Miles To Go Before I Sleep
I NEEDED TO see Jack.
We’d already planned for me to fly out to San Diego two weeks from now, but I couldn’t wait.
I’d made a split-second decision, bought a ticket, and now I was packing a bag ready for my first trip out west to see Jack.
When I phoned him with my flight details so he could meet me at the airport, I couldn’t keep the tension out of my voice.
Three times he asked what was wrong.
Three times I laughed and said, “What could possibly be wrong?”
His tone was serious when he replied.
“I don’t know, Maggie. You tell me.”
We’d been apart for just over a week, and it had been one of the longest of my life. And now I had this huge decision burning a hole in my heart.
“Jack, I’m coming to see you this weekend,” I said lightly, swallowing past the lump in my throat, “and I intend to spend as much naked time with you as possible.”
He knew I was being evasive, but he didn’t try to force an answer out of me, although I could tell that he was disappointed. I wanted to tell him about my job offer, but face to face, not over the phone. I wanted to see his eyes when he heard my news. And ideally, I wanted to have made up my mind about what I was going to do before I saw him.
Which sounds harsh, but I needed my head to make this decision, even though my stubborn heart kept shouting louder and louder.
Eventually, he sighed and gave in.
“I’ll be counting the hours, Maggie,” he said softly.
“Me, too.”
Because I knew how short time could be.
My flight was delayed by over an hour, which wasn’t a great start to the weekend. But when I saw Jackson, my gut tightened with apprehension.
He wasn’t in uniform, but there was no mistaking that he was military, a warrior.
His arms were folded across his chest, and his lips were pressed together in a thin, hard line. And he looked pissed. Really pissed.
He seemed tough and unapproachable, more like the man I’d met in Afghanistan than the one who’d worshipped my body with soft kisses and gentle words.
The tide of travelers flowed around him as he stood granite-like, an island in a vast ocean of swirling humanity.
I took a deep, shuddering breath as I watched him from a distance, my small suitcase weighing heavily in my hand like my doubts.
I’d only brought carry-on luggage with me, so I’d be able to go right to him without wasting precious time, but now I wished I had a few more minutes to prepare.
As soon as I took my first step forwards, Jackson saw me immediately, his eyes narrowing. There was no smile of greeting or happiness to see me.
Time’s up.
He unfolded his arms, his expression grim as he strode forward.
“Did you fly three-thousand miles to break up with me, Maggie?”
I froze, taken aback by the aggression of his words, by the pain hidden behind his expressionless face.
I swallowed and forced myself to man—woman—up.
“No. But you might want to break up with me.”
He didn’t even blink, just the same stony stare boring through me.
“And why’s that?”
“Can we go get a coffee? And I’ll tell you everything.”
“I think I’d like to hear it now.”
A flare of irritation rushed through me, but I pushed it back.
“Jackson, I’ve been on a stuffy, overheated plane for nearly eight hours—ninety minutes of which was spent sweating on the tarmac at JFK. I’m tired, gritty, and thirsty. I’d like to get a drink before I discuss my news with you.”
His eyes softened and his head drooped.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Maggie. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. But I’ve been standing here wondering if . . .”
“I’m not breaking up with you,” I said gently. “But I do need to talk to you. And, if it’s not too much to ask, a hello hug would be nice.”
He wrapped his arms around me, nuzzling my neck through my hair.
My eyes drifted closed and my whole body sank into him, the feeling of being in his arms, just held. No questions, no judgement, just Jack. For a second, I felt peaceful, as if nothing else mattered but this moment, this man. As if the world wasn’t waiting to claim us again.
“It’s so fucking good to see you, Maggie. I’m sorry I was a jerk.”
“You’re forgiven.”
And he was. How could I blame him when he cared? He cared so much.
I ran my hands over his t-shirt, feeling his muscles tremble from my touch. His eyes slid shut and he breathed deeply. I felt a little of the tension drain from his stiff shoulders, and he pulled me toward him more tightly.
“I’ve missed you.”
His words rumbled against the soft skin of my neck, and I felt the weight of them, understanding what they cost him.
“I know. Because I’ve missed you, too. Now buy a girl a cup of coffee, Sarge, before she expires from thirst.”
He loosened his grip and kissed me lightly on the lips, lingering for a second before he stood upright.
