The Charlotte Chronicles

by Jen Frederick

  It’s resignation, not hurt that I hear. He could be hiding it, but I don’t think so. We’re too close. He always knew I loved Charlotte, even when I stayed away. He just didn’t understand it. “Only for a short while. I’m going to leave the teams as soon as I can. I’ll put in for separation. It’ll take maybe six months at the longest.”

  “What the hell, man? You left for nine years because you wanted to be a SEAL, and now you’re saying you’ll just up and quit? That sounds like a fucking terrible idea. What happens a year from now when you’re sitting in some suburban home, looking at your stupid ass neighbors arguing about whose lawn is nicer? You’ll want to shoot yourself in the foot, and you’ll start taking it out on Charlotte.”

  I don’t like what I’m hearing, but it’s only because he’s voicing what I’m too chickenshit to acknowledge. “What’s this all about, Nick?”

  His retort is hard-edged. As much as I hate what’s coming out of his mouth, I swell with pride at his protectiveness over my girl. “I love Charlotte like a sister. Never loved her any other way, but she’s my best friend and other than the time I went to Notre Dame, we’ve been damn near inseparable. You’re taking my best friend away, and you’re talking about shoving your dream under your bed like it’s an old shoe you don’t like anymore. I’ve spent a long time watching you hurt Charlotte, and it’ll kill me if you do it again.”

  “I know.” I can’t say more because my heart’s in my throat.

  His voice is lower, hoarser because it pains him too. “I kept her safe for you. Watched over her like you asked me to.”

  My head’s full of emotion too. “I know,” I choke out. “I couldn’t ask for a better brother or a better friend.”

  A noise at the doorway catches me attention. I jerk toward it and see Charlotte there, still wearing my T-shirt. Her eyes are big and watery, but she yells out, “I’m still going to be at all your games, you asshole, so you better play good this year. And don’t get sacked. I hate that. You hold on to the ball way too long.”

  Nick bursts out laughing, and then I do too. It’s going to be okay, I think. By the time I hang up, I’ve got myself convinced that I’m not even lying.

  Mostly.

  38

  Charlotte

  My clothing choices don’t give me many options for a night with a bunch of rowdy sailors. I have suits, dressy tops, and slacks along with a pair of very worn denim shorts and a tank top. I opt for the denim shorts and a silk sleeveless blouse.

  Nate frowns. “If you bend over I can see your ass cheeks.”

  “Then I won’t bend over, but I’m not wearing a suit to a bar where all your friends are hanging out.”

  “I’m okay with the suit,” he offers. “Besides, if you wear those shorts, I’m going to be walking around with a semi the entire time, which is okay in the apartment but frowned upon by the general public.”

  I hook gold hoop earrings through my earlobes. “Blah blah blah. I can’t hear you over the blanket of paternalism that is suffocating me.”

  He spins me away from the mirror and wraps his arms around me. They are tight bands, but not suffocating in spite of what I said. His eyes are glittery, a mix of need, banked jealousy, and a helluva lot of love. When his lips crash down on mine, it’s hard to stay upright. His mouth is doing things to me that spin my head and make me question every decision but ones that keep me between his legs and in the circle of his arms.

  In the long years of our absence, my memories of him had become faint. I tried to hold on to them for as long as I could, but things such as the motion of his hard body moving over mine and the rough but soft way he handled me were hard to conjure from the images and emotions I’d stored up in my head.

  I’m still struggling with the reality of being able to touch him whenever I want. To know that the embrace is really happening. It’s his mouth trekking its way around my jaw, down my neck. It’s his rough, calloused fingers deftly undoing my blouse and dipping inside my bra to rub over my tender and sensitive breasts. It’s his thick erection rubbing between my legs until I’m reduced to a mindless puddle of squirming want.

  The shrill sound of his phone going off breaks our trance.

  “Shit,” he breathes harshly.

  “We’d better go.” With some reluctance I push him away and go about repairing the damage he inflicted to my makeup and clothes in about five minutes flat.

