by Anne Marsh
Stick with the plan.
“I’ve set up an appointment for us with a family practice lawyer,” I say, deciding to ignore said dick.
“What if I want my own lawyer?” She stabs another cloth square.
“Feel free to make your own appointment,” I tell her. No more rescues for her. She’s used up her lifetime quota and then some. “But I want to find out exactly where we stand legally and what we need to do to finalize our separation. Then we can start moving forward.”
My dick promptly suggests that a course of in-and-out action would be fan-fucking-tastic. Yes. I’m discussing my divorce with the same woman I’m having dirty fantasies about. I’m not sure why everyone insists I’m such a goddamned hero. It’s like they take a look at my outside and hear SEAL and decide that means I’m good on the inside. News flash. I’m not even all that interested in being a nice person. Hindi’s still hot. I can look but not touch. And as long as I keep my mouth shut, I refuse to feel bad about it.
I expect her to thank me. To ask who I’ve retained as my lawyer. Maybe demand references or ask about the costs (yes, I’m planning on footing the bill, but it would be polite for her to offer to split the costs). Instead, Hindi scoots around and leans back on her arms so she can see my face. She doesn’t look pleased.
I definitely remember what her O-face looks like, and the tight smile stretching her mouth isn’t happy, grateful, or pleasured.
“You don’t think that’s a conflict of interest?”
“This is fact-finding. Recon.” I’m trying to be patient, but time’s wasting. I would have texted her, but I don’t seem to have her current number. The one in my phone went to some stockbroker in New Jersey who now has an unhealthy interest in my sex life and promised I’m rooting for you, man. “There’s no conflict.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and sighs. Yes, in case you were wondering? That does do spectacular things for her tits. My eyes promptly glue themselves to the vee of her shirt. Pretty sure her bra matches her panties.
“We’re getting divorced,” she says, emphasizing the last word. “I think that pretty much guarantees conflict.”
Right.
“We want the same thing.”
“Uh-huh.” She purses her lips. This is either an unfortunate or clever move on her part, because the look on her face reminds me of our last afternoon in New York. She’d eyed my dick the same way. She’d read something about lip gloss and blow jobs in a magazine, and naturally I’d volunteered as her test subject. I’m not sure what was supposed to happen, but she’d sucked me in slowly, cherry-slick lips parting over my dick. I’d smelled like fucking fruit for the rest of the day, but it had been worth it. Christ, she got me going.
“You don’t believe me?”
Now it’s her time to shrug.
I go on the offensive. “Have I ever lied to you?”
“Somebody promised forever,” she points out. “I got more like ninety days.”
“You made promises, too.”
“Yeah.” She has the nerve to sound wistful. It doesn’t last, though. Surprisingly, Hindi isn’t terribly sentimental. She’s bold, direct, and way too frank. She’s also impossibly impulsive and if life’s a game, I’m playing Battleship while she’s wielding the club in a game of Whack-A-Mole. I’m going to win the war—and she’ll end up with a stuffed tiger the size of a minivan.
I actually didn’t see our divorce coming. I’d married her. I’d made promises I had every intention of keeping. She knew I was active-duty, and I thought I’d explained what that meant. As soon as I was overseas, boot-deep in sand and shit, some things became perfectly clear. We might have felt a connection and I might love her, but we were totally wrong for each other. She said stay with me. I left.
“You remember how we ended?” She makes us sound like a football game, and not even a good one. Not the kind where the win has come down to the wire, and your boys have this one last chance to get the ball across the line and score.
I frown a little. Hard to forget a day like that. “I came back from my tour and you were sitting outside my apartment. You were supposed to be in New York City, but instead there you were, waiting for me in Coronado. You’d lost the key I’d given you.”
“You were late.” She sounds both sad and amused.
“I didn’t know I had a date.” We were fourteen hours late hitting wheels-down. I can’t even remember why now. Shit to blow up, bad guys to stop, lousy weather, AWOL pilot. Fuck if I can remember now or if it even matters. I’d been planning a cross-country run to see her, had been trying to figure out the logistics, and then there she’d been. Ass planted on my steps.