“Yes, ma’am!”
Then he scooped up my small bag with one hand and wrapped the other around my shoulders.
His ride wasn’t a car, of course, but a Jeep—something that looked battered and bruised, as macho and masculine as Jack himself.
He shrugged sheepishly when he saw me eyeing the rust bucket. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see duct tape holding it together.
“Not a Sedan, then,” I teased.
“It’s got character,” he muttered.
“I don’t know, Jack. Is it possible to have too much character?”
I raised an eyebrow, and he mumbled something under his breath as he tossed my bag into the back seat.
“Buckle up!”
His order was gruff, but I hadn’t missed the smile tugging at his lips.
It took twenty minutes for Jack to fight his way through the San Diego traffic and out across to Mission Beach. We didn’t say anything important. Even though there was much to say.
I was so thirsty by the time he pulled up outside a tiny beach-hut café, that I would have considered drinking seawater. Well, maybe not, but when the waitress brought us each a glass of iced water before taking our order, I could have kissed her.
“So, what’s this big news?” Jack asked, unable to hold himself back any longer.
I looked into his dark blue eyes, wishing that I had different news to give him, and took a grateful sip of cold, cold water.
Then a longer one, gulping the water as it streamed down my dry throat, ignoring the cool trickle over my chin from drinking too fast. Jack reached across the table and caught the stray drip with his thumb.
It was a gesture so tender and caring, so natural and loving that I wanted to cry.
Instead, I gave him the respect he deserved by telling him everything.
“I’ve been offered my dream job. Foreign correspondent. Cairo office.”
He sucked in a deep breath as he fought to hold back the riot of emotions that ghosted across his face. He certainly wasn’t as impassive as he’d seemed at the airport.
“Cairo, huh? Congratulations, Maggie. You deserve it. I know how hard you’ve worked,” and he forced out a smile. “How long you goin’ to be there?”
How long? I didn’t know.
“It’s a permanent position,” I said softly.
His eyes widened and then he looked down. Still avoiding my gaze, he picked up his water and took a long drink before placing the glass carefully on the table.
“Permanent?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, absorbing the information as my heart catapulted around inside my chest and my fingers fisted under the table as I fought to remain calm.
“I won’t be allowed to visit you, Maggie,” he said, looking over my shoulder at the ocean and rubbing his eyes. “They’ll never give me permission to travel there, not to the Middle East. All movements have to be approved, and if you get caught lying, it’s a court martial. Hell, I can’t even go to TJ.”
Of all the things he might have said to me, I hadn’t considered that his being a Marine would restrict his travel. I really, really should have. So stupid. So naïve.
My lips started to tremble, so I pressed them together. My dream job was turning into a nightmare.
Jackson sat with his head bowed, his hands held loosely in his lap.
He was still staring at the table when he began speaking.
“I’ll be honest with you, Maggie. I want to tell you not to go, but I have no right to do that.” He looked away and shook his head. “All the years I’ve been a Marine, I’ve listened to the guys bitching about their wives and girlfriends hating it when they’re deployed.” He gave a wry smile. “It got old. And I can’t tell you how many Dear John letters I’ve seen burned, torn up or pissed on. Some women can’t handle it, you know? One guy had gotten divorce papers sent to him because his wife found ants in the kitchen and he wasn’t there to get rid of them. Just a grain of sand too many, I guess. I used to think those women were weak, shallow even. But I kind of get it now, because I want to tell you not to go. I want to tell you to stay in the US where you’ll be safe . . . safer. I want to tell you it’s too dangerous. But I can’t. And I’m choking on it, Maggie.”
His voice had turned harsh and rough.
I reached across, touching the back of his hand, but he didn’t react. He was holding himself so tightly.
Then, slowly, his eyes turned toward me.
“I’m not sorry for saying any of that.”
I nodded, my throat dry and my eyes wet.
“Thank you for telling me what you’re thinking.”
Jack breathed out a long sigh, and tapped a tanned finger against the side of his head.
“I gotta say, Maggie, a lot of thoughts were rattling around in there since last night. I knew there was somethin’ that you weren’t saying, but I didn’t think you’d be telling me that you were going to live in Egypt.”
“I haven’t said yes definitely yet.”
He gave a faint smile.
“But you’re going to.”