  “I don’t want to go,” he whines, flicking his phone to silent. As he sits on the stool next to me, I bite my lip to keep from laughing. With his head hanging down, he looks like a sad little boy.

  “If we don’t, they’re going to call all night, and pretty soon they’ll show up at your door, pounding on the wood and disturbing everyone.”

  “You’re right.” He stands up and runs a hand through his hair. His mussed hair and heavy-lidded eyes are criminally hot. I’m not leaving the apartment until I’ve got a little armor, so I slick on a new coat of lip gloss and run a mascara wand through my pale eyelashes so I don’t look totally hairless around my eyes.

  “If anyone should be upset, it should be me,” I say, watching him through the mirror.

  He screws up his face in confusion. “Upset about what?”

  Still holding my mascara brush, I point to his reflection. “Look at your tight T-shirt, how it shows off your big chest muscles and isn’t even covering the bulges in your biceps. It’s like you want some girl to come over and run her hands all over your body.”

  He comes up behind me and crowds me with his big body. “Is that right? Well, I’d have to tell her that if she touches me, my woman will go apeshit on her.”

  “Then if anyone touches me inappropriately, I’ll knee him in the balls and then tell him my boyfriend is going to hit him so hard, he’ll be traveling back in time.”

  Nate can’t suppress a laugh. Lightly swatting me on the ass, he chuckles. “All right. No more smart remarks about your shorts. For the record, my T-shirt is an extra-large. This is the way it fits.”

  “Are you bragging about your size?” I tease.

  “Who needs to brag about this?” he shoots back, cupping himself through his shorts. His thick length looks so hot in his grasp that I have to bite my cheek to keep from moaning out loud.

  Instead, I shoo him out and tell him to get dressed. When he leaves, I let out a sigh of relief. Another minute with him standing with his dick in his hand and I would’ve jumped him.

  We finally get out of the apartment without ripping each other’s clothes off again, although there was a tense moment at the door when he slammed it shut, pressed my back up against it, and proceeded to kiss me until I was weak-kneed and he was wearing all my gloss.

  I’m going to have to buy two tubes of all my favorite colors at the rate I’m reapplying lip coloring.

  Flannery’s is a self-proclaimed Irish pub, not too far from the Del. A green sign with white lettering over the entrance says “Kiss him, he’s Irish.” Nate tells me that the front of the bar is deceiving because it looks no more than about ten feet long.

  The real action is in the rear, no pun intended. Nate maneuvers me through a throng of people, half of whom look like tourists and the other half military boys. You can generally tell which tribe each belongs to simply by haircut.

  Over the bar hangs what appears to be at least a couple hundred glass mugs, each with a name etched on them. “How do you get a mug?” I ask.

  “You buy it.” He grins at my disappointed face. “Wanted a more romantic story? Like I had to wrestle a bear or something?”

  “Or maybe shoot an apple off the top of the head of the bartender.”

  “I’m not sure Flannery’s workers’ compensation policy covers that,” he says wryly. His hand pushes me forward until we reach the patio, which is twice as large as the interior of the bar.

  A group of men and women surround three small square tables pushed together toward the rear of the patio. As we approach, nearly all the males stand. One of them looks like a you
ng Ron Howard barely out of his Mayberry days, with a smattering of freckles and wild reddish blonde hair. Next to him is a weathered face sporting the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on a person.

  SEALs come in all sizes and shapes—tall, short, stout. Their one commonality is a superb physical state. Muscles . . . muscles everywhere.

  I have no doubt that each one of them could break me in half without effort. Nate and the male next to the redhead are about the tallest, at a few inches over six feet. It’s easy to see why there are so many gorgeous women around, including the ladies sitting at the table.

  It’s not easy to walk toward such avid interest, not knowing what’s coming next.

  “Why are they all standing up?” I whisper out of the side of my mouth, dragging my feet a little.

  “The guys are interested in you.”

  “Why?”

  “My nickname is Monk. That I’ve run off on shore leave with a woman is making them crazy.” He plants a quick kiss on my forehead and pulls me forward.

