by Karin Tanabe
“What’s a mustang?” I asked, looking from Greg to Mason. I couldn’t very well ask about Mason’s other comments. So I stayed on that one.
“Oh, it just means you go from enlisted to officer,” said Greg. “He wasn’t commissioned, didn’t go to college, he just got a little lucky.” He moved farther from Mason and closer to me.
“No way,” said Mason, watching us. “This shit is getting too complicated. I don’t want to be a part of no love pentagon. I’m standing between you two. Plus,” he said, inching closer to me, “if anyone is going to break her from Ford’s clutches it’s me. No one likes red hair, LaPorte.” He moved right next to me and I smiled at Greg to assure him that plenty of girls in the world loved red buzz cuts.
“Ford was in a bar with Hannah last year. This bar actually, and this guy really started bothering her. Not a military guy, some fucking townie or someone. Some rich kid. It was July. You know, summer in Newport. All those sons of bitches come home. Anyway, you get it,” Mason explained.
“So what happened with Hannah?”
“Well, like I said, this rich kid was really messing with her, and Ford found out about it, went crazy, and swung at him, but Hannah jumped toward him and he ended up punching her in the face. He broke her nose and knocked out four of her teeth and her eye was all bloody. I think he dislocated her jaw, too. Ford can fight, if you haven’t already guessed. She never talked to him again after that. And when she figured out that he wasn’t leaving Newport for a while, she did. Went to Hartford to teach at the university and never came back so that was it. Ford went back to being Ford, which meant all the single women, and I’m guessing the married ones, too, were a lot happier.”
“That’s fascinating.”
“Okay, pretend you don’t care. But just take this as your second warning.”
I wondered what I would do if Tyler came in the bar that night. Would I ask him about Hannah? Would I pretend I didn’t know? I had never had anyone warn me about a guy, and this was a guy who had broken his girlfriend’s face.
As I was thinking about Tyler and his history of violence, I saw Brittan come in the door and made a beeline for her before anyone else could. By the time I got there, there was already a navy guy helping her with her coat.
“Forget everything I’ve ever said about this place,” she announced as she hugged me. “This is awesome. These guys are crazy hot! I’ve never hung out with military guys before.”
“Well, you’re about to. Come on, my friends are at the bar. There, around the guy with red hair.”
“Is that him? Tyler Ford?”
“No, Brit. Trust me, when you see Tyler Ford, you won’t have to ask who he is. But I’m not sure if he’s coming tonight.”
Brittan glared at me. “You didn’t ask him to come, did you.”
“Well, not in so many words. It’s new. I just want it to be him and me for a while, not him, me, half of base, and the beautiful Dalbys. We’ll get there later.”
“Before you come back to New York?”
I shrugged at the mention of my impending departure and didn’t tell Brittan that I had done nothing to make my way back to New York.
“I’ll meet him eventually,” said Brittan with a sly smile. “By the way, this is for you.” She pulled a folded note out of her pocket and gave it to me. It had my name on the front, written in small, slanted print. I opened it and read it. In even male handwriting was written,
Just remember, you’ll always have more fun with me.
—Ford.
I looked up at Brittan and smiled. “Did Tyler give this to you?”
“No, some delivery boy. He looked like he was in the military, too, but really young, barely twenty. Not the type you would dump Alex for. He handed it to me when I got out of the car in the parking lot. Trust me, I knew he wasn’t Tyler Ford. Pretty cute move, though. He wrote you a note. It’s like sixth grade, but sexy.”
It was sexy. I folded it again, put it in my pocket, and walked Brittan to the bar.
I saw every single one of Greg’s friends’ eyes light up as I walked over with Brittan and they all shook her hand with Christmas-morning-size grins when she said her name.
