by Mimi Barbour
He exhaled, remembering that awful night. “For money.”
Davey scowled. “I don’t believe it.”
“Neither did I, but why would she lie?” He looked at his friends and hoped for an answer that made sense. “I drove down there for her birthday. Sent her roses. She told me, after dinner, that she was getting married to someone else. After I suggested we become closer friends.”
Chapman snorted. “I saw your work at the bar. Not so smooth.”
Davey whipped his phone from the side pocket of his shorts and sent off a text message to someone.
Mack eyed Dillon astutely. “What do you want to do about it? We could stop the wedding.”
“What? I would never do that. It’s not my place.” He wouldn’t break up someone’s marriage.
“Because why?” Davey demanded. “You’re okay with her going to bed with someone else for the rest of her life?”
“You’re so damn rude.” The idea of it slayed him.
“If you don’t speak up, then how is she supposed to know that you actually care?” Davey’s phone beeped and he arched a superior brow at Dillon. “So, I just asked Lara when Crysta was getting married and she said that she didn’t know what I was talking about.”
Dillon stepped backward, the curtains brushing his stiff shoulders. “Crysta isn’t getting married?” Why, then, had she lied to him?
Chapman and Mack exchanged a skeptic look.
“That’s even worse.” Dillon’s blood turned cold, his body aching. “She lied to me so that I’d stay away. Why would I want to be with a woman who doesn’t want me around?” And yet he’d felt the emotion coming off of her skin in heated waves. Seen the desire, tasted the want from her lips.
Dillon studied Davey with suspicion. “Why are you texting Lara?”
“What? I like her, dude. She’s cute.”
Had Lara said anything to Davey about Crysta? Oh, God, this was so middle school. He was a grown man. A lieutenant of the US Navy. A helicopter pilot.
A man who’d fallen for a woman who didn’t want him around.
“I’m driving down after Thanksgiving. Lara says she’ll be singing all December on the weekends. She’s got a sexy growl, you know?” Davey grinned. “You should come with me.”
“Uh, no.” Dillon finished the beer and walked the empty to the kitchen. Since he’d gone shopping he had Coors and Guinness in the fridge. Salsa. He grabbed the Coors and the salsa. Got a bag of chips from the cupboard. He was done even thinking about Crysta Jones. Why would she lie?
“What could happen?” Davey challenged him, following him to the kitchen. “You might find out that she just needed a little space. Maybe you freaked her out with how serious you got?”
She had said he wasn’t ever going to be serious. When they’d talked about family. He might not want kids or the white picket fence, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be faithful to her. “Forget it. You go and have a great time.”
“We have a couple weeks. Think on it. Crysta was cool, and she liked you. You liked her—it might be worth pursuing, just saying.” Davey brought the bag of chips to the coffee table in front of the couch.
Dillon followed with his Coors and the tub of salsa. “There’s more beer in the fridge—help yourselves, guys. Maybe later we could go get wings.”
“My treat. Poker winnings.” Davey turned around again for the fridge and a Guinness.
“An email went out on Friday about working on Thanksgiving,” Mack said. “Not that you or Davey saw it yet. It’s take a shift or spend time with my girlfriend’s family, so I signed up for the afternoon watch.”
Chapman chuckled and reached into the bag for a chip, dipping it in salsa on the way to his mouth. “Right on. I already took the morning shift. I signed you up for that one too, Lieutenant Bakersfield. We have pumpkin pie duty with the Wounded Vets that afternoon, then the next day we’re helping them bring leftover turkey sandwiches to the park.”
Dillon sipped the light beer, his gut a mess. “Sounds great. It will be hard to get back to work after this week of awesome surfing.”
If he stretched the truth, so be it. Crysta would have no more power over him.
Chapter Ten
November
Crysta dusted off the gold ceramic sink the workman had just installed and surveyed her salon with satisfaction. Two chairs, two sinks, two stations. As of yet, it was still unnamed but she’d decided to have a contest to drive people’s awareness of her new business, with a drawing to be held on December 14th for the town’s annual Holiday Festival.