  By the back slapping and fist jabbing, it’s easy to see Nate is well-liked. I hang back slightly to observe him. It’s no different than it was in high school. Men look up to him and want to be with him.

  Actually, there is a difference. The way that they greet him is like how Nick greets him. This is his family.

  He laces his fingers through mine and says, “This is Charlotte. And, Charlotte, these fools are my teammates.”

  He introduces each one individually, and I try to memorize their names. It reminds me of the times I had to meet Nick’s teammates both in college and then when he went pro.

  There’s something strikingly similar between these men and the ones that Nick plays with. Only, when these men go out to do their jobs, someone’s life is on the line. The work isn’t done for entertainment but for the protection of our country.

  I have to remind myself that these men have hopes and dreams and heartaches like anybody else. It helps me to relax, but only for a moment because the interrogation begins before I even sit down.

  “Tell us everything about yourself and don’t leave anything out,” orders the man named Cabby.

  There are a few ways to handle being the new girl in an already established crowd dominated by certain male personalities, but my go-to one is that I’m confident, can take a ribbing, and spew my own flavor of bullshit.

  “Well, my name is Helga, err Helga Charlotte, and I am an alpine skier. I met Nathan when he was vacationing with his family in Lake Tahoe. I was babysitting for a pro golfer’s family while they were on holiday. I didn’t speak any English, and Nate didn’t speak any German. Ultimately we were left to draw pictures for each other. We would exchange our stick figure messages for days until he left. This continued until one day I broke my hand and could no longer draw stick figures. At that point I realized I could not continue in a relationship where stick figures were our only form of communication, so we drifted apart. Then we discovered each other on the beach where the three of you were running. He convinced me that our stick figure romance could be revived, and so here I am.”

  I lift my unoccupied hand palm up as if to say that is the end of the story. Nate coughs into his free hand and then pulls out a chair for me. Across the table, there are varying expressions of confusion and disbelief.

  “Helga Charlotte?” Cabby’s one eyebrow is raised.

  “I know, it’s a mouthful, right?”

  “Your English has come a long way,” he replies.

  “Thank you. I’ve worked hard on it.”

  Nate’s humor is morphing into irritation. He doesn’t like to see me under attack, and there’s something about Cabby’s questioning—or perhaps the way that he’s looking at me—that is raising Nate’s hackles. He shifts and then leans forward, arms on the table. “You got a problem, buddy?”

  Under the wooden table, I rub Nate’s knee to reassure him I’m okay, but he’s focused on his friend and teammate across the table. They stare at each other for what seems like a long time but is likely no more than a few seconds.

  The freckled boy interrupts, “So does everyone call you Helga, but only Nate calls you Charlotte?”

  The innocent question breaks the tension and everyone starts laughing. One of the guys cuffs the boy affectionately on the back of the head.

  “What?” he asks, looking around. “I was curious.” But as the others start making fun of him, calling him Howdy Doody, he gives me a wink. By playing dumb, he’s drawn their attention away. Sneaky. I am super impressed and mouth a thank you to him.

  None of this escapes Nate’s eyes. He flags down a waitress and whispers to her, “The redheaded guy in the corner? Everything’s on my tab tonight.”

  With the ice broken, the conversation became easy. I admit that Nate and I were long-time friends and grew up together. His arm never leaves the back of my chair, and my hand never stops rubbing his knee.

  “How was the golf game today?” Nate asks Cabby.

  Cabby glares, first at Nate and then at the imposing figure at the end of the table who Nate had introduced as his commanding officer. “I hate that fucking game and you all know it. But instead of reminding me I hate it, you lure me onto the course with offers of free beer.”

  “We got thrown out after fourteen holes because Cab threw the club at the clown face,” Lieutenant Sykes explains.

  “I fucking hate clowns, assholes.” Cabby shudders.

  At my confused expression, Nate clarifies. “Mini golf.”

  “It’s the devil’s game, Charlotte,” Cabby says. “Never play it.”

  “I swear I won’t.”

