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CHAPTER20
- DAX -
This summer didn’t turn out the way I thought it would.
I can’t help thinking that as I pull into Millie’s driveway on my last Friday here without first swinging by the beach to check out the ocean this evening.
I should be surfing tonight; a little time on the waves has always been my preferred way to kick off the weekend.
But this time, I feel this pressing need to see Millie, to share every moment I can with her before I leave Sunday.
These past couple weeks since she came to see me in Savannah, we’ve been texting more during the week. We’ve even been enjoying the occasional phone call. If we had started things off like that… if we hadn’t wasted so much time pretending this was just a weekend thing with no emotions involved, maybe she’d have reached a point where she’d be ready to shuck all these other stupid rules.
I keep thinking about that moment last weekend when we were sitting on the beach with her family—that moment when it struck me just how deeply I felt toward her.
I want to tell her.
I’ve told women I loved them before. I’m not one of those guys who can’t get the words to pass his lips. I’ve had a couple relationships that got to that point.
And I’ve told my mom, too, of course. When I was a kid, she’d usually reply with something like “I love you too, but would love you more if you’d get me a beer from the fridge.” Then when I got older, the response changed to “If you loved us, you’d send us more money. What kind of a son doesn’t support their parents after all we’ve done for you?”
But I’ve never used the L word as a manipulation like my parents used to. And I can’t help thinking that’s how it would be with Millie. Those three simple words would convolute into “I love you, so now you’re stuck worrying about me when I deploy which you’ve already told me is exactly what you wanted to avoid.”
That would be nothing less than a manipulation.
So the words need to come from her first. But with less than two days left, I’m not so sure they will.
After I let Junie out back, she ambles back to me, her dark eyes looking at me as though she has all the answers for me, but just no words.
I can’t help cupping her soft head in my hands and asking, “Why am I not surfing right now, buddy? You don’t get better weather than this.”
I’d swear she just gave me a little nod.
Tonight I’d bet the beach is pretty quiet, with most people holding out for Labor Day weekend in just seven short days.
I wish I had that option.
I toss Junie’s perpetually filthy, beloved toy into the sky and she darts toward it gratefully.
A while back, when Millie had come into Savannah for the interview, I got too much satisfaction from it—just showing her where I live and how I live. Not that my Ikea furniture is anything to boast about. But something about letting her into my world opened up a door inside of me that I can’t seem to shut.
I want to show her where I work. I want to introduce her to my battalion so that maybe Jackson and the others will stop pressuring me to go party with them on the weekends.
I want to show her off to my CO at the next Ranger Ball so that he’ll see what good judgement I apparently have when it comes to women these days.
After I give Junie an acceptable amount of playtime (which I think she’d say is never enough), I head out the door to pick up a piece of pie, only because I really want to see Millie.
Then that damn photo of her and her siblings catches my eye again on the way out.
This time, I find myself jealous when I look at Harris’s image on it. I might tell myself that I’m lucky to not have a family to worry about when I deploy, but I see guys like this—guys like her brother—and I can’t help thinking that I deserve the same thing he’s got.
So why the hell did I fall for a woman who is ready to let me go at the end of this weekend?
Stupid, stupid me.
I give the dog one last pat and lock up behind me.
When I reach the diner, I swing open the door and look for that smile I’ve grown way too accustomed to these past weeks. This is the last time I’ll see her on a Friday night. That fact doesn’t escape me.