I’d killed the engine and been out of that truck so fast you’d think I had incoming gunning for me. I’d been part elated, part scared as shit because she hadn’t warned me she was coming and that had to mean bad news.
“You had a duplex.” She kind of squints off into space, like she’s trying to remember the details of my real estate. Not sure what it says that she can’t bring it to mind. I brought her there once, and yeah, I fucked that up, too.
“I rented from the widow of an Air Force pilot.” Shut up about the details. She doesn’t fucking care.
A grin tugs at her mouth. “You had the emptiest damned porch ever. I’d planned to wait for you, but there was nowhere to wait. My butt was sore for days.”
I’d never had time to buy furniture and I didn’t do plants. Plants require time. You have to remember to water them, move them in or out of the sunlight. You have to do shit, and she doesn’t have to say it for me. The only commitment I had time for then was Uncle Same. I couldn’t stick around for a goddamned plant, let alone for her. I thought saying the words on our beach had been enough, when what I should have been saying was goodbye.
The empty porch had been familiar, but Hindi herself wasn’t the same wild, free girl I’d fallen for in Florida or the one I’d briefly rejoined in New York City a few months before. She’d looked more polished. Maybe that was the studio people. They’d cut and colored and made her up until her wilder edges blurred and she almost seemed like a stranger. A gorgeous, hot, totally fuckable stranger—but not the woman who’d swum naked in the ocean, sold me a beach and a slice of her heart. And when I leaned down to kiss her, she brushed her mouth over mine and then pulled way the fuck back. Funny how four inches of empty space could feel like the Grand Canyon and a few weeks could feel like forever.
“You didn’t text,” she’d said.
No. I hadn’t. I’d opened my mouth, because that was how it went sometimes in the field. No Internet, no connection, no way to reach out. No time, no permission, no whatever. Yeah. I can hear the fucking excuses, too. Except when I’d checked my phone when we reached US airspace, my inbox hadn’t exactly been overflowing with messages from my beloved wife. Blame was a two-way highway with enough room for a whole convoy.
“You didn’t call,” she says to me now, all these months and years after we split and officially went our separate ways. “You didn’t write. I always thought you liked the sex more than you liked me.”
I stare at her like the fucking idiot I am. Those things aren’t true now and weren’t true then. She meant so much more to me than sex. She was something special, one of those will-o-wisp moments in time when everything comes together and the sun hits just right, lighting up your world. She was mine. My wife, my Hindi, my fucking heart.
“And you divorced me.” My voice comes out all low and gruff. I sound snarly, as if it bothers me that she wanted me out of her life so badly, but it doesn’t bother me. Not any more. She’d handed me a gift bag, one of those shiny ones with Happy Birthday written on the side in curly letters. And it hadn’t been my birthday—for a strange, weird moment I’d wondered if she even knew my birthday. When I’d looked inside, I’d discovered a stack of legal papers, neatly organized and bristling with stickers marking the four million places requiring my signature. She’d wrapped up our divorce papers like they were the p
erfect present and then she’d served them to me.
She shrugs. “Apparently, I suck at that, too.”
That too bothers me, more than it should. There are plenty of toos that come to mind. Me? I’m too old for her. Too serious, too uptight, too fucking distant. And in the end it was all too much and we split.
“I’ll fix your taxes,” she says, still not looking at me. “I’m going to make this right. I swear I am. You just have to—”
Help.
Wait.
What?
What does she really want from me, because this can’t be just about our divorce. She has to know people and this is what lawyers are for.
“The taxes aren’t the problem.”
“Yeah.” She sort of sighs the word. “But you seemed worried about them yesterday.”
