Chapter Five

Carina

SMITH’S FACE CHANGES. HIS soulful eyes glaze over, and then he speaks words that will haunt me for the rest of time.

“The day everything changed felt like any other day. I didn’t wake up and have any bad feelings. Some people have those, you know? A friend told me he knew he was going to get shot. A prophet of death appeared in the form of a light breeze and his reality shifted. He told me he was extra cautious that day while on the mission. That caution is what ultimately led him to take a bullet in his left shoulder. He was half a second too slow. Thank the stars it wasn’t a full second, you know?”

I let out the breath I’ve held since he began speaking. “I don’t know, but I know about intuition and sensing things,” I manage to squeak out.

Smith nods, then looks away. “In retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t know that mortar was coming—glad I didn’t sense the impending destruction. Glad I didn’t know my best friend was about to die. I would have treated him differently, behaved in an untrue way. I would have looked at my hands one last time. I would have cried. For a past I would never remember and a future that was unsure. Mostly I would have cried for him. For his wife and newborn baby, for a friendship so solid not even selective amnesia could steal it away.”

My words lodge in my throat. I have to try to speak twice. “Where were you?”

He grimaces. “In my quarters on a base in Iraq. I wasn’t on any important mission, or saving lives that night. I was getting ready to go to bed, bullshitting with my friend Henry.” Smith turns his eyes skyward. What is he searching for? A memory? “I’ve never told anyone this. So you know. It’s hard.”

My hand that holds the recorder visibly shakes. “I appreciate this, your kindness, very much,” I say. I feel like a bully in this moment. I didn’t ask for this specific information, though it will more than likely end up being my main focus. “You lived and your friend died. That’s what happened to your—”

Leaning against the hood of my car, he says, “Yes. That’s what did this to me.” He lifts his free arm up in the air. It’s hardly noticeable unless you’re really looking for it, honestly. His face is still gorgeous in a roguish sort of way, and his smile more than steals all my focus anyways. It’s a genuine smile. I respect it even more now.

“You have amnesia?” I ask.

“Selective,” he says, smiling, finally meeting my gaze. “I forgot how to juggle and who my fiancée was.” He laughs. “I mean, you have to admit it’s kind of funny the extremes of it.”

I don’t laugh. “You’re still with her?” I ask, my voice low. “And you don’t remember her at all?”

Smith nods. “Of course I’m with her. It’s a learning curve, for sure. I owe it to her to start over regardless of whether or not I ever remember our past.”

This has little to do with his military experience, but I want to know more. I want to know everything about this unimaginable tragic story.

I swallow. How can I ask follow-up questions after that? Standing out here in a parking lot while he bares his soul for my tape recorder. “I’m sorry. That’s so sad.”

He stands, straightening his shoulders. “Did you think interviewing a veteran would be happy, Carina? Or should I call you Greenleigh? You are wearing your author hat right now.” He’s not being rude. Not at all. He’s truly curious. It is my pen name.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I guess I wasn’t sure what to expect with the interview. I’m curious, that’s all. I want to make a difference. You could have started with training or why you wanted to join the military. I didn’t expect you to launch into a dreadful love story with death and destruction.” I regret my honest word choice.

He laughs. “You didn’t expect that, did you? I guess I’ve wanted to tell someone that story for a while now. The fact that you’re a stranger makes it a little easier. Hand me your phone,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Come on. You have to get going, right?”

Narrowing my eyes, I turn to rummage my oversized purse for my iPhone and hand it to him. He shakes his head when he realizes it’s not locked. Then he launches into a two-minute lecture about how I need to have an alpha-numeric passcode on my cell phone to protect my personal information. He programs his cell phone number into my phone as he goes, glancing up at me every few seconds to make sure I’m listening.

Crossing my right foot over the left, I tuck a foot behind the other. I’m brutally aware of my self-conscious posture yet can do nothing to remedy it. “Did you ever think there might be a reason why I keep it unlocked?” I ask. Because Roarke demands it. I think. Even though I would never cheat on him. His phone is always locked. If that makes any sense whatsoever.

My cell buzzes in his hand, and he looks down at it. “Roarke says you have fifteen minutes to get home. Or else.” He hands me back the lit phone. I tap a quick message to let him know I’m on my way now. Smith sighs. “Or else what? I can’t, in good conscious, send you back to a man who did that to you. That makes me just as bad as he is.” He lifts my sunglasses and brushes my bruise with the side of his thumb.

Although the gesture has no meaning behind it, I can’t help but blush. I blush out of embarrassment and desire. This man is a stranger, but somehow hearing a tiny snippet of his life’s story brings him closer. What will I feel when I know more? Why am I so anxious for that moment to come to fruition?