  He leans across and offers his pinkie. “Pinkie promise?”

  I hook my little finger with his, amazed at how it’s dwarfed, as if his hands have muscles mine don’t. “Pinkie promise.”

  We shake and Cab’s eyes glitter mischievously as he lets me go. “Now that we’ve bonded, do we show each other our tits now or after we break out the glitter bombs?”

  Nate settles his own heavy hand on the back of my neck. “The near daily sight of your manboobs is why I was celibate for nine years. Don’t punish Charlotte by killing my libido once again.”

  Hoots fill the air at Nate’s easy admission of his nine-year drought. There’s something awesome and incredibly sexy in his openness about how he’d stayed faithful to me even though we weren’t together, even though he had thought we would never be a couple again. His confidence doesn’t flow from his crotch like so many others. There are few men who would be as unconcerned as he about not having any action for months, let alone years. I’m used to men measuring their self-worth by the number of hookups they have in each city.

  Cabby grins broadly. “How was it? As good as pissing after a long walk outside the wire?”

  “If you think pissing is comparable to having sex, I’m concerned,” Nate replies. They clearly enjoy ribbing each other.

  “At least I did piss on a regular basis, unlike some people I know.”

  I decide to break up their love fest before it turns south. “It was spectacular, Cabby, if you need to know. But don’t worry, he still loves you.”

  “Good. Good.” He nods and winks. “He loves you too. Just remember that when he calls out my name the next time you’re getting it on.”

  Nate’s hand drops from my neck to my shoulder and pulls me against him. “Cabby’s sad because I was his best wingman. Now he has to hang with the rest of these fools and try to prove he’s the better choice when last call is made.”

  “True story,” Cabby says mournfully.

  After we establish that Cabby is capable of closing deals without Nate helping, the conversation turns to the latest crop of potential SEALs. Cabby and Bride think they’re worthless, but Lieutenant Sykes argues that the fail rate is no different. The argument becomes heated as Bride says that his BUD/S class was the best. Everyone jumps in, even Nate, who says that Cabby and his class had the best pass rate, best water rescue performance, best rifle mark
s, and so on.

  They keep arguing until another round is delivered and a new group of young ladies waltz in wearing barely-there dresses and high heels.

  “Cab, if you keep eye fucking that brunette across the room, I’m going to get pregnant,” jokes Bride.

  “There’s a threat to our national security,” says a short, rough-looking male whose nickname is Gonzo.

  “I’m not eye fucking her,” Cab protests. He looks at me earnestly. “Ma’am, we do not eye fuck. I promise you that we’re better than that.”

  “Yeah?” I can tell he’s leading up to something rowdy and probably a little raunchy.

  “That’s right. Because an eye fuck is an empty promise, and a U.S. Navy SEAL does not give empty promises. We deliver.”

  Next to me Nate rolls his eyes, but everyone else at the table laughs. “Then you best get over there and deliver your fucking, or she’s going to go home and tell everyone how you were a man of looks but no action.”

  Bride hoots at this and tips his beer toward me. “I like this girl.”

  Nate presses a kiss to my temple and says warmly, “Not as much as me.”

  We all settle in and watch as Cabby sets off to reel in his fish. The camaraderie between the men is evident, and it makes me happy to think of Nate surrounded by good friends these past years. As miserable as I was, I never once wished that he was unhappy.

  Bride and Gonzo role play Cabby’s seduction.

  “Why, miss, you look parched and lonely over here. Mind if I buy you a drink?” Bride intones in a deep voice.

  “My mother told me not to accept alcohol from strangers.” Gonzo adopts a high-pitched falsetto.

  “If you tell me your name, we won’t be strangers.”

  Gonzo fake titters, and we all laugh. “Ohh, it’s Tiffany.”

  Across the room, Cab and the brown-haired girl are talking. He points toward the parking lot.

  “Tiffany, I’m thinking that they don’t serve good enough liquor here for a treasure like you. There’s another establishment not too far from here that has top shelf booze,” Bride says.