I curled my fingers around the back of his hand, squeezed gently and pulled away.
“Yes, I am.”
Because all that he’d said was about men risking their relationships to protect our country. And in my own small way, that was what I was doing, too—risking my relationship with Jack because my work was about something bigger than myself, my life. To me, journalism isn’t just reporting the news, it’s about telling the stories for people who have no voice. And that was important to me. It drove me, fired me up; it mattered to me.
If anyone understood that, it was Jack.
I hoped. I hoped that he understood.
Finally, he nodded.
“You should say yes. Hell, I’m the last person who’d say you couldn’t go. I can be away for six months, a year. More, maybe. And I have been. In the twelve years I’ve been a Marine, maybe seventy months have been on US soil. I’d be one hell of a hypocrite if I tried to tell you how to live your life. Even if I want to.”
“You’re not mad?”
“No. But I’ll miss you like hell.”
The knot of unease that had solidified inside my chest began to loosen.
“So, you still want to do the long distance thing?” I asked hesitantly. “Even more long distance? Even though we might only see each other two or three times a year? Living our lives on email and Facetime?”
It sounded even bleaker said out loud.
Two years, I told myself. I’d give it two years—twenty-four little months.
Broadly speaking, there are two types of foreign correspondents: the ones who live their whole lives overseas, and the ones who burn out quickly after one or two postings, preferring to live in the US and make short trips abroad. After Zaatari, I’d begun to suspect that I belonged in the second category. Maybe I should have realized that earlier.
Jack sat upright and held both my hands across the table tightly.
“Long distance? Hell, yeah!” he said softly. “I’ve waited too long to find you. I’m not letting you go now. I want to try. I know it won’t be easy . . .”
A relieved smile spread across my face.
“Jackson Connor, have I told you lately how amazing you are?”
“No, you’ve been slacking on that,” he grinned.
“You. Are. Amazing.”
“And not just in bed.”
“No. You’re pretty amazing all around.”
We finished our coffees in companionable silence, gazing out over the ocean, knowing that soon, too soon, I’d be even further away with an ocean, a continent, and a river of red tape between us.
The sun’s heat seeped into my skin and Jackson’s thoughtful expression washed over my senses. Somehow, and I didn’t yet know how, somehow it was going to be okay.
We climbed back into the rattling, rearing bucket of rust, and Jack drove us an hour north to a large, Spanish-style hotel near the pier in San Clemente. The palm trees outside rustled in the breeze and the perfect blue sky was gilded with warmth, even at this time of the year.
“This looks very upscale,” I smiled at him.
“Not as upscale as you deserve,” he said sweetly. “But it’s pretty nice. A lot of guys from Camp Pendleton use it when families come to visit.”
“Do I get to see your barracks as well while I’m here?”
He shrugged.
“Sure, if you like. There’s not a whole lot of interesting stuff I can show you.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Heat flared in his eyes.
“There are one or two things, now I think about it.”
Jumping out of the Jeep, he grabbed my suitcase and tugged me to his side as we walked into the hotel.
There was something slightly desperate about the way he kept touching me, pulling me close to him all of the time. We were counting down the seconds to goodbye again.
Guilt washed over me, because this time I was choosing a path that led me away from him. And what was my excuse for that?
Jackson
I haven’t been entirely straight with Maggie. She thinks she knows what I do in the Marines, and I’ve let her carry on thinking that. I’ve been vague, not only because there are things I can’t tell her, but because there are things I don’t want her to know.
My MOS, military operational specialty, is Marine Corp Recon. We’re elite forward-operating troops, the eyes and ears for our battalion. We collect intel, and lead clandestine, unconventional attacks against the enemy: my Marine Specialty Occupation.
When I was in Afghan, Maggie thought I was with some sort of public relations remit who just happened to be around to rescue her when the shit hit the fan. Well, I do my best. The Brits out there call it a ‘hearts and minds’ op—winning over the civilians, but that wasn’t my first duty then and it isn’t now. And when you’re a Marine, your sense of duty overshadows every other priority, whether it’s your uncle’s funeral or watching your first kid come into the world. If the Marine Corps says, Jump, you’d better have springs in your shoes.
I’m Team Leader for Scout Snipers, which is a polite way of describing what I do. Yeah, we collect a lot of intel on missions, but our real purpose? We’re long-range assassins.
