Hi back. Hard 2 txt @ karaoke w/Jenni.
Later?
No! Wait, he could misunderstand that. She slid to her right. Now’s okay. Going out—
“Whatcha doing?”
“Nothing.” Her cheeks felt warm, but maybe Jenni would assume the red was the cursed Asian beer-blush.
“You’re texting.” Her sister moved closer to be heard. Unexpectedly, she snatched the phone.
“Hey!” She reached, but Jenni held her prize on the far side of her body. “That’s mine.”
“You’ve been holding out.”
She didn’t like her sister’s smirk, but to retrieve the phone, she’d have to stretch across her. In her condition, Jenni might enjoy kindergarten antics, but Grace was too old for public wrestling.
Still there? She could read Rey’s message on the screen in Jenni’s hand.
This is—each tap of Jenni’s fingers on the keys tightened her nerves until she thought she might snap, —her sister.
Hi Jenni! This is Rey.
“Him? You text?”
Rey who? Jenni giggled as she typed.
The cruelty of her sister’s reply left Grace speechless. She’d shared Rey’s explanation about the warlord and the fake engagement with Jenni, and sworn her to secrecy so Rey wasn’t embarrassed, but she hadn’t told her that she and Rey kept in daily contact. Neither had she publicly denied the engagement. When her mother brought up wedding plans, she supplied a generic answer and changed the subject. Pateros was far from Seattle, and she had managed to avoid direct confrontations with her family. Now she realized that her silence could be interpreted as shame or embarrassment, and the evening soured in her mouth.
“O-ho, The Golden One has a boyfriend.”
She hated that childhood nickname, but tonight the anger propelled her to grab her phone. Close enough to her sister’s face that there could be no mistake and no need to repeat, she said, “You’re drunk, so I won’t put you on the street in the middle of the night. But get your stuff out of my condo before I’m home from work tomorrow.”
While a pop refrain stretched endlessly, Jenni’s wide eyes stared at Grace.
Satisfied that her sister understood, she tucked her purse and phone safely next to her body and headed for the door. Outside, July drizzle misted her cheeks.
* * *
Hi. After three months, Cruz wanted to write more than that simple word to Grace, but there was always the chance this would be the time she mentioned a boyfriend. His rational mind grasped that she was on a research cruise in the Gulf of Alaska, hauling nets and counting fish, not bar-hopping or jogging with well-educated software programmers. But lonely men worried, anyone awake at 0100 worried a bucket and a lonely man awake at 0100 could worry himself into superstitiously beginning his chat with the same word at the same time.
Hi back. The rush of comfort from those two words filled him better than frijoles negros.
He loved his sister and joked with Doc on Saturdays when she and Wulf visited from New York, but he’d never thought about a woman the way he thought about Grace. When he ate breakfast, he wanted to share what he read in the newspaper, but Alaska was four time zones away. When he made progress in speech therapy, he imagined talking to her face-to-face. And when he tackled a new exercise or beat his previous record at chin-ups, he crafted how to tell Grace. She’d become part of his day.
Day 6 at sea.
More whales? Her descriptions of the ship’s passage and what she observed had prodded him to buy a marine chart for his wall to mark her locations.
New pod of Orcinus orca followed us today. Residents, not transients.
You can tell them apart?
Even w/out radio tags. Look at this.
He zoomed on the photo she sent. The fin protruding from the killer whale’s black back had a white check mark at its base and two notches on the side. What takes a nick out of something that big?
Bullets.
Her answer flushed his system with images of men with scopes, ships running without lights and Grace on night duty. He saw a red dot on her fleece, and his hands shook. The adrenalin dump was so unexpected that he hadn’t prepared to regulate his breathing or find his zone, and he mistyped. His heart beat increased and his quad muscles stiffened with the need to sprint or jump, but he was in bed, not in the gym where he could work this out.
Still there? Is this boring?
No. Told you, like new info. He hated this info. He hadn’t known that she and her scientist buddies with their computers and sonar were targets. U have guards on board?
RU freaking @ the bullet holes? Don’t worry!
Became gun control fan @ 9:06 pm.
Those scars 20/25 yrs old. Now fishermen cooperate w/us in self-interest. Tourist $.
Nothing but holding her would be enough to make him feel secure, but with 4,000 miles between them, he had to trust her judgment. And he had to change the subject. Shared your sunset photo w/speech therapist yesterday.
Sets @ 11 pm here and rises @ 4:45. Get to see both on my shift—makes time fly.
Imagined sitting to watch w/beers. Cold out? In his fantasy, they’d warm each other under a blanket while watching the sun slip beneath the horizon. In the glow he’d kiss her. This time would be vastly better than their first kiss, when he’d been tethered to tubes and unable to hold her fully.
It’s bearable with layers. Her literal response made him wonder for the hundredth time if texts didn’t convey flirting, or if his attempts were worthless and weak, or if she deliberately ignored them. We call @ Kodiak tomorrow. Want a snail mail postcard?
I want you, he thought, but typed, Sure.
