by Aria Ford
He grinned. “You did?” his eyes were tender and I blushed.
“Yeah. I don’t know why, but I always thought the guy might be stuck up there.”
He laughed, eyes bright. “No way! That’s smart.”
I squeezed his hand, without thinking about it. He drew in a breath. I let go.
We looked at each other. Slowly, deliberately, he moved his hand so that it covered mine. I felt my heart tense in my chest, as if it would never start beating. As if this moment was all there was, and all time had stopped here on its shore.
“Amelia,” he whispered.
I looked into those eyes, noticed his pupils had narrowed with longing. My body melted. I leaned toward him, hand shifting in his to stroke his skin. He tensed.
“We shouldn’t,” he hissed.
I nodded. Closed my eyes. I didn’t remove my hand but I stopped stroking his wrist. He smiled at me when I looked at him.
“Sorry,” I said shakily. “I shouldn’t have.”
“No,” he said. “It was my fault. I just couldn’t stop it.”
“Nor could I.”
We both looked at each other, then I glanced down to where our hands lay on the table, still clasped. I looked about. Reese was out on the terrace, engaged with my brother in some complex discussion about the temperature of the fire for chestnuts. Josh was on the floor, making a race-car from leftover tinfoil. Only Cayley was at the table.
I noticed her watching us, then look hastily away. She hadn’t looked shocked, or interested, or amused, as I might have expected a ten-year-old to be, seeing adults behave like we did. Instead, there was a softness on her face, almost as if she understood something momentous had happened for us. I sighed.
“We shouldn’t do this,” I said, moving my hand.
Carson made a face. “I guess not.”
I nodded. When Brett came in, a smile of triumph on his face, we were sitting side-by-side, not looking at each other. He cleared his throat.
“Two minutes before the first course arrives,” he announced grandly.
“Chestnuts!” Josh cried. “Hurray!”
“Let’s go see!”
Cayley and her brother raced outside to stand around and watch the process of roasting chestnuts. Reese tried to keep them from touching the foil. Brett came and joined us at the table.
“Right, Grant,” he said, addressing Carson by his surname. “Are you ready for the challenge?”
He laughed. “Okay…I guess.”
We all laughed. Brett went on to outline his idea of a competition: they would each grill half the meat and compare the results.
“How will we know who grilled what?” Carson asked reasonably.
“We’ll put them in different pots as we’re done. And no cheating, mind!”
I smiled. The friendly contest was just like something they would have done years ago, when they were friends at college and I was at home, watching the two of them interact. I had spent a lot of time around Brett when he was with Carson. I guessed it had been transparent, but it seemed neither of them realized my sudden intense interest in football had been to spend time with Carson.
“Okay! We have to start together, or the first person gets a handicap,” Brett insisted. “Come on!”
Reese appeared in the doorway with the chestnuts and ordered them both back to their seats, laughing at the rueful faces.
“Like two kids,” she complained, grinning at me as we unwrapped chestnuts and transferred the steaming contents of the foil wrap to the table together.
I nodded. “They were worse when they were.”
She grinned. “I can imagine.”
“We’re two kids,” Josh complained. “We don’t do that.”
I laughed, and saw Carson guffaw with mirth.
“That’s us told, bro,” he said.
Brett hung his head. “Oh! How embarrassing…” he grinned.
We all laughed. The next ten minutes were taken up with eating and enjoying roasted chestnuts. The spicy warmth filled my senses, drifting my mind back down the years to the magic of childhood Christmases. And the one holiday Brett and Carson spent together.
When I looked up, Carson was watching me. His eyes had an expression so gentle that I felt I would melt, become all soft and melty like the chestnut I was eating. He was evidently thinking of the same time as I was, because he whispered to me.
“Memories, eh?”
I nodded. “So many memories.”
We smiled at each other. The night was dark and close, the Christmas lights on in the corner and the air was redolent of cinnamon and cloves. My heart overflowed with warmth. My leg pressed against his and he didn’t move away. Rather, his leg stayed where it was, making my heart soar.
As I forced myself to look away from his bright, merry gaze, I found myself wishing I could think of something—anything—that would bring down the barrier that ten years had built.
I wanted to get back together with Carson: all I needed at this time was a way to do just that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Carson
I went through to the kitchen to help Brett clean up after dinner. I could hear Amelia talking to Reese in the dining-room. Her voice was a turn-on, just like the rest of her. I shook my head, trying not to let a silly smile show.
“It went off okay,” Brett said to me as he passed a greasy baking-tray across to me to rinse.
“It did,” I nodded. “Kudos for the barbecuing skill.”
He chuckled. “You’re still better, bro. The pot with the things you did emptied quicker.”
“Not so much quicker. And the kids enjoyed the butternut you did too.”
“I think Cayley is planning to follow her auntie’s example,” Brett grunted, bending to wipe a stain off the floor. “She’s also planning to give up meat. Just like Amelia.”
“She seems to admire her, yeah,” I nodded, sliding another tray into the dishwasher.
