The Distance Between Dreams

by Sherry L. Brown

  “Fuuuuuccck.”

  A feeling of protectiveness washes through me, and my stomach seems to drop at the news. A quick wash of anger comes next and I hold on to it. How could she be so fucking stupid?

  I close the magazine with one hand. I can’t acknowledge that this means anything. She hasn’t broken any rules per se, and I’m sure the Naval higher-ups won’t be too happy with her, and her father being one of those- He’s probably doubly unhappy.

  But for us, SEAL Team Four, this is just another day, another hot ass naked chick holding a gun in the Playboy.

  33

  I watch all the scantily clad women, gaily sipping champagne and cocktails in their “pajamas.” I am beyond glad I ignored the dress code and went with what I felt might be right for one’s own ‘coming out’ party - this month’s playboy release party- thigh high soft leather boots with a wedge heel, black short-shorts (very feminine and edgy for me), and a plain dark gray t-shirt under a black, lightweight leather motorcycle jacket.

  I’m sipping a glass of pinot grigio, a little terrible at first, but after the third sip I’m enjoying its refreshing acidity.

  I’d already done my required hellos, and am just waiting for Kurt to show so I can say hello and head back to the hotel.

  An athletic looking man steps in front of me.

  “Excuse me, E. Ryan?”

  “Yes?”

  I meet his eyes -aquamarine blue. It’s more startling for the fact that his skin is the color of a caramel latte.

  “Alex Devereaux. I couldn’t help but notice you standing over here all by yourself.”

  ‘Ha. Terrible come-on Alex. I’ve been surrounded all night long, this is the first breather I’ve had.”

  “Ahh. Well guess I don’t have to try any more.”

  Despite myself, I feel my lips turn up in a smile. I like his athletic build, his ready smile, his exotic look. He sips his drink, while we look out at the crowd in companionable silence. Really, I should try to be more social. Make some chit-chat.

  “So, what you thinkin’ about?” It might be the wine turning me into a veritable chatty Cathy, but I feel the need to fill the silence with something. It's a social awkwardness I haven’t felt in some time. Like I’m finally aware that I’m a woman in a social situation.

  “All these girls, they need a good breakfast. You know what I mean?” He turns to me.

  I give him a skeptical look.

  “Waffles with chocolate chips, smothered in butter and syrup, sausage and hash browns, eggs over easy, toast with jam…”

  He trails off and meets my eyes.

  I bust out laughing at the same time he does.

  “Damn! I’m just hungry! It’s been a long day,” he finishes up.

  The words tumble from my mouth without thought, “Waffles sound awesome.” Sneaking away from a playboy mansion party is probably the opposite of what most people wish to do, but we do and find an authentic twenty-four hour diner. Gorging ourselves on waffles with chocolate shakes, coffee and hash browns, sausage and eggs over easy.

  We discuss just about everything under the sun in the hour and half we consume our epic breakfast. Alex seems genuine. He admits to playing in the NFL, with the season set to start in a few weeks, he is just doing some different things, trainings and workouts while taking advantage of where career and money opportunities are taking him. Namely Playboy mansion parties. He had grown up just this side of poor in New Orleans.

  He’s humble and flirty, in a half serious way.

  “You see, visiting the Playboy Mansion, that’s bucket list stuff I can tell my grandkids about one day.”

  I laugh at his term- bucket list.

  “Yep, that’s exactly what I’m going to tell my kids, posing in Playboy was a bucket list item.”

  He laughs, a good round solid laugh.

  “Ryan! You know what? I like you!”

  I tip my coffee cup to him and tell him, “I like you too, Devereaux.”

  He hasn’t mentioned the pictures in Playboy once. Whether he’s being tactful or has a canny ability to read my modesty, I’m not sure.

  “Well, if I keep eating like this, I’m sure I’ll look nothing like my photos.”

  “Shoot, if you keep eating like this, I might have to marry you!”

  We both start laughing at that.

  We languidly exit the diner, and Devereaux kindly drives me back to the hotel. We are both quiet on the ride, stuffed to the gills and just enjoying the silence.

