the straps off my shoulders. I look down, past gray shorts rolled at the waist, to the sheer material bunched at my feet.
“I guess you’ll be needing your shorts back, too, then,” I say.
“Yeah, I think that would be a good idea,” he rasps.
I slide them down, underwear and all, as he rids himself of his jeans. I’ve barely straightened when he finds my mouth, opening it once more. He places his hand on my stomach, smoothing it over my skin, moving upward. I shiver when his fingers move across my breast. He takes it fully in his hand, and I let out a gasp, a moan, maybe both. But the goose bumps soon subside, my skin warming with his kiss, his lips melting hungrily into mine.
I cling to a single strand of coherent thought. “Do you … do you have protection?” I manage, pulling away just enough to speak.
“I do,” he says, his breathing labored.
“You do?”
“Well, yes, I—”
My face falls slightly.
“Wait, it’s not like that,” he says, reading my reaction perfectly. He brings his hands to either side of my head, smoothing his fingers across my temples. “I wasn’t planning this, if that’s what you’re thinking. When you leave the ship, you have to take—”
“I know, Eric,” I say, swallowing with unexpected relief. “I know.”
He bends down, rummages in his jeans, and removes a tiny packet. I recognize the brand because I have eighteen in my backpack just like it.
I reach for his hand, guiding him to the bed, and lay back, pulling him toward me. His eyes hold mine as he presses his body along my length, his weight settling, our features melding, wholly perfect, and overwhelmingly wonderful. I swallow, a steady burn eating its way through my insides.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
Desire has swallowed my left brain whole. I offer a non-thinking, well-programmed response. “It’s fine.”
“What kind of fine?” he asks, trailing kisses from my lips to my ear, hovering there now. His breath, warm and moist, echoes loudly. He is all I hear, all I feel.
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