Chapter Four

Smith

“YOU’RE FUCKING STRONG, DUDE,” Moose says. Weights clank. The heavy metal music blasting through the speakers fades into another softer song. Sweat is pouring off my body as I bench the weight. It’s a new PR for me. Moose is spotting me from behind as I lie on the bench and put the weight up on the rack. Done.

I’m out of breath and my arms feel like Jell-O when I sit up. Bending over, I put my forearms on my knees and attempt to catch my breath. “I’ve been trying to get that bitch up for a week now. Thanks, man,” I reply through jagged breaths. “Fuck, it feels good to be back.” Moving out of his way, I grab my water bottle and let him adjust the weight for his turn.

“It’s good to have you back, man. I’m sure Miss America doesn’t feel the same,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

I merely shake my head. Megan’s pageant days are behind her. She teaches fourth grade now. I’d guess she’s probably the hottest teacher that ever entered an elementary school. I cringed when she mentioned going back to school to teach high school students. Teenage boys. The guys at work will always only see her as a pageant queen and that’s bad enough.

I pull my arms over my head to stretch them out. “She’s upset I’m joining in this work-up. We’ve been fighting about it. We’ve been fighting a lot actually.” A work-up is all of the training trips and the readying for a deployment. In other words, months and months of ignoring home life.

Moose throws some plates around and gets his weight on the bar. “Everything okay?”

“You know women, man. You never really know until it’s too late.” I laugh. He chuckles as he lies down and adjusts his lifting gloves. “I forgot you wear your little lady gloves. Have to keep your hands soft. Jacking off isn’t the same with calluses. Right?” I grin down at him.

He smirks. “Keep your eyes on my lady gloves. Watch them beat your PR. Spot me,” Moose says. One of these days I’ll beat him. Today won’t be that day.

Typically I avoid looking at the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that cage us into the gym on our base, but today, I’m feeling okay—excited actually. I give myself silent praise as I let my gaze flick over the muscles that I built from nothing. Again. I keep Moose in my peripheral vision as he grunts and groans. “You got this. You’re looking stronger than last week,” I say. He is. He loads the bars with more weight and gets the massive amount up and down with little struggle.

Moose Perry is an all-around good guy. The size of his muscles is comparable to the size of his brain. He’s handsome, like I used to be, and cocky, because he is one of America’s Elite, but he’s also funny and old-fashioned. He doesn’t sleep around. Moose is on the proverbial hunt for Mrs. Right. Dating in this century caused him to lose faith in humanity, or so he tells me any chance he gets. I’m pretty sure the only person he lets set him up is his mother or his aunt Ethel. Which should be illegal. I’m told on a semi-regular basis how lucky I am to have a woman like Megan. I guess if you hear it enough you start to believe it.

I high five his lady glove after he finishes, and we make our way to our cages. The cages are in a huge, dark, warehouse-like room. Each SEAL has his own cage with a lock to store our gear in. It doesn’t house a quarter of our shit, though. Most of mine is stacked in bins piled in my garage and in every spare closet in our house. Megan doesn’t complain, but I know most wives and girlfriends do. One even requested a house with an additional bedroom so boxes of survival gear and cold weather clothing wouldn’t litter the rest of her house.

Moose is in his cage right next to mine. We share a wall. “I have to tell you something. You can’t repeat it,” I say, peeking behind a jacket hanging in front of my face. Moose moves his head so he can see me through the bars that separate us.

His eyes widen. “Oh shit. What?”

My mouth curves upward. “It’s not always something awful when I want to talk.”

“It’s not usually good, bro. The suspense is killing me. Out with it.”

“I met this woman,” I say.

He plugs his ears. “Do not tell me anything else, Smith. Don’t breathe another fucking word.”

“Oh, come on. She’s a writer and she wants to interview me. Anonymously,” I explain. I leave out that she’s beautiful and intriguing and sad. How my curiosity about her piqued the moment our gazes locked.

He sighs. “Why didn’t you start with that? Don’t you even think about screwing up what you have with Megan. You don’t realize how lucky you have it, man. She’s stuck by you through everything.” He shakes his head, eyes closed. “Megan is the needle in the haystack.”

I feel sorry for him that he’s still wading in the haystack, because no one deserves a great woman more than he does. If I didn’t remember my friendship with Moose I’d think he carries a flaming torch for Megan.

“It’s truly just an interview?” he asks. Moose draws his eyebrows in as he surveys me, trying to peg a lie.