  At the door, he puts the car in park and pulls out his phone.

  “Ryan, I’ve had a good time tonight- let me get your number so we can stay in touch. Maybe have another epic breakfast some day.”

  “Hey! Anytime you want to treat me to an epic breakfast, I’m down.”

  We exchange numbers, and after a quick peck on the cheek, I exit the vehicle and head through the hotel doors. I turn around and see Alex is still sitting at the curb watching me.

  I wave to him and he waves back, then puts the car in gear and pulls out into the street.

  Gentleman to the core. Would Broussard see to it that I made it home ok? Of course.

  Why am I even thinking about him? I’m annoyed with my inability to forget about him after several months. As I ride the hotel elevator up to my floor, I think back to that night and involuntarily shiver.

  Give it up girl. It’s not meant to be.

  34

  Maybe I should flip over. Or go for a dive in the pool. The sweat is trickling down my chest, the sun beating down in relentless heat on my face. But, I’m in that hazy moment between actually sleeping and fully aware. A shadow crosses over my face.

  I pull back my hat and open my eyes. It’s my sister, Kinsey toting an over the shoulder bag and holding the hand of her oldest, Liberty.

  “Everly. I need you to watch Liberty for a couple hours. Sean’s mother is coming to visit and I need some time to clean the house.”

  Liberty smiles at me and in an angelic voice asks, “Can I go swimming, Auntie Everly?”

  My sister picks up without missing a beat: “Her suit is in here.” She slides the tote bag off her shoulder and continues, “Along with some sunscreen, snacks, floaties, juice…You can call me on my cell if you have any issues. I’ll have Sean pick her up on his way home from the office.”

  She lets go of her daughter’s hand and bends down to be face to face with the kid.

  I stand up. My brain finally kicks into gear.

  “....listen to your aunt. No running. No jumping. Wear your floaties. Put on sunscreen…” I interrupt her parental tirade to Liberty.

  “I’m not a babysitter or a lifeguard. You can’t just dump...” She spastically covers Liberty’s ears and glares at me, but I continue “...her on me and expect me not to have plans.”

  She stands up tall and comes in close.

  “Do you have plans, Everly?” She asks in a nice controlled voice. Yea, plans to make a margarita right after my nap.

  “I didn’t think so.” She says after my answering silence.

  “Listen to me Everly. I need a break. A glass of wine while I sweep and vacuum and clean the toilets. Sean’s mom is coming in tonight and I am STRESSED.”

  She emphasizes this by pointing her finger at me.

  “You will do me this favor, because you love me, you love Liberty and so help me GAWD...because you have been a veritable slug since you got home a month ago!”

  She huffs the last bit. Well. After the Playboy party, I just can’t generate any energy to do, well anything. The CIA has been non-existent after their repeated attempts of persuasion, and my bank account has enough money in it for me to retire five times over. Thanks to my portion of my mom’s trust, my military paychecks that I literally never spent, and the deal with playboy.

  I take stock of my sister’s pale face, dark circles under eyes surrounded by crazy mom hair. It looks like she is wearing a scrunchie. Okay. Stressed woman. I look down at Liberty whose eyes are lit up with hope
at the promise of an afternoon swimming- freaking angel face.

  It’s just a couple hours I tell myself. I can handle a five year old for a couple of hours. Shit, it can’t be any worse than BUD/S, right? And I made it through that.

  “Fine.” I agree.

  She bends back down to continue the parental deluge to Liberty, “...No peeing in the pool…”

  I tune it out and retrieve the dropped tote bag in defeat.

  It’s three hours later when I have Liberty dried and napping on the couch that I dial Kinsey. Where is Sean? Her phone goes straight to voicemail so I type out an angry text message.

  Sean hasn’t shown up. Come pick up your kid.

  I play two levels on candy crush and still no response.

  My irritation level climbs up several notches.

