Authors: Katherine Owen
"Like so many of them," I said back to her. She just laughed.
Now, I'm fulfilling my promise to cut Brock's hair. What seemed like a simple favor has turned awkward in the last twenty minutes. We operate in uncomfortable silence.
"It's none of my business," Brock says after a while.
"It's not."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
"You didn't," I lie.
His lips curve up into a little smile and he shakes his head at me. I comb his hair and concentrate on getting the edges even. My fingers run across his hairline. The radio plays in the background, and the implied closeness of this scene begins to play out for both of us. He fidgets in the kitchen chair, while I struggle to maintain nonchalance.
"You've got to stop moving your head," I finally say. "Or, I''m going to mess up." I grip his chin and direct him to keep his head level. I grin at him, wielding the scissors near his face.
"I'll be good." He starts to laugh and sits up taller.
I attempt to concentrate on getting his hair even. The radio plays the Carolina Liar's song, "Show Me What I'm Looking For."
I sing along with the melody as I move around Brock and cut his hair.
While the music tends to relax me, he seems to get more uptight. The song ends and that's when I notice he's holding his breath.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says with a tight smile.
"I'm almost done."
"Good."
"Close your eyes."
He closes them, while I trim along his forehead. I blow away the stray hairs from his face, and he opens his eyes and stares straight at me for a moment. A deep crevice forms at the bridge of his nose. A part of me wants to smooth away the tension with my fingertips. The rational part turns away, grabs a hand towel, and wipes down his shoulders and neck.
"Okay, Lieutenant, you're good to go."
He rises from the chair, rubs the back of his neck, and looks around for his t-shirt and pulls it back on. "Thanks, Jordan," he says with disquiet.
"No problem."
I begin sweeping the kitchen floor, but still harbor some unexplainable turmoil. For some reason, I look up at him and glimpse this pained expression as it flits across his features. Then, he smiles over at me and it disappears.
"About the other stuff," Brock gets this apologetic look. "I don't know what I'm talking about." He stops, takes a deep breath and says, "Ethan loves you. You love Ethan."
"Yes."
My answer seems to hold enough conviction for both of us. He studies my face for a few seconds, as if he has something more he'd like to say, but then, he nods and walks away.
A few minutes later, I hear Ashleigh's familiar giggle from the direction of the guest room. Soon after, the shower is running again, and their shared laughter reaches at me from down the hallway.
The uneasy feelings engendered by Brock are replaced by this incredible longing for Ethan. And, just as suddenly, Ethan's there, walking up the path leading to our front door.
He carries a bouquet of flowers. I gaze at him through the kitchen window and smile wide.
Here's my life. This is what I want, what I need.
I race to the front door, anxious to meet up with him.
"For me?" I ask.
Guilt assails me over the strange conversation with Brock.
Ethan loves me. I know this.
He kisses me now, leaving no room for doubt to linger. "For you," Ethan murmurs against my lips. He holds my face between his hands and kisses me long and hard. "I missed you."
"You were gone a half hour. Forty-five minutes tops."
"I know, but I missed you. We need to make the most of our time together."
"Don't steal my lines," I say with a shaky laugh. My throat constricts with emotion, and love for him surges through all of me.
"I'm going to steal more than that."
Ethan pulls me along to the master bedroom, despite my protests about entertaining our house guests. "They'll find something to do." He closes and locks our bedroom door. "We've got a few hours before Max needs to be picked up. Let's make the most of it."
And so, we do.
≈ ≈
I lace my fingers with Ethan's for a few minutes and then hand him his car keys, so he can go pick up Max. Ashleigh has determined she has a few errands to run. I'm pretty sure one of those involves seeing the mysterious Michael, no doubt placating him, in some way, for canceling their evening plans.
I've called the restaurant and made sure everything is in order for tonight's festivities. I'm technically taking the night off, as Louis none too subtly reminds me when I call, but duty and this overriding sense to ensure everything is perfect for the guys' last night in town prevails. Tomorrow, they catch a flight back to Dover from Los Angeles and then on to Afghanistan for parts unknown.
Malibu keeps the winter season, gripping the rest of the nation, at bay, even in late January with its usual gift of upper sixty-degree weather. I've changed into running gear, determined to get a run in along the beach.
It's a rare treat, running the shoreline. With Ethan gone so much of the time, I usually have to load up the baby jogger and run the neighborhood streets because keeping track of Max along the beach is too much of a battle. Living the single parent life much of the time, I'm determined to take advantage of it while I can. I race down the steps of our back deck.
"Jordan, do you mind if I come with you?" Brock calls out.
I mind.
This is my time. It's rare that I get to do this without asking Ashleigh or Mrs. Richards for help, which I try not to do too often.
"No. Of course not. Come along." I force myself to smile at him. I stop to stretch at the top of the beach steps and re-clasp my ponytail. "Do you run on regular basis?"
"Not as much as I would like. Afghanistan isn't exactly Malibu, or even L.A.," he says with a wry smile. "I put in the miles when I can."
"Right." My tone is too sharp and part of me doesn't care.