“Yes. I’m not lying. You don’t have to watch me like that. Remember I took that course too. I’m reading you reading me. What do you think? It’s a good idea to talk about it, right? She is writing a book or an article or something.” I feel guilty because I don’t have more information. I didn’t ask.

Moose stares at me, his blue eyes unblinking for several odd seconds. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? Who are you? Confucius? A lot has happened since the accident. Sure, I’ve talked to the Navy psychologists, but this is different. I’ll be able to talk about the details. Stuff I haven’t wanted to share before now. I’m healed. I’m on the other side now. Not that I look back with fond memories to the day that turned me into a gargoyle, but I still can’t remember anything, Moose. Not anything outside of my military career and my parents. And you. You motherfucker.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Still? The docs made it sound like you were making improvements. You still don’t remember Megan?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. I need to talk about this. It’s obvious. “Made improvements in pretending to be the man I was before, yes. If that’s what you mean. No. I still don’t remember her. I probably won’t at this point. The doctors aren’t sure because selective amnesia is such a rarity. I don’t want to do psychotherapy. Megan respects that. She makes it a point to remind me of everything to do with our former relationship. Whether I ask her to or not.” I pause to take a deep breath. Hearing the words spoken out loud makes my palms sweaty.

Moose looks at the floor. “Go talk to her then. The author, that is. It could help you remember. I’m sorry. I had no idea.” Because I haven’t told anyone. Why would I? I don’t want pity. Especially from my friends. It’s hard enough to believe I’m their equal looking the way I do. My selective amnesia is something I need to distance myself from.

We say our goodbyes, and I head for the showers alone with my muddled thoughts.

I knew right away something was off when I woke from the coma. There’s a certain face people use. It’s an expectant face. You know immediately they expect something from you. It’s a subtle human cue that most take for granted. Megan had that face about her when I woke and gazed into her unfamiliar eyes. Of course, now I know why the expectant look was tangling her features. I had no clue who she was, of course, and she assumed I would. Megan expected me to wake up and cry with happiness upon seeing her. She expected Smith. She expected love.

Selective amnesia is bitter that way. You tend to forget hobbies and relationships. I was happy to realize I knew my parents and all the memories that went along with them. I was even happier when my skills as a SEAL were deemed fully intact and functioning. Out of all the things I could have lost Megan came with the least casualty. Is that because I don’t remember our relationship, though? I’ll probably never know.

I think about these things frequently. More than I let on to anyone. It’s my cross to bear. I think of Megan with her boxes of photographs and photo albums she’s put together in chronological order, all the hours she spends focusing on the life we used to have together. The guilt is enough to crush even the strongest man. So I pretend to remember. I laugh at the memories with her. I get wistful when I read that sentiment on her face. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I go gooey-eyed when it’s prudent, because it’s not her fault. Not at all. She doesn’t deserve this any more than I did.

The lump in my throat is the size of Texas by the time I park in the café parking lot and fist my car keys in my palm. My house key pokes the sensitive skin that will never be the same on my hands. I’d compare it to a baby’s ass. It’s red and always raw. The skin grafts to get me to this point were painful. Everything about this experience is painful. That brings me to the present. Walking through the door to meet a woman I’m merely curious about. Guiltily so. I should be curious about the seventy-five photo albums that hold photos from my past with Megan.

I’m not.

I look both left and right when I enter. I’m able to pick out Carina immediately. She’s sitting in a corner booth, her laptop open, a pair of thick black glasses perched on her face typing away. Pausing, she brushes her bangs out of her face and then continues the tirade on her keyboard. I make my way to her slowly. She looks up the second I get in her line of sight and startles.

A funny thing happens. I swallow down the state of Texas and an unfamiliar calm overtakes my body. I smile. “You must be the famous author I’m supposed to meet?” Taking a few more steps in her direction, I extend my hand.

Removing her glasses, she stands, takes my hand lightly, and shakes it. “Carina Painter. I’m trying to figure out how it’s you, but then I remember I gave you my card. Smith, right?”

I nod and make a joke about giving information to strangers. She doesn’t laugh. I slide into the booth opposite her. Gently she closes her laptop and folds her arms on top of it.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I appreciate it.”

I eye her closely. She’s hiding a shiner with several layers of makeup. Most probably wouldn’t notice, but she knows the second I do. She slides the thick-rimmed glasses back onto her face to help cover it. Goosebumps prickle my skin, even though it’s warm in here. It would be rude to bring it up. She clears her throat. The tan skin on her neck draws my gaze.