  How can she just forget about Liberty? I take a deep breath and look around the pool house where I’ve been staying since I got back stateside. It’s just one big open area with a king size bed- currently unmade- kitchen and bar with a little seating area that faces out to the pool. Liberty is out cold on the couch there.

  Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let her sleep a bit. Probably by the time she wakes up I’ll have heard from Kinsey or Sean will be here to pick her up.

  My eyes fall back to the kitchen. It’s a mess. Cups and takeout boxes line the counter tops. I guess I have been a bit of a recluse lately. I grab a trash bag from under the sink and began throwing away the empty pizza boxes and putting dishes in the sink.

  Soon I’m pulled out of my cleaning frenzy by Liberty saying my name.

  “Aunt Everly. I have to pee.”

  “Right. Bathroom is this way.” Thank god she is potty trained. I didn’t think to ask and I don’t think any of my other nieces or nephew’s are. I check my phone. No messages, and forty five minutes has gone by since I texted Kinsey.

  Liberty distracts me from finishing another text message.

  “Aunt Everly, I’m hungry.”

  Shit- It’s getting to be dinner time and all I got in the refrigerator are some limes and tequila.

  The good thing is Kinsey and Sean’s house is just two miles down the road.

  Liberty and I can walk that no problem. Yea, I hadn’t even bought a car since I’ve been back. I am Ms. Irresponsibility. No rent. No car. No Problems, right?

  “All right, Liberty. Get your shoes on. We’re going home.”

  “Can we get ice cream on the way?”

  I have no idea where we would get ice cream on the walk- so I reply with, “Not before dinner.”

  She pulls a pouty face, but slips on her shoes.

  A two mile walk later, during which I piggy-backed Liberty one point eight miles, we arrive at Kinsey’s. There is an unfamiliar vehicle in the driveway. Must be the mother-in-law and thus the reason Kinsey didn’t answer phone calls or text.

  I knock and push open door at the same time.

  “Hello? Kinsey?”

  The heavenly smells of a home-cooked Italian meal let me know there is someone in residence.

  I set Liberty down. She shoots off like a rocket towards the kitchen.

  Hearing voices within, I follow at a more respectable adult pace.

  The kitchen is gleaming clea. My sister picks up Liberty, who has rushed into her arms, in a fluid motherly movement.

  “Ahhh. Thank you Ryan. Sean is stuck in traffic. I was just about to text you.”

  A regal looking woman with blonde hair sprinkled with gray is sitting at the breakfast table. A glass of white wine in hand as she calls over to us, “And this is your mystery sister, Kinsey? The one I’ve yet to meet! Well come over here for an introduction, little lady!”

  I don’t think I’ve been called ‘little’ or ‘lady’ my whole life.

  I walk over and shake her hand- she indicates a seat at the table.

  “Sit down Everly. Have a glass of wine with us while we wait on Sean.” She says.

  I cringe inwardly again. No one in my family calls me Everly. I reluctantly pull out a chair, while Kinsey places an empty glass in front of me and Mother-in-Law pours from a chilled bottle sitting on the table. I guess wine is just as good as a margarita.

  What passes in the next hour is a torture like none other, attempting to make small talk with a monster-in-law that is not even my own.

  She’s not even subtle about trying to set me up with Sean’s younger brother, a twenty something finishing up his last year of law school. After I finish my glass of wine, I stand up to leave- even though Kinsey is giving me pleading looks to stay.

  “Thanks for the wine. I’ll see ya later.”

  Kinsey walks me to the door, “You sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?”

  I whisper back to her, “Gawd no. That woman makes the CIA look like amateurs. She’s relentless.”

  Kinsey chuckles and pulls me in for a hug. “All right, Ryan. Thanks for today. I know I didn’t approach it right, asking for your help, but it truly was a lifesaver.”

  She smiles a tired, but utterly grateful smile at me that is reminiscent of our mother.

  I nod and walk down her front steps without a backward glance.

