All of my gear and helmet feel as though they weigh a ton. I wipe the sweat off my brow as people exit the building holding a stretcher with a beautiful brunette. She has long brown hair and full lips. I avert my eyes quickly when I recognize her from American television.
Rexy follows us away from the scene, helmet tucked under one arm. “You guys off tonight?”
“I am,” I say, engaging in perfectly common conversation inside of a violent tragedy. A day off doesn’t look like it you’d expect it to. I usually sleep and make phone calls home most of the day. There is zero desire to go outside and explore the city. I can’t do it without being on high alert. It’s safer for my sanity on base where I know I won’t run into something I’m not supposed to.
I’m alone in this sentiment. Just because I’m equipped to deal with anything doesn’t mean I want to. “Gonna stay in your room and fuck your hand all day?” Rexy snaps, eyeing me from the side. Jokes that I’d brush off with Southern charm in the past now annoy me.
“Fuck off, man. You go have yourself a merry little time in the brothels. They’re going to run out of penicillin shots in the clinic if you keep up your pace.”
The seedy parts in any big city flourish in war times. Criminals are more active doing things that might have gotten them arrested back in the day, but now the police and military have bigger problems than prostitution, theft, and drugs. They have entire events being blown apart. I tell the guys I’m heading back to base, check with my officer to make sure we’re clear, and find my way to one of our idling, armored vehicles. I’m alone with my thoughts for a few more minutes as we wait for more men and set off for base, using back roads and driving a cautious speed.
I’m uneasy when I’m not behind the wheel, when I can’t control every facet of my life. There’s a pit in my stomach all the way back. I grab the handles in the car and keep my eyes on the road ahead. Someone tries to engage me in conversation, but I brush them off, favoring the silence where I can stay attuned to my surroundings. A few ambulances, their sirens blaring in that unfamiliar off-kilter tune Americans aren’t accustomed to, zoom toward the direction we just left. When the SUV rumbles up to the gate protecting our compound, we show identification to the gate guards. They check our vehicle thoroughly before we’re granted access. It’s not until the gate closes behind me do I feel safe enough to relax. The tension eases out of my shoulders as I release a breath. Ironically, this is when the adrenaline hits—my body processes the danger it was just in. I thank the driver as I swing out of the vehicle and start for my room on the back side of the base, the farthest from the entrance. London rises up around all sides of our compound and it’s an odd placement, not like any sort of base we’ve ever stayed on before. We’re not on a boat, or in the desert, or butted up to water. We’re in a thriving city. I can hear the city, smell it, soak in the energy, feel the danger from all angles.
I use my key card to scan into the empty housing building and start shrugging off my gear piece by piece. My room requires another scan of a card. The skin on my arms prickles with cold. The heating and cooling units only have two settings: balls freezing or hot as hell. Now, it’s arctic cold. It’s dark, only a swinging light bulb illuminates the space the size of a large storage closet. There’s a twin bed pushed against the wall and a small rickety desk by the door. My bags are stuffed under my bed and the folding chair stays leaning against the wall when I’m not using it. I have a small sink and a mirror above it. The showers and toilets are in a shared bathroom across the hall. I take off my boots before I step into my room and place them outside of my door. Ash and blood and whatever the fuck else is on the bottom of my boots can stay out there.
I don’t let myself think of anything else when I’m working. To do my job perfectly, I need single-minded focus. The type that comes when you aren’t thinking about anything other than what I’m doing or what I need to do. The kind of focus that comes when you prioritize your career above all else. The balance is tricky, if you can even call it balance, and I know that my family and friends back home feel the strain of the relationships. Clover especially. At the thought of her, I sigh. That woman is my guilty pleasure. A thought I cherish so reverently, that I have to ration my attentions or they’ll consume me completely. Pulling off my chest plates and removing my weapons, I set them on my bed. I cover the air vent on the floor with a Kevlar plate to staunch the flow of air before settling at my desk in the folding chair.
Opening my laptop, I check the time and a swirl of excitement hits when I see what time it is. I open up an encrypted messaging app and send Clover a text. It should go directly to her phone and her computer so there’s a maximum chance she’ll see or hear I’m messaging. We had a scheduled call in an hour, but I’d kill to see her now. It’s been so long, and I’m frustrated in every aspect of my life. A bit like a ticking time bomb. A bit like a boat sinking. A lot like a man who hasn’t fucked in almost a year. Falling for Clover was fast and hard, and it took a mere moment. Sometimes when I’m drifting to sleep in this cold room, the time spent in Alabama on leave feels like a dream from a different lifetime. This will be the first time I’ve seen her since I left. She’s sent me a random selfie or two, but between the bad connectivity and my schedule, it’s been near impossible to get alone time. The time zones don’t help. The terrorists help even less.
I’m not ready!comes Clover’s written reply.Are you already finished with work for the day?I can hear the panic in her words and that’s in only two sentences.