“She does,” Brett agreed. “I’m not surprised. She’s a great girl, my sister.” He straightened up and stood, his face strangely blank.
I wondered if that last comment was meant to be accusatory. I looked at my friend with a raised brow but he looked as peaceable as ever as he collected plates and glasses to pass to me. He had never reproached me for breaking up with Amelia. I thought he might actually have been glad. It was the best thing I could have done, at least in my opinion, anyway.
“She visits often?” I asked, curiously.
“Not often, no,” Brett admitted, handing me a wineglass carefully. “About once or twice a year, actually.”
“Oh?” I was surprised. It was about a six-hour drive between her home and theirs, admittedly. But the way she enjoyed spending time with the kids, I would have thought she’d do it more often.
“Work commitments,” Brett said succinctly. “She’s got the Carlyle work obsession.”
“I remember,” I nodded. Amelia had always been unusually diligent, like Brett. I had never been like that. I guess I had never thought about doing anything with my life but the military. And, while good grades and a tertiary qualification certainly helped, they weren’t a necessary requirement.
“It’s good to see her relaxing here now,” Brett commented, heading to the kitchen table to clear up the bowls and equipment still standing there from before the barbecue.
“She seems happy,” I said. I was hesitant to ask Brett anymore personal things about Amelia. If she had lovers—even a boyfriend—I didn’t really want to know. It wasn’t like it could affect me anyway, I told myself crossly.
“I guess,” Brett agreed, borrowing my dishcloth a moment to wipe off the table in a fairly-desultory way. “It’s hard to tell. She seems happy now.”
Again, I wasn’t sure where that was going. If he was trying to tell me I’d cheered her up, or if it was a general, blank comment. I decided not to think about it and stacked the dishwasher.
“You think she’ll come down here more often?” I asked, pausing a moment
to see if the dishwasher could be packed more optimally. As it was, it looked like a forest—cups and bowls and dishes sticking out all over the place. I sighed and knelt down, making some readjustments as I went along.
“I hope so,” Brett said. “And you?”
“Me?” I swallowed uncomfortably. “I don’t know what’s going on in my life.”
“Oh?” He sounded genuinely interested and I sighed.
“It’s just…I want to find a job, Brett,” I said honestly. “I need some meaningful work in my life. I did some volunteering, of course, but…it’s not the same. I miss feeling useful.”
“You’re always useful,” my friend said casually, giving me a pat on the head. I smiled.
“I try to be, Brett,” I said, grunting as I bent lower to move some heavy dishes from the back of the dish-rack to the front, nervous that they would slip. “I do try.”
“Well, you never know,” Brett continued, turning back to the counter top where he now had an array of bowls and plates collected. “There’re lots of opportunities, jobs perfectly suited to guys with your background. Even at our company, a guy with a background in tactics could go a long way…logistics might be a direction you could follow,” he added helpfully.
“That’s a good idea,” I said thoughtfully. I really did want to find a niche for myself. I felt cut off and purposeless now that I was out of the army. Finding something to occupy my mind was a nice thought.
“I could ask around, brother,” Brett added, handing me a plate carefully. I rinsed it and stacked it in the dishwasher carefully. “I mean, look at that thing. There’s an organized mind at work,” he laughed, making a sweeping gesture at the dish-rack, where everything stood with, I realized, blushing, military precision.
I laughed. “Heck! You can take the guy out of the military…”
“But it doesn’t come out of the guy,” Brett finished, smiling.
“Quite.”
He passed me another plate and it seemed like we were almost done. I sighed. “Time for coffee?”
“Sure,” Brett nodded, reaching distractedly for a tray. “I’ll just put it on…”
He stretched over to the kettle, passing me the metal tray at the same time. I was just rising from where I knelt by the dishwasher and I bumped Brett, making him drop the thing.
The sudden crash hit me like a wall. I jumped back and caught myself on the counter, then stood there, chest heaving, my hand on my heart.
“Hell, Brett,” I shouted at him. “You asshole! What’d you have to do that for?” I was furious, adrenaline pumping in my blood, making my heart race. My whole body shook and I felt blindly angry.
“What?”
Brett blinked at me, surprised and a little scared, and I instantly felt awful. But part of me was furious still and needed respite. I stalked away across the kitchen and leaned on the drainboard. My body slowly stopped shaking.
I turned back into the kitchen, where Brett had bent down to lift the tray, wiping soap suds off the floor while he was down there.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a hollow voice.
“Sorry, man.” Brett was apologetic as he stood slowly from the floor and turned to face me. “I didn’t mean to give you a turn like that.”
“I…I’m fine.” My body was cold, heart heaving, and I knew I barely had a grip on myself.
Brett stayed where he was. He didn’t say anything. He was looking at me with shrewd eyes, appraising, I thought. I felt uncomfortable. What did he think? Did he pity me? What was it?
“I’m fine, man,” I said, feeling aggressive suddenly. “You can quit staring.”
“Sorry,” Brett said, low-voiced. He finished rinsing the tray himself and turned away abruptly. “I didn’t mean it, you know.”