Now it’s my turn to shrug. Yesterday, she blindsided me—and kissed the ever-loving fuck out of me. A good and a bad. My parents had a good marriage, and they taught me that if you make promises, you keep those promises. You don’t bullshit the people in your life. You watch their backs and you make damned sure nothing bad happens to them. I thought Hindi knew that, but she’s not a fucking mind reader. I know that. I should have told her every day how she made me feel, should have found a way to show her. We didn’t talk as much as we should have, and we only had a few days to get to know each other. But I loved that woman, and the woman who wrote to me. I’d planned on coming home to that woman too.
“Don’t worry.” I stand up. This was supposed to be a quick visit, and I’m sure her Gal Friday Lilah is hanging around. She’s way too quick with the camera for my liking.
Hindi’s mouth hangs open for a moment. “Don’t worry?”
“Don’t worry.” I tap her mouth gently. Fucking lucky she doesn’t bite my finger off, because she closes it with a snap. It’s not like she ever has worried before, right? Hindi is the original free spirit. She flits from place to place, from heart to heart. And yeah, something ugly stabs mine at the thought of her with another man. Or another woman. I blame the unwelcome spark of chemistry between us. You’d think six years would be more than enough time to quench any unrequited desire, but the universe has to have the last laugh. Hindi’s still my fucking catnip.
“I have a long list of things to worry about,” she says through gritted teeth. If she clenches them any harder, she’s gonna need to find a dentist. I swear they squeak. Or grate.
“You have a list?” Yes. I sound surprised. Sue me.
“I have a show that’s up for renewal,” she growls. Somehow, seated on the floor, hands propped on her hips, she looks like a Valkyrie. Fierce as fuck. It’s a good look for her, except for her eyes. Her eyes look part worried, part scared, and while responsibility is not a bad thing, I don’t want her freaked out about anything. I can—
No. Bad Ro. I’m not her Mr. Fix-It and she deals with her own shit now. This is me getting smarter. Or possibly just getting older, because Christ, I’m tired of everything. Of being the one to lead the charge, to head up the rescue. Not that I’ve ever needed rescuing but still, it would be nice to know that someone would come. Hindi glares at me some more, and yes I fucking glare back. She needs to grow up and take charge of her mistake. It’s like that crap about baby birds and nests, right? At some point the parent shoves the baby out and it’s fly or go splat. Yeah. Usually I try to avoid babies. I have two sisters who reproduce regularly, and I’m the AWOL uncle who sends loud, noisy presents that go bang or explode or generally make their mommas protest loudly. I’d make a terrible father, and it’s not like Hindi’s invited me to knock her up. She’d probably cut my dick off, but I’d bet we’d make cute-ass babies.
The fuck?
I need to get out of here.
“Tomorrow,” I tell her.
She blinks up at me. She looks a little dazed. I just hope like fuck that’s she listening to me. I grab her board thing and drag it toward me. One black Sharpie and three seconds later she’s got a note. Fucking surrounded by tits, ass, and lace, but maybe then she’ll notice. Maybe she’ll remember. As added insurance, I grab her phone and add the date and time to her calendar.
“I’ll pick you up at ten,” I tell her and then I retreat.
Hindi
Time doesn’t stand still. The good days fly by, slipping through your fingers like the string on a space-bound balloon. And most days, I love watching the balloon of time soar free, headed up, up, up and into the sky. Sure, the laws of something-or-other say that at some point the poor balloon pops and plummets back to Earth, but until that moment it’s one hell of a flight—and even after the bang, there’s the glide.
I’ve always lived free; I’ve never liked strings.
But I’ve also had my moments when everything’s come apart, even if no one heard the explosion or the bang. Those moments hurt, but I’ve always moved on somehow, finding another way, another time to soar, however briefly. But as I ride shotgun next to Ro, on the way to the family practice lawyer he oh-so-conveniently knows, I wish things had gone a little smoother. Been a little less disruptive. I can’t tell what Ro’s thinking. He keeps his eyes on the road and his sunglasses in place.