How would she sign this one? Not “With Love” or “XOXO” if it tracked with the postcards pinned to his board. Week One: the Seattle Space Needle, “from Grace.” Week Two: a Washington State Ferry, “Take care, Grace.” Week Three: a pink-tinted Mount Rainier looming behind the Seattle skyline, “Keep at it! Grace.” When they started texting daily, the postcard frequency decreased. From “Thinking of you, Grace,” she’d moved to signing the last two with her initial crammed below the filled message space. He guessed she assumed that by now he’d know who “G” stood for. While that was more personal than “Take Care” or her full name, the distance from “G” to “Love” could be Denali.
How was the Marquis today?
He wouldn’t whine about the brutal table session or the core work. On the other side of the joint living room, Kade had a colostomy bag and half a dick. He felt lucky to be tall enough to piss standing, so no complaints. We exchanged tips on tomato fertilizer.
You’re kidding.
You don’t think we talked shit all morning?
Palm to head.
That’s my line. All his old material was useless these days, but Grace made him feel like he had so much to share.
* * *
Both day and night shifts mingled on deck with a stash of microbrew to celebrate the end of the cruise. Grace’s bottle was half-empty as she leaned on the rail listening to co-workers compare big fish stories, but it was close to nine o’clock, so she slipped below deck.
By the time the first bars of “Call Me Maybe” played to signal Rey, she’d arrived at her berth.
Hi.
Weeks ago she’d stopped comparing him to the boyfriend who’d managed three calls last summer before dropping off her sonar as fast as a Russian sub.
Hi back. Final pollock count today. Her text program wanted to capitalize it like the last name of the drip painter. Great numbers—up 40.
No squidding!
If she had a dollar for all the times... Scheduled to dock in Seattle Friday. Can’t wait for my own shower and bed.
Will U let minnow when?
Only if you stop the puns! After her e
arlier cruise, he’d ordered fresh milk, bread and fruit from an online grocery service to be waiting for her. Guessing that he wanted to do that again almost atoned for the atrocious joke.
Sorry if I went overboard. Needed distraction.
She ignored his nautical pun and typed, Something wrong?
Not w/me. Kade’s in a rough spot.
She suspected Kade’s injuries must be worse than his because of the protective way he wrote about the younger soldier, but she didn’t know if asking would be nosy or supportive. If you want to share, I’m here.
His wife left. Don’t know if she’s coming back. She’s young—21 like him.
I could—Her fingers hesitated. She wasn’t a real fiancée and didn’t know military life, so what good was offering to talk to a girl she’d never met? Anything I can do? she sent instead.
Tell me more about your fish.
Doesn’t bore you?
Treadmill is boring. Pacific Ocean? Gulf of Alaska? Your stories take me out of this box. Feel like a pirate.
You’re the first person who likes my fish stories. Did that reveal too much insecurity? Overthinking, as usual, so she hit send.
I would listen to—or read—anything you want to tell me. Anything.
That line made her feel warm, like being wrapped in a hug. For a moment she almost sensed his arms and lips, a good memory, but he wanted a fish story. She liked to give him what he wanted, so she sent a close-up of last night’s net dump. See one that’s different?
Looks inedible. What is it?
A decayed high heel. Red bottom means it was fancy ladies’ shoe. Size 8. Fits me!
Sole is yummy w/Tabasco.
You promised to stop! She snapped a shot of the metal wall and single porthole at the foot of her bunk. Tell me that isn’t boring?
Here. Two green chairs and a small table sat in front of a window. The flash from his phone reflected off the dark glass, so she couldn’t tell if he had a view during the day. Worse.
She zoomed on the right side of the photo where a rectangle of colors looked like a bulletin board. That might be her PR photo and that was definitely the Space Needle postcard she’d sent the week she returned to Seattle.
I have a request. His message interrupted her puzzling out the things pinned on his wall. Can you send a picture of yourself? How you look right now, on the boat. I imagine you w/ponytail and sunburn.
She touched her cheeks. They felt heated, and she was certain she was flushed with wind and sun and now something more. He was right about the ponytail, too, since they showered every third day to conserve freshwater. Holding her camera at arm’s length felt awkward, and she reminded herself to smile with her full mouth, including her teeth and eyes.
Done. And sent, before she turned chicken.
Thank you, he replied.
Do I get one?
It came within seconds. The Rey she’d visited at Walter Reed had looked bewildered and ill, but the man on her screen looked confident and strong. He had semi-short hair, like most researchers who came out on the ship, but there the resemblance to her coworkers stopped. His half-smile combined with his defined cheekbones, the knife-edge of his nose, his slash-line eyebrows and dark eyes to look attractive at the same time as dangerous. There wasn’t a hint of softness around his chin or neck. Rey was harder than the men she knew, that was clear.
She must have stared too long, because he texted a question mark. She shook her head to clear it and tried to think. You look good.
Feel good this week. Expect full-size C-legs Wednesday. Going to stare straight in the Marquis’s eyes, mano a mano.
The image of grappling with Rey took her back again to the heat of his lips under hers, his hands digging into her shoulders and pulling her into his bed on the last morning together at Walter Reed. Tonight the slightest allusion made her think of their too-brief liplock, memories that were simultaneously not detailed enough to be satisfying, yet too detailed to be ignored. She rolled to her side, but the new position didn’t relieve the fidgety urge to move her legs.