“Your friend is so pretty,” Mason declared as he downed his fifth beer and watched Brittan walk out to the dance floor with Greg. “Fucking gorgeous. I’ve never seen anyone who looks like her. I mean, who’s not in a magazine. Naked in a magazine. No, fuck that. She’s prettier than those girls. She’s amazing. Maybe I’ll ask her to marry me tonight. Like in an hour, after we get better acquainted.”
“She dated Tim Colby last year,” I pointed out.
“The quarterback for the Jets?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Crap. Well, I better pull out my best dance moves then. Wait until she sees me do the tractor,” he said, wiping his mouth and jumping up.
“Don’t worry about him. He won’t make too much of an ass of himself,” said Greg when he got back to the bar.
“You kind of have red hair,” I said, changing the subject.
“I know. Isn’t it awesome. Growing up I was like, hell yes! God gave me red hair. This is going to make my life so much easier.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Trust me. I was pretty happy when I joined the military and I got to shave it all off.”
Mason was twirling Brittan in circles and screaming something about never-ending love, so I walked over and told him to go back to the bar and buy us drinks.
“I’ll have a beer, she won’t,” I said, shooing him.
“I can’t believe you’re hanging out with these guys, Carolyn. They’ve probably all killed people!” She made a gun motion with her right hand and pointed it against my forehead. “Blammo. You seem to be very into murderers lately. Jane would not approve. Not me. I like ethical sportsmen.”
“Let’s take shots,” I said with a grin. “Lots of shots.” We wandered over to the bar and Brittan smacked her thin hand on the counter. Mason put his arm around her neck, blissfully.
“Hey, Mack, we want whiskey shots.”
“The name’s Justin, baby, but you can call me whatever.” The bartender leaned over the bar so she could kiss him on the cheek and handed us our drinks. We drank them immediately and I felt my insides burning.
A few shots later, after Brittan had suggested we dance on the bar, “for our country,” I told Mason we were leaving.
“You girls are drunk. We’ll take you home.”
“No way. I’m not getting in a car with a total stranger.”
“I don’t want to leave my car,” said Brittan, looking at the parking lot.
“I’ll drive your car,” said Greg. “I barely drank. Mason will follow us and take me home.”
Brittan looked at me, waiting for me to veto the idea.
“I spent most of the night with him. He barely drank,” I concurred.
“Fine then. You better be able to drive, Ginger,” she said, throwing the car keys his way. Mason took her arm and pulled her in front of us so we couldn’t eavesdrop on their conversation.
“So you only checked the door and your phone about fifteen times looking for Ford. That’s not too bad. Maybe your love is dying,” said Greg.
“Did I?” I asked, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. That’s pretty rude.”
“That’s okay, I’ve seen much worse. You’re not the first of Tyler Ford’s girls I’ve driven home.”
“I am not one of Tyler Ford’s girls.”
“All right, then, you’re not. Yet.”
“Why don’t you like him?” I asked as we walked slowly through the lot.
“Who says I don’t like him?”
“You don’t seem to. Did he ever do anything to make you not like him? I mean, don’t you think he’s a good guy?”
“Do I think Ford’s a good guy? Absolutely
not. I think he’ll do anything to get laid and to maintain his reputation. He likes to be this tough guy. In Iraq he was the same way. But he doesn’t have to try very hard, does he. He just looks like that.”
Ahead of us Mason and Brittan were kissing while a car was flicking its headlights at them.
“So, where do you guys live?” asked Greg.
“I live downtown on Monument. But I’m obviously not letting you take Brittan home without me.”
“Okay,” said Greg, scanning the parking lot for a car that might be hers. He looked down at the keys and looked at me.
“Bentley?”
“It’s her dad’s,” I said. “Don’t worry, she won’t murder you if you scratch it.”
“Holy shit, I cannot drive someone’s Bentley. Don’t you have a Chevy or something we can drive instead?”
“Not here. It’s fine, trust me. The Dalbys aren’t really like that.”
“Wait, Dalby? Like titan of industry, donated libraries and all that Dalby?”
“Yeah, that one. Brittan Dalby.”
