“You know, my mom and dad used to love places like this.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she remembers with an even more beautiful smile. “He used to love for her to get all dolled up in her little black dress and heels. Used to tell her she had legs for days.” Haven giggles. “He used to call her his Bond girl. James Bond movies were his favorite. I didn't get what he meant until I got a little older.”
I smile proudly, “Bond girl, huh? Explains why you look like one.”
She gives my hand a light tap, “Stop it.” Realizing she was off her back story, letting information that wasn't precooked for her slip out, she quickly shakes her head and whispers, “I should stop it.”
Desperate for her to keep the conversation about her family going, I state, “It's OK. I mean, it's just the two of us. No one can really hear you but me.”
Seeing her internal debate to listen to what Sir said and to share with me things she knows she can't share with anyone else, I prep to push just a little more. We're safe. We'll never see the people here in the restaurant again. And while we still don't know where Old Man Banks is, it's safe assuming he's not here. It's probably also safe to assume no one who associates with him is here. Besides, I wanna know the real her, the her she finally desires to share.
“So, what was her name?”
“Elena. But Dad always called her Elle.”
“Beautiful. And what was his name?”
“Dallas.”
“Strong. I like it.”
I watch as a smile crawls on her face before she giggles, “Mom would have loved you.”
“You think so?”
“God, yes.” Her voice gets more animated, more excited. “Would've given me a list of things to say and not say to make sure I didn't chase you away.”
“You could never chase me away.” She smiles, and a strand of hair falls in her face. “And what about Dallas? Would he approve of me?”
Her head tilts back and forth as if debating, “He would hate you being in the military only because he would hate to see me worrying about you so much, but he'd adore you to the point it wouldn't matter.”
I try to hold back my smile but can't help it. She plays with the tags around her neck, keeping my attention focused on her. As our salads get delivered, she continues on with stories from her childhood, all of them causing her to glow just a little more. Every time her face lights up, my heart melts. Before our main course has arrived, I feel like I can barely control the warm feelings that have overcome me. Everything she says only makes me want more. Drinking in her memories is getting me drunker than any alcohol ever could.
Around the time dessert arrives, she shifts her body, “What about you? You think your mom would have approved of me?”
The question slows my chewing down. Dessert is my favorite thing next to the breadsticks. With a nod, I reassure her, “She would've loved you. Asked why I haven't asked you to marry me yet.” The word marry raises her eyebrows like, if I were to ask right now, she would say yes. “I'd have to tell her—because right now your life needs to be more about you—and I get that. And some day I will ask, and it'll be the right time. The perfect time.” Sir's words roll out of my mouth rephrased.
“What was her name?”
“Jamie.” I smile, “She also would've given me advice that you probably shouldn't get from your mother.”
Intrigued, she leans forward, “Like what?”
Mom's memory stabs at me in the side like a sharp knife toying with my ribs. “Probably would've said something about making sure to get the condoms ribbed for her pleasure.” The comment sends Haven into a giggling frenzy. “Or given me a Kamasutra book as something to read like a study manual. Not to say Mom was sex craved, but she was wild. And crazy. Funny. More importantly, she just would've wanted me to make sure I was doing everything capable to keep you pleased.”
“I love her already,” Haven teases, taking a bite of chocolate dessert.
The words get caught in my throat as tears try to stick, too, “Me too.”
Silence settles for a minute before she continues, “Tell me something about your dad.”
My body tightens back up. “Dad” died years ago, and I don't ever think about him. Even now as the bricks from my mind crumble and my mother's memories flood powerfully at me, thoughts of him don't want to surface.
“You've met him.”
“Yeah, I've met him, but much like you, I imagine he was different before her death.” I don't look up. The fork in my hand stabs repeatedly at the piece of cake I was after, my appetite suddenly vacant. “Clint.”
“Haven.”
“Come on, Clint,” she whispers softly, wiping her hands on her napkin. “Give me something. Give me a memory from back then.” Her voice urges, and then she does something I can't resist. She gently touches my arm and whispers, “Please.”
I look down at her hand touching me so sweetly. My face grins, and I remain silent, doing my best to figure out if any memories of him before her death are still alive to be found.
One crawls up and starts scratching at my brain like a puppy at the back door. It wants me to let it out. Begging. Whining. “I was ten. It was one of the last games of the season, one of the only ones he ever saw. We were up by three points. It was our last inning at bat, and it was my turn. I was on the bench next to this kid they called Meek the Geek.”
“Why'd they call him that?”
“His last name was Meekers. He had these thick, Coke-bottle glasses, the way you would imagine a stereotypical nerdy kid, down to the constant runny nose. Anyway, he hadn't played once all season, and I knew, I knew the one thing he wanted was to just get out on the field and swing one time. It was on his face every time I was called up to bat. It was like he wished it were him.”
“You're up, Walker,” Coach calls at me from the dugout door, clipboard pressed tightly to his chest.
I look over at Meekers just as he wipes his nose again with the back of his pale arm. He's staring at the ground, drawing a picture of something with his cleats. I think it's supposed to be the Superman symbol. At least he's got all-right taste in superheroes.