Johnathon Myers stuck his hammer in his tool belt, a red strip of leather mostly hidden by the overhang of his tummy. “Anything else, Crysta?” He’d painted the walls chocolate, installed walnut shelving and applied ivory trim.
She looked away from the empty shelves, grateful she had a few more weeks to prepare. She’d gotten a small loan which she’d broken into monthly influxes of cash, to be supplemented by actual income. With all of the work she’d had done, her business account was close to zero, and her personal account wasn’t much better.
“No, thanks Johnathon. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
She rubbed her rounded tummy, grateful that she’d had no other pains since the one that night that had sent her to the hospital. Dr. Mary had done an ultrasound—hiding the gender of the baby—per Crysta’s request, and joked, “All the requisite fingers and toes. Strong heartbeat and very cute nose.”
Getting used to a baby coming, a healthy infant, was enough pressure without knowing if she was having a boy or a girl. Lara teased her about it, wanting to know if they needed to paint blue or pink, but what was wrong with green, say, emerald green, the color of Dillon’s eyes?
“Call me if you think of anything else,” Johnathon said, touching her arm and bringing her back to the present.
“I will. Have a nice Thanksgiving tomorrow.”
He tipped his ball cap, the Miami Dolphins football logo clear to see. “Football and deep fried turkey—got the guys coming over. You doing something special?” His gaze dropped to her stomach.
There was no hiding her pregnancy anymore, and she smoothed the teal blue floral print over her baby bump. “Yes, we are. Not a football fan but these days the more food the better. I’m cooking at the apartment.”
“Enjoy.” Chuckling, he left, closing the door firmly behind him.
Crysta was making a stuffed Cornish game hen, with green beans smothered in cream cheese and slivered almonds. She’d taken some cooking classes, determined to eat healthy, delicious meals for her and her child.
She’d decorated her studio apartment for the first time, ever, for Thanksgiving. A cornucopia for the kitchen table, gold and orange place settings that she’d discovered at a consignment shop. Heavy ruby-colored plates and goblets. She had so much to be thankful for that it was a pleasure to start a new tradition.
Lara called and Crysta picked up, brimming with happiness as she walked to the back break area. She needed to find a table and chairs, which meant another trip to the thrift shop. “Helllooo.”
“Are you sure you won’t come to Thanksgiving with me? My brother is bringing his icky girlfriend who doesn’t wash her hair. Like, ever. You could offer her a free shampoo or something.” Restaurant noise clattered in the background.
“Before or after dessert?” Crysta teased. “I wouldn’t want to get kicked out of your parent’s place before pumpkin pie.” Lara’s mom made amazing pie.
“It’s not funny. Mom warned me not to stare at the girl’s hair, or else I’ll get stuck with dishes afterward.” Lara sighed dramatically. “So of course, you know that I won’t be able to stop staring. Dreadlocks are supposed to be washed.”
“You are welcome to share my game hen if you want to come over and have Turkey Day with me. I’m cooking two, just in case. They’re small!” Turning off the lights, Crysta left the salon, and locked the door behind her. A coolness was in the air, a touch of fall in the palm trees and a noticeable dif
ference in the humidity. She went on her walks now without sweating to death.
“I wish I could. I bet your dinner will be delicious. Gotta go—Season. We’ve been turning tables nonstop all week with the tourists.” Lara hung up, taking the chaos with her.
Crysta yearned for Zen these days and headed through the shops, all decorated for Thanksgiving with scarecrows or fall leaves in the window displays. She went to the pier, needing the fresh ocean breeze to clear her mind. She did yoga in the mornings now, and was learning to move through life at a less frenetic pace. The bulk of her body made going fast awkward anyway.
Pregnancy seemed to invite contemplation, forcing changes in her mind as well as her body. Things in her past, the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her foster parents, simmered in her subconscious. Her walks on the beach allowed her time to examine what part of the memories mattered now.
“Hey, Crysta.” Dax Smith, the owner of the Dive Shop, called out to her as she passed by. Lean and trim with a surfer’s build, his hair was dark blond. He taped a Holiday Festival announcement on the outside glass of his shop door. “How ya feeling?”