This is familiar territory. Leading Clover. Not leading men.You always look beautiful,I type back.Turn on that camera and show me what I’ve been missing.I feel myself switching over, back into the person Clover knows—the real me. Not the hardened machine who doesn’t flinch at dead bodies. Gray bubbles pop up to signal she’s typing a response. It’s taking a while, so I grab a washcloth from my laundry pile and wet it at the sink. Wiping at my face, neck, and arms—anyplace exposed to ash. Easier to clean it off than explain where I’ve been and what happened. If the media in America had picked up on the terrorist attack, it would have been the first thing Clover said. It wasn’t. She doesn’t know yet. I have at least a little while longer to pretend with her. I pray for a full conversation without the need to speak about work.
We weren’t supposed to video chat for another hour. I’m in the middle of getting ready. This is the first time you’ve seen me, and I don’t look how I want to look, and my cell phone is ringing off the hook, a water pipe busted in my neighbor’s place, and there are workers over there trying to keep the water from leaking all over. Goldie just left and the box you sent me a couple days ago is sitting right here in front of me. You told me not to open it, but I have to tell you I’m pretty angry you wouldn’t let me. I didn’t. Every time I’ve walked by, I’ve cursed your name. Gifts that can’t be opened are plain bad manners, Ballentine.
I can tell her tirade won’t stop until I do it myself.Clover, I tap out the message quickly and send it. The bubble disappears as she stops typing.This call with you is the only thing I’ve been looking forward to since the moment I left. If you’re trying to postpone it or cancel it, think again. Turn on your camera and then you can open the package. It’s more of a gift for both of us.My hands sweat as I rub my fingers against my palms. I really went out on a limb for this present. For this entire call. It needed to be perfect. I need this. My sanity requires it. Running my hands back and forth through my hair a few times, I hit the button to turn on my camera capture.Don’t answer your phone. Turn it off,I tap out quickly as an aside.Just us for a bit, okay?
Clover turns on her camera and all I see is her sofa. She has her laptop on the coffee table. Drumming my fingers on the table next to me, I say, “The suspense is killing me darlin’.”
“It’s been so long. I’m so nervous,” Clover says as she edges into the camera’s view. I have to school my expression when she sits down because she doesn’t look the same. Not at all. Her hair is darker, not the Clover Wellsley blonde you can see from a half-mile away. She has circles under her eyes that match the black dress she’s wearing on her slimmed-down frame.
“Was there a funeral?” I ask, keeping my tone light. Clearing my throat, I add. “You look beautiful. I miss you so much, Four Leaf Clover.” Another byproduct of not letting my personal life slip in while I’m away is that I miss glaring signs. Clover’s struggle in her new life wasn’t right under my nose and she never mentioned it.
Her eyes dart to her lap. “I, uh, switched up my wardrobe to blend in. Goldie suggested darker tones and she was right; I feel a little better.” Pausing, she gathers her thoughts. “I was going to fix my makeup. I probably look a bit tired.” Her Southern accent sounds subdued. My heart rattles around in my chest like a pissed off cobra. I miss her. I want to hold her. Touch her. Be there for her in every single way possible. I want to be her man. She looks away from the camera.
“Hey. Tell me something good,” I drawl.
Clover smiles and it transforms her face. “I ran five miles this morning and didn’t die. I’ve been working up to it for the past four months.” Looking to the side, she nibbles her bottom lip and then looks back at the camera. “I’m finally getting to see your handsome mug.” Her cheeks pink.
“Are you acting shy? Is the sky falling?” I say, thinking about the ash raining down outside. “Clover never gets shy. Especially over a man.”
She clears her throat. “I’ve missed seeing you. Talking to you is nice and all, but sometimes when I’m trying to fall asleep, I try to picture your face and can’t. Not perfectly. It’s unnerving. What if you’re not as hot as I thought you were, you know?” Clover feels the same way I do. Our short time together doesn’t feel real. Was that time together enough to bring us through this? “Like that freckle by your eye, or how many abs you have.”
“How did you forget what my abs looked like? That’s offensive.”
Clover cocks her head and folds her arms across her chest. “I’m sorry.”
I laugh. “Eight,” I add. “I have eight abs.” I stand up and flex my muscles, sliding my hands down the front of my stomach. After, I sit and lean in so she can get a better look at the freckle in question.
“You’re too pretty to be real. I don’t remember you being this pretty when we were kids,” she says, studying the screen. Crossing and uncrossing her legs, she gives me a peek at her pink panties.
“You weren’t looking at me at all back then, ma’am,” I reply. “Which is fine, because if you looked at me back then like this you might not be lookin’ at me like that right now and that would be criminal.”
“Ma’am, huh? We’re back to that?” Clover says, a little of the accent I know sliding back in, a grin playing on her full lips. “Mercer, so much has happened the past four months.” Her eyes turn down in the corner. “It’s been a wild bull ride.”
I hold out my hand. “Open the box first. You and me. The outside isn’t allowed in here yet.”
Shaking her head softly, she giggles as she reaches for the rectangular box sitting next to her. I lace my hands behind my head to keep them from shaking. Far and away, this is the most forward thing I’ve done when it comes to relationships and women. As she tears into the box, I resist the urge to tell her to throw the whole thing in the trash. A mannered gentleman wouldn’t even think of giving this gift, but it proves how crazed Clover makes me.