“Walker, you're up,” Coach repeats, but I keep looking at Meekers. Poor kid, just wants to get on the field. Truth is he most likely won't play another season. Between his allergies and over concerned mother who puts extra sunscreen on him every chance she gets, I'm shocked he made this season.
Suddenly, I rub my shoulder and tell Coach, “My arm’s killing me. It aches so bad I don't think I can swing again today. Put Meekers in instead.”
Coach's face contorts, while Meekers’s face lights up like those words were a gift from God. At that moment, Coach sees the reaction. He sees in Meeker exactly what I just did.
“All right, Walker, rest that arm of yours. Meekers, you're up.”
Meekers stares at me in disbelief. In fact, he stares so long that it becomes uncomfortable.
I smile, “Give 'em your best shot.”
Meekers scampers off the bench and rushes to the field. It’s the top on the ninth, and we're already up, so really, what do we have to lose giving the kid a chance?
The first ball is a strike. No surprise there, but at least he looks happy. Pitch two soars, and Meekers swings with what looks like everything in him, sending the ball higher than I would have ever thought he could make it go.
He rushes to first, while the man on third races home. Both make it safely—Meekers is on the board with an RBI! As the game comes to a close, Meekers’s mother bum-rushes the field, shrieking, tears on her face, so excited to see her son finally in a game. She hugs him and kisses him, and cries. I watch with my hands gripped on the bench in excitement. I helped that. I helped make them both happy.
Turning around, I see Sir staring down at me, a very stern, hard look on his face. I glance over to see Mom busy packing up our stuff, so I know she's not going to help me from getting chewed out.
I meet him on the other side of the f
ence just when he looks over at the sight of Meekers’ mom cuddling him in tighter. He stares for a moment and turns back to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “You did good.”
“But, I took myself out.”
He nods and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I know, son. And I'm proud of you.'”
The words ring in my ears and clog up my throat. It's suddenly so much harder to breathe. Feeling the thickness in the air around me, I give Haven's hand a good squeeze. “That was the last time he told me he was proud of me.”
She doesn't say anything. Her eyes are staring at our joined hands, thoughts clearly running through her mind, but what exactly, I'm unsure of. Suddenly, she lifts her delicate face up, eager to say something.
“You know, Clint, your dad . . . he's still proud of you.”
I shake my head, “Haven.”
“Even if you say otherwise, Clint, I know he is. I'm going to say something here and risk you being mad at me.”
“I could never be mad at you,” I whisper as the check lands on the table.
“You know, I don't know what went on between the two of you. I don't know what happened to make you so distant, but I do know, Clint, that your dad is still alive. And he still cares about you. And he still wants his son in his life.” The words cause me to shift uncomfortably as I look up into her eyes. “And the two of you need to let whatever split you apart die because you still have each other. You have a father, Clint, and that's something I'll never get to have again. Don't get me wrong. I love the way the neighborhood is now my family and treats me that way, but my flesh-and-blood family is gone, no matter how alive their memories are to me. But you, you two have the chance to make more memories and be together. And you should take it. You know, there's a real good chance from what I know about your mom that, if your mom knew the way you two were behaving, the two men I'm guessing she loved more than her own life, she wouldn't be happy. She'd probably be pissed. She'd expect more from both of you. I'm not saying forget everything that's happened between you. But maybe, sweetheart, it's time to forgive. Move forward.”
Her words suck me in like a vortex. Any remaining stability I thought I had is wiped clean. How can she expect me to just forgive him for the way he treated me? For the way he neglected me? For tossing away Mom's memory? How can she say that about my mother? How can she expect me to just move forward like that? And yeah, she doesn't have her own bloodline beating, but isn't that overrated? Or maybe she's right. Maybe it's always just been easier to pretend to be someone else and live separate lives than to have to continue on as one without Mom.
Another round of tears gets caught in my chest. This is yet another drawback to emotions right here. After years of not spilling out what you really feel under the levels of bullshit and hypocrisy, it's painful. And I don't know how to control it. I hate not being in control even more than hating emotions themselves.
Coughing in an attempt to muster through it all, I pull my hand away and slide out my wallet.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I'm sorry if I what I said was out of line. I just–”
“It's OK, Haven,” I look into her eyes. They swirl with love, forgiveness, hope, that deadly poison hope. That taunting, seductive idea. That's what gets a man killed. That look right there. I manage to grab a smile from the heavens. “Really.”
We enter the bar, and I return to being Grim, stone cold and solid. Now is not the time to have all this confusion swarming around in my brain. Now is the time for a game face because, if I don't put my feelings in check, someone is going to get punched tonight.
“Well, look what the jarheads unleashed,” Glove chuckles, greeting me. There’s a thin line tonight. He knows it. He looks respectable in a dark-green sweater, white shirt underneath, and dark jeans. I'm grateful he doesn't reek of douche bag.
After I greet Lordy, who is wearing a long-sleeve brown shirt and a pair of khakis—also toned down from normal—I nervously, but doing my best not to show it, introduce her, “Boys, meet Haven.”