“Oh God. And if she’s Brittan Dalby, then who are you?”
“I’m just her friend,” I said, using a line I had uttered a thousand times before. Not a Dalby, just a friend.
“My car,” said Brittan, pointing, when we had caught up with them.
Mason jumped into his Ford truck and started it up, waiting for us to get in Brittan’s car and pull out.
“Isn’t he drunk?” I asked, looking back at Mason’s bright lights.
“Yeah, but who cares,” said Greg. I gave him Brittan’s address and he entertained us with war stories until we pulled onto Bellevue.
“I love this road,” said Greg, taking advantage of how wide it was. When we pulled through the thick iron gate, past the fountain and tennis courts and into Brittan’s driveway, Mason pulled right in behind us and jumped out of the car.
“Brittan, you live in a castle,” Mason said.
“Not exactly,” she said casually. “Have you ever been to the Mont St.-Michel?”
“Brittan, shut up,” I said as Mason stared at her blankly with his wide black eyes.
She turned to walk away, but he took her hand and pulled her toward him. Greg and I turned around as they started making out on the hood of his truck.
“It’s cold,” said Greg, unbuttoning his jacket. He took it off and put it around my shoulders. It was so thick and warm, I instantly felt like I could spend the night outside.
“No,” I said, reaching for it. “You can’t stand out here without a coat on. It’s like twenty-five degrees.”
“I’ve felt much worse.” He positioned his coat on my shoulders again.
“I know it’s none of my business,” he said, reaching his hand in his coat pocket. He didn’t hold mine; he just curled his up and rested it next to mine. There was more than enough room. “I don’t think you should be messing around with Tyler Ford. He really does have a hell of a reputation and you seem like too nice of a girl to get involved in all that. The thing with him is, it’s not just all the girls. We got in a pretty bad fight once and he scared the shit out of me. He’s pretty good at that. We overlapped when he was on his third tour.” His voice drifted off and he turned and looked at the vast expanse of water hitting the cliff below us.
“What was the fight about?”
Greg paused for a few seconds. He looked like he was either trying to decide whether to tell me or trying to get his story straight.
“There was a rumor that some guys in his platoon were planning on selling military property. Guns, night-vision goggles, even these eight-hundred-dollar flashlights we all had. So I asked Ford about it.”
“How’d that go?”
“Badly.”
“Was anyone in his group, I mean platoon, was anyone ever caught doing that?”
“One guy was a few years later. He was selling assault rifles on eBay. But no one then.”
“So not Tyler?”
“No. But there was still a lot of talk. He did four tours, you know. That can take a toll on a person. And when it’s a person who was already hell-bent before, it’s not a good thing.”
“I appreciate the warning,” I said, looking up at the sky. It was a very clear night and you could see a handful of stars above us, shining through the cold.
“You appreciate the warning but you’re not going to listen to it,” he said finally, reaching for my right hand in his pocket.
“Did you hate it in Iraq? What was it like?” I asked, ignoring Greg’s declaration.
“It was humbling and terrifying and empowering. Basically, take any emotion you’ve had and think of the extreme version. It was all those things, but every day, hour after hour.” He held my hand a little tighter and I didn’t pull away.
“How long were you there?”
“Seven months.”
“Did you see a lot of people die?”
Greg looked at me like I was a five-year-old kid asking him why dogs couldn’t talk.
“I know these questions sound ridiculous,” I said, “but I’m genuinely interested and you’re the first person in the military I felt like I could ask. My father is an architect. He never served. I don’t have a brother. I have you.”
“What about Ford? Why don’t you ask him?”
“I don’t know. You know him, he’s not exactly approachable. He told me about his translator dying. The one he had on all four tours. But he said it so flatly, I just couldn’t pry after that.”