“Good. How’s Celia?” His wife owned Ambrosia, a local café, and she’d taught Crysta how to start with the basics in her kitchen and a few simple recipes. Fresh ingredients mattered. “She is an amazing chef, by the way.”
“She is in her element, making a feast for tomorrow.” Dax turned from the glass to face her, shoving the tape dispenser in his front shorts pocket. “You’re welcome to come if you don’t have plans. Darcy and Al will be there.”
Sweet. His sister, and her boyfriend. Small town beachside living. Why had she been so keen to get away, and hide in the rush of the city? “I’ve got plans, but thank you. Happy Thanksgiving.”
She waved and kept going, taking her teal blue ballet flats off once she reached the sand. Cool granules of shell and rock beneath her feet sent energy coursing through her as she connected with earth at its most basic element. Inhaling, she brought the salty air into her lungs, tasting it on her tongue. The November sky was cloudy, and hid the sun.
Toes in the surf, she leaned down to catch a white shell before it rolled back out to sea. Water foamed around her ankles as she walked down the beach, passing the spot where she and Dillon had made love in the sand dunes. Love, and something more.
In her most secret fantasies, he would come back into her life, their lives, someday and want a family. His family. But she knew this was only a dream. She rubbed her tummy. “Your daddy is a pilot—and teacher—in the Navy. He flies all over the world.” A kick to where her palm was made her laugh out loud. She turned, seeing that she was alone on the beach.
Checking her phone for the time, she saw that it was not quite noon. Later, the beach would be packed with tourists whether the sun was shining or not.
Her phone dinged, signaling a text. Expecting it to be Lara, she was surprised when the picture of Dillon’s biceps popped up.
She was not as surprised by the longing that swept through her. She stopped in her tracks. A wave splashed against to her shin, almost wetting the hem at her knee. Her heart raced.
“Hey Crysta,” she read. She went to a dune up by one of the hotels and sat down to finish the text.
“Hey Crysta. I’ve been thinking about you, and wanted to wish you well in your new life as a married woman.”
Guilt heated her cheeks. His pain would live as a mark against her heart forever.
Another thing to atone for.
She didn’t answer—what could she say?
Then: “I hate stupid games. I know you’re not getting married.”
Well, damn.
A part of her was thrilled that the lie was out in the open. But why, then, was he still contacting her? Was she “the one” that got away, and he didn’t want to lose?
She texted back. “I’m sorry.”
He immediately replied: “Why?”
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. How could she answer him? He had to stay away from her, for his own good. She typed: “Nothing has changed.”
She sighed after she sent that message. For her, everything had changed—being pregnant, she’d learned about real, unselfish, unconditional love. There was nothing that she wouldn’t do for this baby. Without this happening, Crysta would never have opened herself up for the possibility of more. She’d been guarded against love, and being vulnerable.
Her phone rang. Now Dillon wanted to talk? God, how was she supposed to harden herself to him, when he’d, inadvertently, given her the best gift a person could have?
After the fifth ring, third time around, she finally answered. He wouldn’t quit. “Dillon. You shouldn’t call me anymore. I can’t be with you, okay? I can’t see you. I don’t want to try a “friendship” with you. I tried not to hurt you,” her voice shook, “and you have got to stop calling me. I will only bring you pain.”
“Wait! Crysta, you owe me an explanation—”
Tears filmed her eyes as she ended the call. She owed him more than that, but sometimes doing the right thing hurt the most.
Chapter Eleven
Thanksgiving Day Dillon took a morning shift at the base, looking the other way when the guys had the parade or the game on. These folks had volunteered because they had no family around, or family they couldn’t stand.
Like Mack and his girlfriend.
Food was plentiful—all kinds of traditions mixed in with the Navy melting pot. Southern macaroni and cheese, Italian lasagna, American Turkey and mashed potatoes with gravy. Tortilla stuffing. He ate a little of everything, and then he and Chapman went to the non-denominational church by the bay and helped prep turkeys for the Vets and their friends and family. Folks from the church came in shifts as well, and all told, Dillon guessed they fed about five hundred folks.
