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“Charlotte,” I hear behind me. Nate sounds almost . . . anguished.
I turn back, but Reese won’t let go of me. “Come on, Charlie. We’ve seen enough to know that bird is never going to land here. It’s a flightily, stupid bird. We’ve been waiting for it to come home for years, but it never did. It was off in other countries and places feathering the nests of dozens of other birds and has been too busy to fly home. It’s dead by now, and if it isn’t, it should be.”
“Fondue biplatypus? What the fuck is that?” we hear another guy mention.
“Charlotte,” Nate says again, but Reese is right. Nate and my relationship is dead now. And if it isn’t, it should be. I turn away and thread my fingers through Reese’s.
“You’re right. That bird is dead.”
Nathan
Her name wrenches from me like my heart is being pulled from my chest. She turns to look at me, and I see her anguish which compounds my own pain. What can I say? I didn’t mean to hurt you? Intentions are meaningless. Acts matter.
The guy by her side tugs on her hand again. I want to drag him by his neck and throw him into the ocean. Roll a few logs over his face until he is unrecognizable. Doesn’t he know that Charlotte is mine? That she’s been mine since the day she was born? Time, distance, separation, none of that will sever our bond. None of it.
I hold my breath for what seems like forever. She’s more beautiful than I can remember. How long has it been since I last laid eyes on her?
Only seven hundred days, eight hours, and forty-two minutes. Nearly two years.
“I want to see you,” I manage to gasp out. My tone is a mistake. It’s too harsh, and she shrinks closer to her companion.
The boy toy next to her places a protective arm around her shoulder and glares over his shoulder. Cabby and Bride step up beside me, which is even worse. Three SEALs scowling down at two innocent people. Or one innocent person. The other one—the male—is two heartbeats away from being demolished.
“Is there a problem here?” One of the gate guards designed to keep the public from bothering us while we train wanders over to diffuse what he sees as a tense situation.
“No, we’re leaving,” she says and reaches up to squeeze the man’s hand. Yes, he’s definitely losing that hand first before I dismantle the rest of him.
“I’m on shore leave in two days. I’m coming for you,” I yell after her.
Her gait breaks, and the boy has to reach down and right her. But she doesn’t glance back. Not once.
My best friend, Bride, and some random gate guard are looking on as my woman leaves me on the arm of another guy, but the only burn I feel is from loss, not humiliation. I don’t care what these guys think of me. What matters is that Charlotte is walking away from me with a man who she knows well enough that he answers her phone.
But she’s here, and she’s not doing any goddamn bird watching. There are two types of people who come down to this stretch of the beach. Those who want to run and those who are watching us run. She wanted to see me and . . . that’s as far as I can process why she’s here, given that she won’t talk to me.
“I thought you were confident she’d say yes? Since she’s turning you down, the best option is to get drunk and laid. I say an early evening visit to Flannery’s.”
“She looks good walking away. I’ll say that,” Bride cackles. He makes a slapping motion with his hand against the air.
“Do you want to get drowned?” I say evenly, despite the adrenaline firing through my body. I’ve got aggressions, and I want to take them out on someone. Bride’s a good target. “Because that’s how a guy gets drowned.”
“Not now, man,” Cabby says, recognizing the tenseness in my frame.
“When?” Bride is unhappy we aren’t having fun with each other. Taking the piss out of a team member is our version of a kiss and hug.
“Never,” I answer and start running. The sting is too sharp, and though I run for miles, it doesn’t fade. My legs are tired, my lungs scream for air, but the only thing on my mind is her.
Charlotte
“You look wrecked,” Reese says when we get back to the Del.
“I am. Seeing him in the flesh is heart-wrenching.”
“When did you last lay eyes on him?”
I drop onto my bed and curl into Reese’s warm, comforting body. “Nearly two years ago. He was on leave and visiting his parents. They have this home on Lake Michigan north of the city. I was in the city too, helping Adnan Rabanah move. His wife wanted to see a home next to Michael Jordan’s old house. I popped in to say hi to Aunt Grace, and Nate was there, drinking chocolate milk at the kitchen table.” I smile ruefully at the memory. “He looked up and there was this brown milk mustache framing his upper lip, and he was shirtless, wearing shorts and tennis shoes. I wrestled with the urge to leap over the counter and table to lick the chocolate off his mouth and then start exploring other areas.”