“Michael Love.” He places a kiss on the back of her hand. My stomach churns in knots. His lips are disgusting, disease infected. His entire body needs to be quarantined. The CDC should be contacted if he breathes too many times your direction. “But everyone calls me Glove.”
“Glove, if you ever put your lips on my girl again, you'll need a new nickname,” I state calmly as we have a seat.
“Why do they call you Glove?”
Instantly, he flashes a small, rectangular purple package. With a wink, he says, “Cause I'm always packin. No glove, no love.”
I struggle not to reach across the table and punch him for behaving that way in front of her. She's not like the common tramps he’s used to being around or that happen to last longer than one night. She deserves more respect. Damn sure deserves more than a condom being flashed in her face.
Lordy senses my tension and quickly speaks up, “I won't make the same mistake as Glove over there. I'm Jody Lord, but everyone calls me Lordy. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” she responds. Her body falls into mine, her back leaned against my chest. I wrap my arm around the back of her chair and casually grab hold of a beer. “Why do they call you Lordy?”
Suddenly, in unison, Glove and I cry out, “Good Lordy! Good Lordy! Did you see that shot?!” Immediately after, we clink our beers together and start laughing at our imitation.
“I say that sometimes.”
Glove chuckles, “Sometimes? Any time we go shooting that's not for work. Hell, sometimes even then.”
She turns her attention to me, “What's your nickname?”
First the mom conversation, then Sir, now this. One by one, Haven Davenport, you are undoing everything that was once me. “It's–”
“Grim,” Glove invades the conversation again. “And believe it or not, it's not because of the constant look on that precious mug only a mother could love.”
“You're such an asshole, Glove,” I growl.
“And that's why the ladies love the Glove.” He shifts his head toward the blond girls at the bar.
“Why do you call him Grim?”
“Short for Grim Reaper,” Lordy answers, receiving another beer from the waitress. “Clint's one shot, one kill. Never seen him miss.”
“Never?” she croaks.
“Never,” Lordy repeats, and her eyes shift to me.
I hope those words give her strength rather than frighten her. That's what I always hoped for. That knowing my career, knowing my status, would bring her peace in the worst scenario, one where her life might be in danger. I pray to God she never has to see me in action like that.
“So, how did you two meet?” Lordy asks, sensing the discomfort in me.
“Yeah,” Glove rejoins the conversation after sending drinks to the two girls. “I've never known Clint to have more than a one-night stand. Didn't know girls could stand being around him longer than that.”
My fist clenches tightly as I prepare to lunge. She squeezes my thigh and says, just like we practiced, “Our dads were old Navy buddies back in the day. I graduated and wanted to spend some time in a new place before making any life-changing decisions like college or career. So Whiskey let me come down and stay with them.”
“Where'd you come down from?” Lordy asks.
“Chicago.”
“I've got family up there,” Glove responds, drinking some more of his beer, “What part?”
“Downtown. Lived in a high-rise apartment, hence the change to the suburbs.”
“I'm from the 'burbs. It ain't much better,” Glove shrugs.
Lordy chimes in, “I'm from Georgia and personally prefer life away from the city.”
“Not gonna drink?” Glove points to the empty spot in front of her.
“I'd rather you not roofie my girlfriend.” We all laugh at the joke, my mood lightening. I can do this. We can do this.
“We ate so much at dinner I couldn't swallow another thing.”
/> “Probably puts a dent in your plans later, huh, Grim?” Glove's remark is followed by that weasel smile that’s come to disgust me more and more. Shooting him a threatening look, he adjusts himself in his seat and says, “Speaking of drinking, has Grim ever told you about how amazing the beers in Germany are?”
Glove proceeds by telling stories about different places we've seen, the different countries, while Lordy embellishes, painting tales that excite her, draw her into worlds she's never dreamed of. Hearing them makes us sound like we're heroes instead of just pawn pieces moved where we're told when we are told. That's what the girlfriend of a man in the unit wants to hear, how her boyfriend saves the world, not how he guns down people he's told to for a living. Somewhere in the mix, the blonde-haired Hilton-looking sisters join us, hanging onto every word the two of them say. They pout when they realize it's time for them to go, but Glove gets their numbers and promises he'll catch up with them soon. Once they're gone, he explains to us he'll see if he can do better before he commits.
“Are you ever gonna change?” I shake my head at him.
“Ahh, Grim, I'm too young to change,” he chuckles, another beer coming to his lips. The least he could do is slow down his bad habits in front of Haven. I don't want her thinking that's how much I drink. “Speaking of change, how do you feel about his deployment orders getting moved up?”
Just when I felt the world around me had let me back on stable ground, leave it to Glove to fuck the whole thing up. I haven't told her yet. I couldn't. We just got to a point where we established ourselves as one, and I didn't want to destroy that with bad news. I wasn't ready to see the sad look in her eyes, the distant realization that I really won't be around like this all the time. Truth is I didn't want to admit it to her any more than I wanted to admit it to myself. Just needed a few more moments of peace in our perfectly imperfect world.
Like the award-winning actress she is, she responds, “A little sad, but it's a Marine’s duty. I knew when we started dating it was a possibility.”
Havoc Page 20