  35

  On the walk home my mind wanders. I should want to eat dinner with Kinsey and her beautiful family. Gorge myself on French bread drenched in homemade pasta sauce. I should date Sean’s brother the lawyer, right? I should be out mingling with people, living life and what? Somehow it all just feels...not me. PTSD? I don’t think so. But, if I’m honest with myself I skip all the required post exit therapist sessions. Even though I know I am making the wrong steps, I just can’t seem to muster up the energy to face anything. I don’t really like being told what to do, and there’s no structure or consequences for doing the right or wrong things.

  Once back to the pool/guest house I take out the ice cream pint in the back of my freezer and stare miserably down at the scoop and half that is left.

  I pour a shot of vodka over it. And take a bite. It is terrible. I root through the liquor cabinet and find some Kahlua. Add a shot of that over my ‘dessert.’ My second tasting is much better.

  I plop down on the couch and flip through Facebook on my phone. See, I tell myself, I can be social. I like a photo of fluffy kittens in a slow-mo video being blown dry. Scroll a bit more.

  A pop-up informs me it’s Butter’s birthday. I click over to his page to give him some shit for being an old man.

  There at the top of the page is: “Eric J. Broussard>Michael Knox.”

  And a gif of Paula Deen doing pushups. It is funny. I hover over the clickable blue name, “Eric J. Broussard.”

  Should I? We’d always kept everything professional and I am only friends online with a few of the team. But it is no longer my world. I feel a sadness wash over me like never before. I am not going back. I have spent the last month laying by the pool, sleeping when I wanted, eating what I wanted, drinking what I wanted, all in denial that I am out. I take a deep breath and click off the Facebook app. Shut down my phone.

  What to do now? I guess I could...get a job. I try to think back to what I wanted to do when I was in college. I search back before I met David. I was a senior in high school then. What did I do besides ballet? I come up empty handed.

  I take my empty bowl to the sink and attempt a plié. My knees crack and grate. My left has a pronounced pain at the front of the kneecap. Bad form. The rigors of running around in combat boots instead of ballet shoes probably does not put me into any kind of contention for a dance company.

  I go to bed contemplating what I might be able to fill my time with.

  36

  The next day I hit the pavement for my first run since, well I can’t be sure. It’s just five and half grueling miles, but in that short time I realize I just got to start doing something. It doesn’t matter too much what it is, but just because I no longer have something to fight doesn’t mean I have to wither away. Of course, it may just be the endorphins talking, but I feel hopeful for the first time i
n a long time.

  In the shower I wash the run sweat from my body. Pondering my next steps, there seems to be no answers in the shower stall. I think back to how Broussard washed me that night in the hotel- reverently. I switch off the showerhead and grab a towel, disgusted with myself for how much I think of him sometimes. It's like I crave his stupid face looking at me with disapproval.

  My phone beeps from wherever I left it.

  I wrap the towel around my body and hunt for it.

  I finally find it stuck between two couch cushions.

  I know it’s a long shot- but want to come up to Seattle for some breakfast?

  From Alex Devereaux.

  I can’t help but feel it’s a sign. That I need to get on with my life. My civilian life. My romantic life.

  Depends on what kind of breakfast you had in mind, I type back at him.

  A moment passes where I am staring at the screen.

  A Fall breakfast: pumpkin spice latte, pumpkin spice muffins, pumpkin spice waffles...you get the theme.

  I type back a single reply, When? My brain registers that it is now September. Seems I have blurred over most of August, and maybe July and June too. The Playboy party had been in May. Shit. I need to get it together.

  I quickly Google the weather in Seattle- lows in the fifties. It’d be a welcome change from sunny southern California.

  Broussard

  A month has passed since Ryan showed up on my desk in all her naked Playboy glory. I am like a crazy fiend, keeping the magazine shoved into the bottom of my footlocker, ignoring the temptation to look at it, whack off to it. A kind of self-inflicted torture.

  It’s Tuesday at twenty two hundred, the appointed hour I get to Skype with Luke. Dang kid is in first grade now, and I can hardly believe it’s been six years since he came into the world.

  I plug in the laptop to make sure I’ll have enough power through the call and log in.

  His face flashes on the screen after the first ring.