I felt bad. “Brett…” I sighed. “I…I don’t understand what gets into me.”
He sighed and put instant coffee in two mugs and turned to face me. “Want to talk about it?” he invited. I shrugged. The kitchen was clean, all but a few bowls rinsed and ready to be washed. Reese and Amelia were upstairs. I could hear their bright voices coming from her bedroom. The kids were in bed.
“Why not?”
Brett nodded. He poured hot water on the granules of coffee and brought it to the table, steaming and sweet. Then he sat down on my left-hand side.
I closed my eyes. I had never actually talked to anyone about this. I wasn’t sure how to begin. “Ever since I came out,” I began, my eyes still closed, “I’ve been…changed. Jumpy. I guess you noticed, right?” I chuckled wearily, opening my eyes to look at him.
There was no judgment on my friend’s face; no curiosity. Nothing but a gentle waiting that prompted me to talk. I sighed.
“I can’t really describe it,” I said wearily. “It’s just…when you’ve been there, on the field, bombs dropping, flack everywhere…you don’t take things the same way after that. The slightest noise, now; and I’m there. I can’t explain it.”
Brett nodded. Again, I didn’t feel like he was trying to understand, or trying to probe into my thoughts. He was just there, a comfortable listener. It was a relief.
“I wish I wasn’t like this,” I said, my voice with a slight tremor that I bit my lip fighting to eradicate. “I wish…” I stopped. What did I want to say, exactly? I wished that I was different? Normal? That those years had never been?
It wasn’t true; I didn’t wish the past was different. I was glad I’d had those years, to have fought and served my homeland, but I did wish there was a path ahead. Out of these dreams, this disruption, these memories. Back to the friendly, easy comfortable life I knew before.
I sighed. “I just wish I could really be me again, bro,” I sighed. “The old Carson. The one who could sit and watch a movie without jumping when the sound-effects went off.” I laughed, my mouth turned in self-deprecation.
Brett gave me a gentle smile. “I can’t say I understand,” Brett said, sighing. “I don’t. Nobody could. Nobody who hasn’t been there.”
I felt something in my chest soften, an ache that must have been there for ages. “Thanks, Brett,” I said. That alone was an acknowledgment, more understanding than anything could have been.
“Not at all, brother.”
I looked away, staring across the kitchen to the bookshelf where Jamie Oliver grinned at us from the dust-jacket of his cookbook. I didn’t know what to say.
“I feel like I’m messed up,” I said after a moment. I would never have told anyone that normally but it was the heart of my worry. “I mean…I can’t sleep sometimes, and I drink sometimes, and…” I sighed.
“I know, brother,” Brett said gently. He looked at me with those blue eyes a shade lighter than Amelia’s. “It’s a tough thing.”
“It is.” I nodded. It was tough. The question that tottered on the edge of my mind, waiting to be asked, was: “do you think I’m fit for your sister”?
I couldn’t ask him that. I didn’t actually want an answer. If I were a brother, I thought harshly, I know what the answer would be. It would be a resounding no?
“It is,” Brett repeated. “All I know is that if anyone can make it out—and people do—it’s you, Lieutenant Grant.”
My heart softened. I felt my throat close and it was difficult not to choke up. I looked at the roof before looking into the blunt, reliable face of my friend.
“Thanks, bro.”
“Not at all,” Brett said gruffly. “Now. Another coffee, anyone?”
I chuckled. “Brett, if you have a plot to keep me awake forever, you’re headin’ in the right direction.”
Brett laughed. “Sorry, bro. Not intentional, I swear.” He sat down again, clearly not sure whether or not to make coffee for me. I smiled.
“It’s okay, bro. I’m okay now. Does Reese still have any of that tea she made after dinner yesterday? It was good.”
“The mint one? Sure,” Brett said, standing to fetch it.
While my friend busied himself with making tea, I closed my eyes, dr
ifting in memory and thought. The way I jumped when the tray hit the floor had surprised me. I thought it had been a while since I did that; but then again, these things vary. Some days I was fine and other days a sudden noise shattered me.
I should have asked him that question I thought, as Brett returned to the table, steaming mugs of green-scented tea in hand. I should have asked if he thought it’d be okay for me and Amelia.
But Brett had shifted topics now, chatting about the business and about the current status of his latest job. He seemed content to fill the evening with idle, safe chatter, and so I let him, letting the peace and quiet ease the tension in me.
Upstairs, the giggling had died down somewhat and I guessed Amelia had gone to her room. I sighed, letting my imagination fill with thoughts of her. How she would look as she undressed, her body pale in the streetlight from the window, her skin soft and scented with soapy water, the soft curls of her hair bouncing on her slender neck…
“…and I asked him if he’d redo the designs. What’d you think he said?”
Brett’s inquiry brought me back to the present and I blinked, fighting my distraction. My loins were aching and I knew my cock was rock-hard with my daydream but I tried to look relaxed.
“What did he say?”
Brett chuckled. “Well, he said what I’d likely say in the same situation. Which was to take myself off. Not in such nice words, of course…”