Do I think Maggie would ditch me if she knew that? Maybe, at first. I think, like me, she’s in too deep now to do that, although I don’t want to test that theory just yet. Especially given her bombshell news.
My specialty is over-the-horizon warfare, which seems pretty ironic given that Maggie will be far, far out of sight.
But here’s the thing: I reckon I’m due a promotion any day now. At 30, I’d be pretty young for a Gunny, which is the next rank up, but I think it’s coming. And my CO has suggested that I step back from operations and take up more of a training role. I’ve got eight years left to go in the Marines, then I’ll have done my twenty. I could stay longer, but there are other things I want to do with my life, too.
I’ve had twelve years of being on live ops, but I’m not greedy. I’d be okay . . . mostly . . . with handing that over to younger guys coming up behind me. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I’ve been having these thoughts since I met Maggie. A year ago, I re-upped. I applied for three duty stations, and then there are four places that good ole Uncle Sam sees fit to train snipers: right here at Camp Pendleton in sunny Southern California; Marine Corps Base Hawaii, which every motherfucker wants; and back down in North Carolina at Camp Lejune, which is where I started this journey.
Just before I met Maggie, I learned that I’d be at Pendleton as we usually stay with our units, but since I met Maggie, the pull eastward has been stronger.
Yeah, I said four places, I know. They also train snipers at Marine Corps Base Quantico in Virginia. Yep, Virginia. Just four hours from New York City. Just four hours from Maggie.
Life is just one fucking joke after another. I could have been moving three-thousand miles nearer to her, but she’s just told me that she’s moving five-and-a-half-thousand miles in the other direction.
I want to tell her no fucking way. I want to tell her that I’m thirty years old and finally ready to make a commitment to one woman for the rest of my life. I want to tell her all of that.
But I can’t.
She’s been offered her dream job in Egypt. And what kind of bastard would I be if I tried to stop her? I’m not even sure I could, which makes me feel like shit. But even if I could stop her, I know it would be the wrong thing to do. She’d resent me, and resentment would turn to hatred, then disappointment and indifference.
I’ve seen it happen.
Life in the military isn’t for everyone, and it’s particularly tough on families. It’s not a coincidence that with units who get deployed regularly at short notice like SEALs, they’re made up of a higher than usual number of orphans and foster kids. True story. And if I wanted to be real cynical about it, I’d say the military likes it that way. They want the baddest motherfuckers on the earth running toward the enemy because they’ve got nothing to lose, not running away because they’ve got a family to get back to.
So now I don’t know what to do.
With Maggie being in the field in the Middle East, I don’t want to go into a training role. I want to be out there, with her, which I know is dumb because I’m not going to get deployed to Egypt. Well, probably not. Although I did have some EOD friends who were out in Libya helping get rid of landmines.
My CO is a good guy, but if I went to him and asked to be transferred to Quantico because of Maggie, he’d laugh at me. We get our orders and we stay for three years, no matter what. So I go where they send me—and hope that Maggie will come back to me one day.
The motto is: Home is where the Marine Corps sends you. But I can’t help thinking that home is where Maggie is. Either way, I’ve got at least three more years on the west coast.
All these thoughts have been buzzing around in my brain since she told me her news.
I kind of want to be mad at her, but when I look into her beautiful eyes, I can’t do it. I’m not going to spend this weekend being a dick. I don’t know when I’ll see her again, and I’m going to make every second count.
“How you doing over there, Jackson Connor?” she says, all soft and sexy. “I can practically see the thoughts churning around in that busy brain of yours.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, but I have a tried and tested method of distraction that I think could help.”
She stretches out on the white sheets of the king-size bed and smiles up at me.
“I don’t know, I’m trained not to get distracted but to complete the mission. You sure you can help?”
“Hmm, let me see . . .”
All it takes is one light touch of her fingernail running down the bare skin of my forearm and I’m so turned on, there’s fucking stars bursting behind my eyes.
“Is it starting to work?” she laughs gently.
“Yep, definitely taking effect,” I agree, laying down on the bed next to her, and covering her slender body with mine.
But even as her tongue presses into my mouth, starting a wicked conversation that burns right through every molecule of my body, part of me is thinking, God, I love you, Maggie. So much.
But I don’t say the words out loud.