“I have so many questions. I’m not sure how long it would take to interview you in person, so I thought maybe if you’re comfortable answering some through email correspondence it may go quicker?”

I tell her I’m not in any rush. That I want to stay here with her and answer every single question that crosses her mind. No one will give her black eyes if she’s sitting in front of me, in my proximity. I order a large coffee and a sandwich when the waitress comes by and asks if we want anything.

Carina declines. “I’ll have dinner with my…I’ll have to eat at home tonight after we finish here.”

I sigh. Her explanation is brimming with unease. “Fair enough. Where should we begin?”

Carina’s eyes light up. “I’ll start at the beginning. I want to write a piece, an article, maybe even a novel depending on how inspired I get.”

I hold my hand up. “What if I’m not inspiring at all?” I laugh.

She grins, a half smile pulling one cheek. “Then I’ll have to cast my net again. It took months to get you here, so I’m really hoping you can be as inspiring as possible.” Her gaze, for the first time, dips to my hands. I fold them in front of me. “Tell me about your military career. Just a brief overview to start. I’ll fine-tune the questions after that. If you don’t mind, that is. Everything will be confidential. Your name won’t be associated with anything, and if this turns into novel inspiring it will even be deemed fiction. Fiction that may help someone, though.” Carina glows when she speaks of her writing.

“As I am still active duty I’d appreciate the fictionalized version. Anonymity will work out well for a non-fiction piece as well. Well, as I’m not in a habit of talking about myself or my military career, I’m afraid you’re going to have to try a little harder than that,” I joke.

Her small mouth pops open. “Oh. Of course. What branch of military?”

“Navy. I enlisted straight out of high school.” My coffee arrives. Wincing when I grab the hot mug, I set it back down again. Something merely warm feels like scalding water to me. I blow on the black liquid instead. Carina scribbles down notes in a black and white spiraled notebook. Like the kind you’d carry in high school. The white paper tabs get everywhere when you have to tear a sheet from it.

“I have a question for you,” I say. “It comes off a little personal. If I’m telling you personal things perhaps we can trade one for one?” It’s a bold move. One I’m sure she’ll shy away from.

With her head still down, she lets just her gaze flick up to meet mine. “Okay. What is your question?”

“Who gave you the black eye?” I ask, wrapping my hand back around the mug owning the burn.

She raises her eyebrows. “The dresser. I tripped. I believe we met because my own feet got in my way. Remember?” Her smile is weak. She lies about this a lot. It makes me sick. I swallow a sip of coffee, my throat matching the temperature of my stinging hand. Carina doesn’t look at my hand, though. Her gaze is locked on my eyes. She’s sizing me up, figuring out what I really want. I see a shrewd knowledge about her. “My turn to ask a question now?”

I nod. She knows damn well I didn’t take her answer for face value. “What do you do in the Navy and how long have you been in?” In essence she wants to know my age. I’ve already told her since high school. She has no way of knowing that I read people better than most in the world.

A quick glance around assures me we’re out of earshot of café patrons. “I’m twenty-eight, and I’m a SEAL, Carina.”

“Wow. I’ve read about your kind before. This is going to be awesome,” she says, her eyes wide. Scribbling more notes, I watch her long fingers and unpainted nails as they move. “I know you don’t want vague questions, but some are going to be open as it’s the best way to get information. Can you tell me a little about your experience in that position?” She lets her gaze dart around the room. She’ll be just as cautious and subtle as I will. Amazing.

“It’s my turn to ask a question.”

She sighs. “This is going to take a long time if this is how you want to play it.” Carina tilts her head to the side and looks down at my coffee.

“What’s the dresser’s name?” I ask, my tone just as quiet.

She swallows, fidgets with the collar of her shirt, and avoids my gaze completely. “I’m really not comfortable talking about this with a stranger,” Carina replies.

I nod, a smirk stretching across my face. Perhaps she’ll understand. “Let me tell you the personal details about my life now,” I deadpan. “One for one, I thought?”

She blows out a breath, and I can’t help but focus on her lips and then the rest of her face. She doesn’t wear a lot of makeup. In fact, I don’t think she has much on. Maybe a little mascara, but her skin looks flawless but for her black eye and where she tried in vain to cover it up. “If I tell you my fiancé hit me, it doesn’t just speak about him, it also says a lot about me. Sometimes you want to hide from facts, Smith. Is that the case with you and your military career? If so we can cut the meeting off right now and pretend this never happened.” She makes a grab for her bag sitting next to her in the booth.