“Well, Ford’s seen plenty of people die. A lot more than me.” Greg tipped his chin and kissed the top of my head. A few seconds later he said, “Okay, Carolyn Everett. Do your thing. But just know I’m going to be watching out for you. Ford’s just a person. I mean, everyone makes him out to be a bigger deal than everyone else, but you’ll see. Then maybe you’ll go out with me.”
“I’d like that,” I said, leaning my head against his chest. He kissed my hair again and didn’t move his lips until I pulled away. I gave him back his coat and he whistled toward Mason.
“Hands off, Mason, we’re going.”
“Nah, man, she wants me to stay,” Mason said between kisses.
“She doesn’t,” I said, walking over and pulling Brittan off the car and toward the door. I thanked them both for driving us home.
We fell into the Dalbys’ entry and ran toward the living room laughing. As soon as we hit one of the couches and kicked off our boots a light switched on over the stairs and we stopped laughing, stared at each other, and laughed again.
“Could you two maybe shut up a little,” said Carter, walking down the stairs. He was in a Yale T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. He sat down next to us and poured himself a scotch. “Where have you two been anyway? You seem nice and hammered.”
“Oh, we are,” said Brittan, reaching for the crystal scotch decanter near the couch. “And we’re going to keep on drinking. Want some hooch?”
We both looked at each other, screamed, “Hooch!” and fell down laughing again.
Carter took back the decanter and refilled his glass. He handed his glass to me; I took a sip and gave it back. My face was totally numb from the alcohol and standing in the cold for twenty minutes. I looked at the Pissarro over Carter’s head and it looked like it was drawn in crayon.
“Oh, what the hell. Cheers,” he said, finishing the drink.
“So, where were you?” he asked, reaching for a remote control and turning up the heat in the living room.
“We were at . . .” We both looked at each other and screamed, “The Blue Hen!” through fits of laughter.
“You two are crazy,” he said in his easy baritone. The man sounded like boarding school. “I mean, is there anyone in there besides sailors trying to get laid?”
“Yes,” I said, standing up at attention. “There are mar
ines trying to get laid!”
I fell back down and Brittan and I were bent over on the couch again, laughing until we couldn’t breathe.
“Right,” said Carter, finally laughing, too. “How did you get home? You should have called me.”
“The sailors trying to get laid drove us,” Brittan announced. “I should have slept with that one. He was in love with me. He asked me to marry him, Carter. A forever marriage. With swords!”
“Everyone asks you to marry them,” said Carter. “Don’t marry anyone. Not tonight,” he said, winking at me. “I’m going to bed. You two going to sleep down here?” he asked. Brittan’s eyes were already starting to close. He walked back upstairs to sleep next to Jane in what was, for many years, her parents’ bedroom.
“I love you, Carolyn. I’m sorry you’re unemployed,” said Brittan, reaching for the blanket I had just brought her. “Poor tragic Carolyn. So smart yet working at the fish market.”
I didn’t correct her.
“It’s okay,” I said, wrapping the bottom of the blanket around her feet. “I had a lot of fun tonight. I haven’t had this much fun since . . .” I stopped to think about it and by the time I had an answer, Brittan had passed out. She could have guessed the answer. I hadn’t had that much fun since I was in college with Brittan and Jane. When all three of us had been there together and I hadn’t cared about getting to work the next day. When I had no idea what my adult life would be like and the only pressure I had was getting good grades and getting boys to like me. Everything from that night, our laughter, the drive home, and drinking with Carter in the Dalbys’ million-dollar living room, already felt like it had happened weeks ago, a mood we would never be able to create again.
CHAPTER 9
As soon as I left the Dalbys’ the next morning and walked up my creaky apartment stairs, I switched on my computer and found the number for the University of Hartford. What was bothering me about the Hannah story from last night was not what probably bothered most people, that Tyler had broken her nose with his fist, but what Mason had said: she had been an art teacher at St. George’s. The only person Tyler had ever been serious about was an art lover. And now he’d found me. It could have been a coincidence, but in the light of day, it didn’t feel like one.
