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He ran out the door like a crazy man, with a shoe in one hand, his keys in the other and a diamond ring in his pocket.
Ten minutes later he had his answer regarding the whether the lucky shoe worked on traffic. It did not. He crept along in stop-and-go traffic all the way up I-5, transitioned to the 405 North, otherwise known as a parking lot, and burned through another half hour before reaching the airport exit. At last he made the turn from MacArthur Blvd. into the airport, and hit the gas, trying to make up time as he followed the DEPARTING FLIGHTS signs.
An old guy in a pickup truck pulled in from another access ramp, cut him off, and the proceeded to go so slow he made the fourteen mile-per-hour on-base maximum speed limit look like the autobahn. It took every ounce of self-restraint Michael possessed not to lay on the horn and drive up the old-timer’s tailpipe. Instead, he pulled to the curb at the start of the “loading and unloading only” section, cut the engine, and hurtled out of the Jeep, carrying Chloe’s black shoe and running balls-out into the terminal like some sweaty, wild-eyed Prince Charming.
Quarter to six. He stared at the Departing Flights monitor, realizing he had no idea which carrier she was on or which terminal her flight departed from. The monitor informed him he had a sprint from Terminal A to Terminal C ahead of him, and her flight was now boarding.
He ran.
At Terminal C, he stopped at ticketing and bought a seat on her flight. That cost him another five minutes. Clearing security took another five minutes, and that was with being fast-tracked because he showed up in his fatigues, flashed military ID to the TSA agents, and threw himself on their mercy.
He raced to the gate and arrived just in time to watch the Boeing 737 taxi toward the runway.
His furiously beating heart sank into his boots. Apparently the lucky shoes only worked as a pair.
Naturally, now that time had no meaning, he made it back to San Clemente in twenty-five minutes flat and drove straight to the Stars & Bars with the intention of getting so drunk he’d be unable to recite name, rank, or serial number by last call.
He was at a barstool, working on his first two fingers of whiskey, when someone clapped him on the back and a sharp, disapproving voice said, “Major.”
Shit. Harding. The man was everywhere. Michael straightened, painfully aware he was sitting in a bar, drinking while in uniform. Definitely not the kind of move that impressed the brass. “Colonel.”
The older man took the empty barstool beside Michael. The bar wasn’t particularly crowded at this hour, but all the barstools around him were empty because he looked and smelled like someone who hadn’t showered or shaved in twenty-four hours. If that wasn’t enough to keep most people away, his gritty, bloodshot eyes and tense jaw told the world, Back off. I’m nowhere near my happy place.
But not the colonel.
“Major, I’m not going to put any lipstick on this. You look like shit—like someone who’s going to disgrace the uniform you’re wearing before the night is over. In less than ten minutes, the base commander is going to walk through this door and join me for a drink. Him seeing you here, as you are, will be a career-limiting event. Go home. Whatever’s eating at you, share it with Chloe. You’ll feel a hell of a lot better talking things out with her than drowning your sorrows here.”
Michael pulled his hand out of his pocket and held up his index finger, where the engagement ring glinted from the first knuckle. “Chloe’s not at home.”
“I see.” Harding’s voice lost some of the rebar running through it. “You two had a falling out. That explains a few things.” The colonel motioned to the bartender and ordered a beer and then turned back to Michael.
“Take it from a man who’s been married to the same woman for twenty-five years, these things happen from time to time, especially early on. The real test is, what do you plan to do about it?”
“Colonel, I just raced to the airport with a ring in my pocket and a fucking shoe in my hand, and I missed her by less than five minutes. You’re now looking at my plan, though I appreciate the heads-up, and I’ll change the venue.” He stood and threw some bills on the bar.
“You disappoint me, Major. I hadn’t pegged you as a man who gave up so easily.”
Michael expelled a breath and stared down at his boots. Time to come clean. “Sir, Chloe and I got engaged for the wrong reasons. Our relationship was never—”
“The circumstances under which you got engaged are not material now. What’s material are your current feelings. Obviously, you let her walk away without saying the things you ought to have said—and I know this because you chased her to the airport with a ring in one hand and a fucking shoe in the other. Those aren’t the actions of a man who’s said his piece.”
“Colon
el, I—”
“You have important things to say to the woman. Confirm or deny?”
He sighed and sat back on the barstool. “Confirmed, sir.”
The colonel nodded. “All right, Major. Listen up. I have orders for you.”
“Listening, sir.”
“Go home, get cleaned up, and then get your sorry ass to wherever Chloe went, and say your piece. You’ve got forty-eight hours. Understood?”
“Yes, sir…and thank you.”
Harding waived the thanks away. “Dismissed.”