Since he’s wearing his incommunicado Mountain Man face and he’s driving, I amuse myself by fiddling with the radio in his Jeep. Naturally, he has no stations programmed. This comes as no surprise, since I can all too easily imagine Ro driving in silence, communing with Mother Nature and the road like some kind of Zen SEAL. I stop at the first country music station I find and dial that sucker up until it’s probably audible in Miami.
And then, yes, I sing along. The day’s sunny, I’ve got the ocean on both sides of me, and a hot, grumpy man taking me places. What’s not to enjoy? Plus, I’m a really bad singer, and we both know it, so there’s the marital torture factor as well. I might as well bust his chops while I still can. Therefore, I yodel enthusiastically, completely failing to match Carrie Underwood’s gorgeous voice in any respect. She sings about lost love in those familiar, smoky tones, and I do my worst to drown her out. There’s something liberating about enjoying something I do so badly. Since there’s zero possibility of my making a success of the song, I have permission to let loose and groove on. I sit cross-legged on the seat, beating out a random rhythm on the dashboard, and right now there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
The Florida Keys are a string of sandy pearls laid over the Caribbean, one imperfect, lopsided, gorgeous island threaded to the next on a thin ribbon of causeway. One minute we’re surrounded by palm trees, and the next we’re cantilevered out over the water and it’s like flying through the sky without any worries about crash-landing. Although Ro meticulously sticks to the speed limit, it doesn’t take long to go from my rented bungalow to the law office on Angel Cay.
Angel Cay is one of those places that sneak up on you, no matter how much you’re expecting or looking for it. One minute, we’re on the causeway, ocean spinning away on either side, and then we’re back among the palms. Houses the colors of Easter M&Ms stretch away on both sides of the road, covered with lacy white woodwork and more palm trees. We pass a bakery that I make a mental note to revisit soon. Bee Sweete smells amazing and looks better—and today is definitely shaping up to be a needs-sugar kind of day.
Our destination turns out to be just past the small private marina bristling with sailboats tucked into a string of pastel-colored bungalows with second-story wraparound porches that practically demand you curl up with a book or your Kindle and drowse away the afternoon. The law office is a two-story building the color of lemon macaroons. Black shutters frame the windows and there are chairs and terracotta pots of baby palm trees set out on the steps. A traveler’s palm waves cheerily from the itty-bitty yard between the porch and the street, as if anyone who comes here really needs the welcome and a discreet sign announces the law practice of Ava Hays. Apparently, my new lawyer is a chick.
Ro pulls around back, clearly familiar with his destination, and parks the Jeep. Alrighty the
n. Guess it’s time to go in and get this over with. When he kills the engine, the music stops abruptly. I’m left belting out the chorus without accompaniment, but whatever. I finish as I hop out—I’m not going to sit there like a princess and wait for him to help—and he meets me halfway. This is actually one of those blessings in disguise, because my flip-flop catches in my maxi dress, and I’m in the process of going airborne (followed by asphalt-borne). His big hands close carefully around my arms, steadying me. My hands smack instinctively against his chest, grateful for the softer SEAL landing.
God. He feels good.
My fingers curl into the sun-warmed cotton of his T-shirt, my hands relaxing as my brain catches up with the adrenaline-induced nerves zinging through me. See? All safe. Nothing bad here. I suck in a breath. Exhale.
I should step away.
“You okay?” Ro dips his head toward mine, his eyes performing a quick visual inspection. Nope. There’s nothing wrong with me. No battlefield injuries, nothing gruesome, not one single thing wrong. I happy-hum and lean a little closer. This feels like old times, like we’re that stupid fucking red balloon still soaring up into the sky with no idea that happily ever after isn’t an actual destination and that everything’s going to come crashing down to Earth sooner rather than later.
Am I okay?
You know what? I think that’s open for debate. I pat his shirt carefully and force myself to step backward.
Ro nods and then discreetly checks his watch. Yes, the man has a schedule. If he really were the balloon, he’d have filed a flight plan and every inch of his upward trajectory would be monitored. I’m pretty sure our marriage is the one and only impulsive act of his life. Go home, or go big, right?