Time to shift to a safe topic like a book. Did you like Endurance?
Not as much as Kon-Tiki. You?
She’d fallen asleep over the adventure sailing stories. Rey seemed to read a book a day, a pace she couldn’t match. Dirty secret: didn’t get far. Sea air did me in.
If that’s a dirty secret, you need help.
When do you read? She almost wanted him to say good-night so she could look at his picture again, which felt like sneaking candy. Don’t you ever sleep?
Still wake up at 4, so I read. He’d explained his phantom leg pains, but she wondered if he also had nightmares. You in your bunk?
This must be the night for personal questions. She and Rey texted every night, but neither of them had mentioned seeing each other again, nor had they ever referred to their goodbye kisses. The brief question heightened her awareness that he was a man, a man with whom she talked every day and with whom she’d once exchanged a handful of searing kisses. The ship’s surging movements amplified the vibrations in her fingers as she typed her answer in equally short words, but she suspected they would open a new door. Yes. You too?
In my bed. Remember?
The single word, which must refer to their last minutes together at Walter Reed, knocked a giant hole in the invisible barrier between them. Given that the calendar said August and the interlude on his hospital bed had been in April, she thought about the feel of his lips often enough to earn the label frequent. Or maybe desperate.
Can you send a photo with your hair loose? That’s how I think of you.
She read his request twice before she remembered to breathe.
Sorry if that was out of line.
Why not do it? She flicked her hair and lay on her pillow, but felt too exposed and closed her eyes before she pushed the button.
His answer came quickly. Now I can imagine what you look like asleep after we text. Me:
He’d applied some sort of magazine-model filter to his photo, because he shouldn’t look that good sprawled on a pillow. He had one hand behind his head, which stretched his sleeve over his arm muscles and revealed the edges of his tattoo. His eyes looked almost asleep, or maybe barely awake, and she could imagine he was next to her.
She rolled to her stomach, worried that if she didn’t cool off, in five minutes she’d be removing clothes like a teenager.
The knock on the steel bulkhead door made her jump. “Phone sex patrol,” her roommate’s voice called.
“We’re not even talking,” she yelled while she typed, Casey’s here.
“Whatcha doing then?” Casey’s laugh was loud enough to hear through the door, the product of the deck-side celebration. “Sexting or something?”
Casey had a point. Or maybe an idea.
* * *
Cruz had to send a 750—to 1,000-word comprehensive narrative essay to the University of Washington by September 1 to have a prayer of beginning winter quarter. Flat on his ass four months ago, he hadn’t planned past his next physical therapy session. Now, assuming he didn’t develop heterotopic ossification bone growths, he’d finish outpatient therapy by the holidays. If he wanted to sit in a classroom near Grace instead of on his butt at home in Pateros, the transfer student application in front of him was the first hurdle.
I spent ten great years around the world blowing things up and patching people together, and one bad day getting blown up. After the personal challenge of relearning basic life skills, my goal is to help others conquer obstacles. He recognized the cliché. Please consider me for admission as a transfer student in Medical Anthropology and Global Health. I have sixty-five credits of distance learning and more real-world experience in global health than I am allowed to describe.
His odds of finishing the Marine Corps Maratho
n were better than his chance of being admitted with that submission, but the jaunty “Eh-Sexy-Lady” refrain of a Korean pop song interrupted his pity party with his nightly reminder. Eleven fifty-eight in his time zone. In two minutes he could call Grace.
He’d framed the photo of her with her eyes closed and her hair spread on the pillow. Her mouth curved in what was probably a self-conscious smile, but he pretended it was the look of a satisfied woman about to drift to sleep. Sometimes he propped the picture on his stomach while they texted, like face-to-face conversation, but tonight he placed her image on top of the university application.
Hi, he typed.
The seconds before she replied worried him with random thoughts that she’d tell him she was busy or on a date or one of the hundred things women did at night rather than text a guy on the other side of the country.
Hi back, she answered, making the end of his day the part worth waiting for.
Busy day?
Tons of data to crunch after our cruise, so I was stuck at the computer.
Me too, he thought, but didn’t share his hopes about the UW. He’d be embarrassed if he didn’t get in, or if she thought he was a creepy stalker. Did you run?
Just got back.
He imagined her in shorts and a sports bra, showing slick muscles as she ran. His memories of kissing her all focused on her mouth, and the surprise that she’d kissed him back, so he couldn’t recall where he’d put his hands or even the shape of her waist, but he’d bet she was firm. Exciting weekend plans?
Thinking about Pateros, but there’s a 5K @ Alki Beach some of my running club is doing.
That reminded him of the day’s highlight. The Marquis acquired six racing chairs. Set up Grunts v. Jarheads over 2 miles.
Who won?
Clue: didn’t brag already.
My bad! Sorry!
Grudge match next week. It was harder than he’d expected to ignore the stack of paperwork. She’d probably done a few applications in her day. Maybe he should ask her advice. Ever do a triathlon?
Sprint. I’m a slow swimmer, my bike’s a snail, but I finished. Sucked. Why? U doing one?
His Road Home Page 6