The man continues to put me on edge. But, most of all, it's my last full day with Ethan, and here he is underfoot. I start down the stairs and hear him following noisily behind me. My inexplicable confusion over Brock continues to mount starting with the mere fact that he spends more time with Ethan than I do. The mere fact that he is now physically involved with my best friend. The mere fact that he is interrupting my personal time by running on the beach with me in the first place. And finally, the whole bizarre exchange between us earlier in the kitchen beginning with the disconcerting thought that I find him attractive to my revelation about marriage being overrated and ending with the whole tortured soul conversation. What did he mean by that? Why would he say something like that? All of it weighs me down now. Yes. That about covers it. All my reasons for being disconcerted by him. That about covers it. Those are the reasons.
We've been running for about twenty minutes. I've outpaced him much of the way. My anxiety spurs me on.
We're about three miles up the coast, but I finally slow down because my lungs are aching from taking the run at such a fast pace. I look over for Brock and realize I'm running alone.
I turn back in surprise and discover Brock about a hundred feet behind me. He's lying on the beach, breathing heavy. His right arm rests across his grey t-shirt. I can almost make out the words, U.S. Navy, in black block letters even from this distance as his chest moves up and down at an accelerated rate as he attempts to catch his breath.
Reluctance and shame commingle with me. Guilt at my bitchy behavior assails me as I make my way back to him.
What am I trying to prove to him?
"You okay?" I ask, attempting to catch my own breath. My hands grip my sides as I bend down toward his sprawled-out frame.
"Am I supposed to be?" Brock gives me an irritated look. "If you wanted to run by yourself, you could have just said so."
"Oh. I…yeah." I hang my head, embarrassed. "Okay. Look. I''m sorry. It's just—"
"He says you're pissed at him for leaving you again."
The tender way he says this catches me off guard. Tears immediately well up. I turn away to wipe at them and then I sink into the sand beside him with a heavy sigh.
"I'm not mad," I say in defeat. "I''m just so sad that he's leaving again."
Brock glances at me sideways. "It's not easy for him, you know. He's not one to say that he's suffering, but he misses you, too. It's there, all the time. I see it."
"I miss him so much when he's gone." I turn to look at Brock.
He nods as if he's heard what I said, but continues to stare straight ahead out at the horizon. I turn away from him and do the same.
"He memorizes your letters. He reads them over and over and recites them back to me, word for word, days later."
"He reads you my letters?"
"Yeah. I think it's cathartic for him. He talks about you and Max all the time. It's hard for him. He misses you both so much."
"It's hard…for me." There's an edge to my voice.
"Yeah. I know. With your parents."
I look at him then. "I
told
you, earlier, I don't talk about them."
"So you did." Brock turns and stares at me. "Look, I'm not married. Like I told you earlier, I came close." His voice trembles. He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. "The kind of pain you both must feel in being apart," he says in a low voice. "It's hard. But, just know, I
see
it." He swallows and gets this anguished look. "In him. In you."
"In
me
? You don't even
know
me."
He gives me a wan smile. "He reads all your letters to me, Jordan. I
know
you."
I look away from him and wipe at the tears that keep falling. Then, I get back up again and look down at him. "Brock," I say. He looks up at me and I'm filled with such intense emotion I can't even speak. I take a deep breath and hold it while he just waits for me to say something.
"Promise me. Promise me, you'll keep him safe."
"Jordan, I—" This conflicted look comes over him. "Okay. I promise."
"It's important. I can't…I can't lose him."
I kneel back down in front of him, grip his hands, and search his face for understanding.
This strange feeling of recognition seems to pass between us. His lips part and he starts to say something, but then stops. I watch him, wary, all at once, taken aback, once again, by this mysterious connection with him.
"Jordan," he says with perceivable disquiet. "I promise. I'll keep him safe. For you."
He reaches up to my face and wipes away a tear from my cheek. The action is so intimate that I think we're both surprised by it.
I immediately stand and impatiently offer him my hand. He grabs it and I pull him up. He towers over me for a moment, just like Ethan.
I look up at him. Sunlight illuminates his face. His eyes reflect both the golden sunlight and the amazing blues of the Pacific. I'm mesmerized for a few seconds.
"Bring him back to me."
"I will."
All at once, I'm uncertain and disconcerted by the way he's looking at me. "I love Ethan," I say instinctively.
"I know."
There's this unease between us now as we both silently acknowledge this unspeakable connection and the invisible line that we've just summarily drawn between us.
"We share Ethan. We both love him," I say.
"Yes."
I stare at him. A shadow crosses Brock's face, just as the sun moves behind a cloud. Somehow, I'm still caught up in this peculiar moment with him and unable to look away.
But then, he turns away from me. This chilling sensation travels through all of me and gets even stronger the farther he gets from me.
Unhinged, I watch as he runs back in the direction we came from.
I attempt to shake off this bizarre reaction and the uncertainty the man stirs up inside of me and race to catch up to him. He glances over at me and tries to smile, but I sense a similar unrest within him as well.
We run in silence, side-by-side, back down the beach towards home, towards my life, towards Ethan and Max.
I'm disconcerted by the depth of our conversations, the promise I've extracted from him, and something else.
The remnants of long-ago grief and the incredible fear of being left all alone stir awake, deep inside, lifeless embers that have just been waiting to catch fire.
*≈*≈*
Chapter 3. Foxtrot tango free bird
Brock
At 10,000 feet above sea level with no sea in sight, breathing labors in the thin air. Light-headedness plays a significant role. Minds wander. Clear thought gets lost in the body's constant, determined search for oxygen. The body knows. It begins shutting down the extremities not essential to survival. Acclimated, these high altitude effects are less noticeable, but they're there, even for two Navy SEALS, like us, surveying the scene from up above.