He did not think about Crysta more than ten times. Maybe twenty. But each time, he banished her. Carved turkey, or did the dishes. Served sweet potatoes. It burned him that he’d reached out to her—again—and she wouldn’t even talk to him. So he kept busy.
The day after Thanksgiving, Dillon and Chapman were in the kitchen making turkey and Swiss sandwiches by the cardboard box-load. The Vets liked to take food down to the homeless at the park, and the Wounded Vet association encouraged things that helped the men see that even if their lives were on a downward spiral, they could still help and feel compassion for another person.
The kitchen was connected to the church, but separate, and they didn’t charge the men to use it so long as they cleaned up, and Dillon kept the keys.
Chapman slapped a piece of wheat bread over the turkey, added cheese, then wrapped it in a plastic baggie. “So, I’m thinking about getting a dog.”
“What for?” Dogs were a big commitment for men who traveled.
“It would be good to come home to something, you know?” Chapman winced as if just thinking this through. “Maybe a cat would be better. Cats don’t mind being alone, do they?”
“I don’t know—who would watch it while you’re gone?” It’s not like Dillon could offer to help since he and Chapman were part of the same unit.
“I see ads all the time for pet sitters.”
He eyed Chapman. Mid-twenties, his friend was on the shorter side of five ten, had a decent build, and no problem picking up girls. “So, if you’re lonely, why don’t you meet someone?”
“I tried that.” Chapman’s cheeks burned crimson.
Dillon reached for another loaf of bread and untwisted the tie, pulling out two slices. “What happened?”
“Man, I’m just no good at calling all the time, or texting.”
Ducking his head to hide a smile, Dillon put together another sandwich and bagged it.
“It’s not that I didn’t want to hang out with her, but she just wanted to constantly know what I was doing.” Chapman sounded pained.
“Yeah?”
“I tried to tell her, you know, nothing, just watching the game with the guys but then she gets
all hurt sounding and dude—I think I better get a cat.” He sighed. “But then when I’m with her, and we’re you know, getting it on…”
“Can’t do that with a cat.”
Chapman groaned in frustration. “I’m not that deep. She wants to have all these conversations about feelings.”
“You’ve sowed your wild oats,” Dillon said. The same could be said for him. “She sounds like she’s looking for a guy who is going to be…” he trailed off. “Serious. Someone who might be around for a while.” Was that the same for Crysta?
“I wouldn’t mind,” Chapman said as he grabbed the last piece of bread in his stack. “No offense, Bakersfield, but I’m getting close to thirty, and I don’t want to be that creepy old bastard sitting by himself at the bar every night.”
He reeled backward. “Creepy old guy?”
“Don’t worry, man, you’ve got a few good years left.” He shrugged.
Annoyed, Dillon said, “I didn’t realize you were an expert.”
“Ah, don’t be mad. I have to figure this out, or get a cat. A dog is too much work.” Chapman stacked his packed sandwiches. “Tired of being alone.”
“There is nothing the matter with being alone.” In fact, Dillon had just spent a week proving it.
Was he saying that Dillon might be an old bar bum? Trying hard not to be offended, he stacked the sandwiches into the box, then waved to one of the Vets—Marty. Marty had lost his arm in Iraq, IED, but it didn’t stop him from cooking, cleaning or driving. Anything. He was a great example of getting on with your life despite the obstacles.
“You got a girl, Marty?” Chapman asked.
“Yeah. And a dog.” Marty snickered—Dillon figured he’d been listening in to the conversation. “The dog is a hell of a lot easier, sometimes. But, love makes the world go round.” He hefted the box, and headed toward the truck. “Meet you out there.”
Dillon wiped off the counter and tied up the trash to take out to the Dumpster. “You think this girl is special?”
Chapman sighed and stripped off his plastic gloves, then realizing that the trash was already taken care of, he stuffed them in his back pocket. When volunteering, the guys just wore jeans and t-shirts, rather than a uniform.