I don’t desire any one thing more than another. I desire Roarke to be as dedicated to me as Smith is to a woman he doesn’t even remember. What must a love like that feel like? “Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine. He’s just joking. I promise. I really can’t thank you enough, Mr. Eppington. For your time and for being so…open with me.”

Smith brings his thumb across his lip and shakes his head. “Let me know when you want to meet again. Call me…I mean, call Sansa if you need anything. Okay?”

Clearing my throat, I smile and wave. I hoist myself into the driver’s seat and take in a deep breath when the door closes behind me. I watch his broad back as he makes his way across the parking lot to his truck. I start my own vehicle, but follow that blue pick-up in my rearview until it disappears.

I call Jasmine on my way back to the house, telling her everything that just happened. She’s my best friend first, but she’s also my literary agent. Jasmine sold my first fiction novel for an awesome six-figure deal. She supports me as much as she can in all ways. She also pretends she doesn’t know the extent of my relationship issues with Roarke, but it’s impossible to keep things from friends as close as she is. I wouldn’t say she turns a blind eye, but perhaps she wants to believe my lies.

Jasmine prompts me for more. “He even agreed to meet with me again. The material he gave today. It was amazing, Jaz. I mean, his story is better than fiction and just as sad as a Nicolas Sparks novel. I’m telling you. I think I can make this into something spectacular!”

“I’ve never heard you this excited before, Carina. Like, you’re seriously mad-dog excited about this. Is it the prospect of the story, or is it something more?” Her voice echoes through the Bluetooth speakers in the cab of my car. I’m speeding to get home to Roarke as quickly as possible. Or else. Somehow having Smith privy to his cruel words disenchants me further from Roarke after today’s condom discovery.

I’m not sure how to answer her question. “I think it’s a little of both. He’s so interesting. He has obvious scars from the trauma he’s been through. I’m thinking he’s going to leak his internal scars all over my laptop keyboard. He hasn’t told his story before. Do you realize what I have here?”

She laughs. “You have your next bestseller.”

“Don’t be so money hungry,” I tease. “This guy, this guy, is one in a million. More than that, I think his story is one in a billion.” I’m vibrating with excitement when I think about my tape recorder. I get to listen to it a thousand times if I want.

Jasmine and I bounce several story ideas around and then I pull into my driveway. The dining room light is a beacon, signaling Roarke is home and waiting for me. “Hey, if Roarke calls, which I’m sure he won’t, our meeting tonight was in person. At our usual café.”

She swallows audibly. “Sure, babe. Call me later. Stay safe.” She clicks off the line, and I make my way into the house. Passing my office, I reach in to hang my bag on the coat rack hook and make my way into the kitchen. Seeing Roarke makes me visibly ill. I smooth down my sweater, directly over my stomach.

”How was your meeting? Took long enough,” he spits. A low-ball with ice rattles in his left hand as he hunches over the dining table. “Thank you for lunch.” An insult followed by a courtesy. It’s always his way.

The mention of lunch brings me back to earlier rummaging in his condom filled drawers. I could never bring it up. Not right now, at least. “My meeting went great. We polished some of the finer details for my next project. Did you eat yet?” I spy a bag of potato chips on the granite countertop.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, standing from his chair. Roarke stalks forward. “You look hot right now, Care. Get undressed. I want to fuck you tonight.”

I take in a deep breath. I’m getting off easy. He’ll forget everything about my absence tonight. In between the alcohol and sex, my misdemeanor in his eyes will fade to black. “I love you too,” I say back, teasingly. “I think you look hot always. Shall we mix hotness in the bedroom then?”

He laughs, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes—not like Smith’s does. This is as close to the old Roarke as I’ll get. I savor it. Roarke hasn’t always hit me, although he’s always shown violent tendencies. After we became engaged, his monsters arrived and made their appearance as a broken nose on my face. It’s still a little crooked.

I take him by the hand and lead him to our bedroom. When the door is closed I start my slow assault on his clothing. He loves when I take charge in the bedroom. It’s the only time he accepts a power exchange. I don’t care that he’s using me. I only care about getting him off so he will pass out for the night.

Then I’ll get to spend the rest of the evening in my office with my laptop and the tape recorder. Right now, I’ll do whatever it takes to get back to my happiness more quickly. The cold hard facts are staring me in the face. I connected to a damaged, confused stranger in one hour, more intensely than I’ve ever connected to Roarke—the man I’m engaged to be married to.

As he kisses my neck, I realize this is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. My awakening. The reason I am where I am. Where purpose meets something remarkable. I smile to myself, my thoughts bringing a newfound clarity.