Chapter Twenty-Two

- MASON -

I used to drive long stretches all the time. When I’d get a couple days leave, my SEAL brothers and I would take off to explore, to see things we’d never seen. Once when we’d just gotten back from deployment, we loaded ourselves into an SUV and drove nearly nonstop to the Oregon coast from Little Creek, each taking driving shifts and sleeping with our heads rattling against the car windows.

So a four-hour drive to Little Creek from Annapolis is easy for me. Or it should be. But when I arrived at my new apartment, a generic building not too far from base, I felt as though I’d traveled to the other side of the world, just because I’m further away from Freya.

We left things exactly the way we should. The way I was hoping. The way I know she wanted them to be. We left as the friends that we’ve always been. And in time, I know I’ll forget what it felt like to hold her close, to have the privilege of kissing her whenever I wanted, and however I wanted.

Ha! That’s a crock of shit. I’ll never forget that feeling. And nothing else will ever compare to it.

Damn I miss her, I lament as I read her reply to my text and then slip my phone back into my pocket. I shouldn’t miss her because she’s still my friend, always ready for a quick text back to me with some pithy comment. Always there to share a joke or a story or even a complaint.

I’ll see her soon, I’m sure. It will be several weeks before my Team heads off for training. I’ll make the time to do that crabbing I promised her, either up there or down here… or anywhere, so long as I’m with her.

But it’s not just friendship I want with Freya anymore.

Setting my rucksack on the ground carefully, I remember the little frame I wrapped in a change of clothes so that it wouldn’t break en route. I’ll enjoy setting it on my nightstand—if my furniture ever arrives, that is—even if we are just friends. I like the feeling that some part of her belongs to me, even if it’s just a simple picture frame and not her heart.

I like that feeling because I know in my heart that my everything belongs to her now.

I pull out the frame wrapped in the faded denim of my extra jeans. Love will fade like my jeans did. Just give it time, I assure myself. Send it through the wash a few times and life will get more comfortable again.

I itch to start work on Monday just so that I’ll have something else to focus on other than Freya. Then maybe I’ll stop replaying through my mind the events of the past forty-eight hours when two friends dared to explore what could have been if we’d been smart enough to not waste our time dating other people for the two years while I was in Annapolis.

Would it be completely inappropriate for me to text Harris right now and tell him to stay the hell away from her?

Yes, it would. If for no other reason than the fact that if Harris doesn’t take her out for coffee, if Harris doesn’t date her, if Harris doesn’t steal her heart, someone else will. And I don’t want it to be some asshole.

But I’d rather it be me.

I pull out the rest of my clothes and my shaving kit from my bag, leaving it all in a small stack on the floor. A piece of paper catches my eye in the bottom of my bag.

Pulling it out, I smile at the photocopy in my grasp. The perfect cursive writing resembles Freya’s even though I know it’s not. And the hearts and flowers graphic at the top of the sheet isn’t quite her style. Almost, but not quite.

From the recipe box of Linda Hansen, it reads along the top of an index card sized image.

Chicken Parmigiana

A smile curves my lips. She gave me her grandma’s recipe.

My mouth waters as I read the ingredients as though my brain is conjuring up the taste with each name of an herb or spice that meets my eyes. And cornflakes? I’ll be damned. That’s the secret ingredient Freya always talked about.

Cornflakes.

And the simplicity of it strikes me. Something pretty lackluster in my cereal bowl every morning turns Freya’s chicken parmigiana into the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

Maybe my life is cornflakes, I think, my mind searching for a metaphor in there somewhere. If I were creative like Freya, I’d see those cornflakes as some kind of an allegory—a reflection of how dull my life is without her. But when she throws my cornflakes into a recipe, together we become something extraordinary.

Of course, I’ve always sucked with metaphors. And my cornflake analogy wouldn’t impress the most lenient eighth grade English teacher. I’m not particularly deep, or good with elaborate words or connotations or imagery.

I’m more of an action kind of a guy. So—to hell with metaphors—I take my precious recipe and head for my SUV.

I can only hope that words won’t fail me in four hours’ time like they are right now.

Or maybe five hours, I figure, suddenly thinking there’s someplace I need to stop on my way. Scoffing, I shake my head at the thought. But she deserves nothing less than everything.

Besides, I’m a SEAL. When we go, we go for broke.