I don’t grab her. Leaning over, I gently touch her arm still on the table. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, no one said anything about hiding from facts. You shouldn’t hide from anything. I’m here. I want to do this interview. I want to know who did that to you so I can do it to them. Marring perfection is a felony in all fifty states, Carina.” I smile lightly, although every muscle in my body is coiled and ready to strike out. A man, a man who is supposed to love her for the rest of her life, beats her. She stays with him. The dynamics are confounding and infuriating, yet I don’t know her. Now, it’s almost mandatory I do.

“I’ll answer anything else. Just please don’t go there.” She adjusts her glasses. I grit my teeth when I see the bluish bruise under her eye appear and disappear under the black frames. “Okay?” Finally she looks up. Her long lashes almost brush against the lenses of her glasses. They’re dark and thick, and her brown eyes have swirls of green and gray in this lighting.

I pull my arm back to my side slowly. “What’s your favorite TV show?” I ask.

She smirks. “Sort of an inconsequential question for a writer, don’t you think?” Her face transforms with a tiny grin.

I swallow. “Sorry. I didn’t bring my A game today. What’s your favorite book?”

The smile widens into something more stunning, something I’m not sure is ever shared with anyone else. Perhaps this smile is just for me. It’s the first time since the accident that I’ve had to remind myself I’m taken—that I have no right to own any of her smiles.

Tilting her head to the side, she says, “I don’t have one favorite. At the moment I have one hundred and thirty. Wait, no, one hundred and thirty-one favorites.” She taps one finger on the table to punctuate her sentence. It’s cute. “Crazy Good. I finished that one last night. It’s officially on the favorite list.”

“Quite the list. I’d like to see it sometime.”

She shrugs. “Sure. Your turn.”

My answer is interrupted by the shrill sound of her phone ringing in her bag. Her sweet smile transforms into a terrified grimace.

“I have to take this,” she says, avoiding my gaze.

I nod, take a bite of my food, and pull out my own cell phone. I open my email and start scrolling aimlessly. That’s what you do when you’re playing at ambivalence.

Carina answers with a clipped ‘hello’ and wanders a few feet from our table, turning her back toward me. “We’re just finishing up. Yes. Jasmine says hello,” she says, her voice hushed. My hearing is still top-notch. “Sales are great. I’m pitching her my newest novel.”

I clear my throat and delete a junk email with a left swipe. Megan tells me I should just unsubscribe, but that seems like too much effort. I left swipe another and another one.

“Uh, no, she’s in the restroom right now. I’m making some notes. I’ll be home soon.”

I wish I couldn’t hear this. As if sensing my wayward thoughts, Megan sends me a text asking when I’ll be home. I hear Carina tell him she’s at a diner several blocks from where we are. Another lie that doesn’t come easily for her—a fact that makes my stomach pang with helplessness. She’s a stranger, a complete and utter foreign body in my world, and I find myself caring about her well-being.

Honestly, I’m not sure, but it sounds as if my interview today will be cut short, so I text back ‘soon’ and a smiley face. Megan sends back a weird emoji, and I’m not sure what it means.

Carina sits back down in front of me. With shaking hands she places her cell phone face down on the table. “I’ll have to get going shortly.”

“Of course. Me too. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“That’s very kind of you. You’re a stranger, Mr. Eppington. I can walk myself out to my car.” She switches her reading glasses for her oversized sunglasses.

I hold back the urge to point out to her what the man she loves and knows well does to her. “I was going to tell you a little bit about the day everything changed for me. In my career, that is.” I hold my hands up. “It’s not a conversation I’d have in here.” Glancing around, I realize we’re mostly alone in here anyways. “Let me give you something to work with until the next time we meet.”

She smiles. “You’re right. I didn’t get anything yet. I’d appreciate that. Walk me out, please.”

I pay the check against her wishes and hold the door for her. Her posture is nervous as she glances left and right when we exit into the parking lot.

I follow close to her side as she makes her way to her large, dark SUV. She unlocks the door with a fob, puts her bag and laptop case on her seat, then turns to me with a tape recorder in hand.

She looks me up and down unabashedly. Carina isn’t judging. She’s appraising. “Tell me, Mr. Eppington. Tell me about the day everything changed.”

My skin prickles. My chest aches. I begin.