Caroline cuts off the conversation when Mr. May asks about what type of missions I’ve been on. She looks at me curiously, as if she really wants to know the answer, but in the end isn’t ready to hear it. The only people I talk about this stuff with are my brothers and my father after he’s had a few too many beers. Our relationship was strengthened through our patriotism, and the bond reinforced by our commitment to serve our nation in good times and in bad.
Instead of waxing poetic about war, I tell them a story from my father’s glory days and that appeases them.
“We have to get down the hill,” Caroline blurts during a lull in conversation. Standing, she clears our pie plates and hugs her mother.
May stands, wobbles a little because he’s downed another Budweiser, and goes to shake my hand. “I’m proud to have you dating my daughter,” he says. “The airport and the skydiving aside, I’m glad you’re going to take care of my sweet Caroline.” His jaw ticks.
Swallowing hard, I made my departure with the weight of expectation weighing on my mind. We rode here on our bikes, and now that the sun has set, Caroline leads because she has one of those weird lights beaming on the front of her bicycle.
I’m left pedaling behind her on a well-worn path leading down to the airport. You can see the road off to the side. The absence of cars doesn’t surprise me anymore, but it does remind me how different my life is now. The trip to N.Y.C. to use my God-given skills is probably a well needed dose of reality—it will remind me of who I am at the very least. Caroline calls back to tell me to watch out for a tree root protruding from the ground, but it’s too late and I hit the damn thing at full speed and tumble off the bike.
I only stop rolling, because my body slams against a small tree. By that time, Caroline has stopped and is walking her bike back up to me.
“I told you!” she cries, looking me up and down. “Are you hurt? Your arm is bleeding!” Her voice echoes off the trees. “I knew we should have ridden the road instead,” she muses to herself. “Let me see the cut,” she orders, taking my arm into her hands.
“Only my pride is wounded,” I sigh. “It’s a scratch.”
She shakes her head. “This bike is too small for you. You need to look into a bike for a giant or something. It was only a matter of time before this happened. Anytime I see you on the thing it looks like you’re teetering on the edge of disaster.” It’s cute how she’s fawning all over me, so I let her. “Tahoe, you could have killed yourself!”
“Sunny, you called out the warning about ten seconds too late,” I say, smiling. “You’d be a horrible SEAL.” I lean up to a sitting position and eye my bike. The front wheel is bent. “I might need a new bike though.”
She laughs. “I called out the warning in plenty of time,” she argues. “You were probably looking at my ass or something instead of paying attention to the trail.”
Now it’s my turn to cackle. I make a big production of standing and then fake limping over to my bike. “What hurts?” she asks, practically yelling. “You need x-rays, don’t you? It’s because my parents approved of you, isn’t it? You’re sabotaging everything!” It’s one of the few times I’ve seen Caroline joke around.
My bike leans to one side. “Well, you’re the one that didn’t believe I was committed.” Taking off my shirt, I press it against my bicep to catch the blood before it drips down onto my jeans. Jeans don’t get washed but once a month. I’d hate for a little blood to move that date up. I have standards to uphold.
Caroline’s gaze drops to my bare midsection. Clearing her throat, she says, “Here’s the thing, I know we are supposed to mess around tonight, but I think we should have a discussion about expectations first.” I pull the shirt off my arm and examine the cut. The bleeding has stopped for the moment.
“Oh,” I ask, raising one brow. “What with my injury and all?” I joke. “I can assure you this arm is fully functional. I’ve been through worse.” Tossing my shirt over one shoulder, I start rolling my mangled bike down the path.
She looks away and then down to the ground. “We need to get it cleaned up as soon as we get home.” I like how she says home. Like I belong there as much as she does. I’ve lived in a lot of places, but no place has ever embedded itself deep enough to be considered home; not even the one I built. My friends who have wives and long term girlfriends say it happens when a person becomes home. I didn’t know what they meant until now. Caroline feels like home.
The outside hangar lights hit our bodies like spotlights and it’s a short distance to park our bikes before we head inside. The first thing she does when she closes the apartment door behind us is go into her bathroom to grab her first aid kit. I sit on the sofa because I know what comes next, and I know not to argue about anything she feels the need to do.
She clears her throat and dabs the cut with a piece of gauze. The scent of the medical grade cloth makes my heart pound. My mouth waters and I close my eyes, trying to inhale her scent, any scent, other than the cloth. I’m not in another country. I am not in a hospital bed. I am not getting bullet holes tended. No. I’m sitting in Caroline’s house. Deep breaths. Then one more.
“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head,” Caroline asks, putting a hand on the top of my pec muscle.
Opening my eyes, I’m met with blatant concern pooling in her clear, see-through soul eyes. This is another of those moments. The urge to lie is there, but if I don’t, it means something. “I didn’t hit my head,” I say, leaning over to peck her lips quickly.
Caroline nods softly, almost as if she doesn’t believe me. “The scent of the gauze,” I mutter, swallowing down the terror. “It reminds me of other times I’ve been hurt.”
She takes it away from my body, and puts it behind her back. “You don’t have to hide it,” I say, smiling widely. “I’m okay. You’re the one holding it. You could be stabbing me with a knife right now and I’d be okay.”
Tentatively, she brings the gauze back up to my arm. “If you’re sure. I’m almost finished cleaning it. Do a lot of things trigger bad memories?” she asks, not meeting my eyes.
“I don’t know until I stumble upon something that reminds me of something else. The scent of a hospital is pretty awful. Fireworks and sewage, too.”
Caroline crinkles her nose, leaning away from me. “We travel in the sewage lines to find targets. One time it took far longer than it should have and evidently my body revolts now,” I explain. She opens a bandage and applies it with the softest touch. “I can’t pump cesspool on a build. That’s a messy job anyways.”
“You’re all fixed,” Caroline declares. “I’m sorry about the gauze. I wouldn’t have used it if I’d known.”
“It’s fine. I meant it. I’m not a woman. I don’t say it’s fine when really I’m a bomb of emotional destruction. I’m really fine. Now you know one of my weaknesses.”
She sighs. “If only that were the case,” she says, wadding up the used medical supplies in her fist. “You are pretty perfect in every single way. So you don’t like the smell of gauze. A lot of people don’t like the scent of hospitals. Tell me something awful, Tyler Holiday. What is your greatest flaw?”
“Deep questions tonight, huh?”
