The Crossover (10 page)

“Monet, the reason I’m wearing boxers to bed is because tonight it’s a no-sex zone. And that’s official. Would you like to dance with me?”

“Yes, but you are overdressed,” she said as she kneeled down and removed them.

She stood and placed her hand in mine. I lead and she followed. We danced well into the early hours of the morning cherishing the precious moments we had left.

Checking out of the
Hilton
was difficult. Room 132 was our little home and it was sad to close the door behind us for the very last time. Monet kept finding reasons to go back to the room to ensure we didn’t leave anything behind, but we did... special memories of a renewed love. Monet and I kept our room keys as mementos.

Monet rebooked her ticket so she flew out of Dulles Airport one hour after my redeye flight to Heathrow. She was returning to Evansville on
Delta Airlines.

The drive to the airport elevated our imminent separation anxiety and we were quiet for about the first fifteen minutes or so before Monet broke our silence.

“I read your book
The Mogadishu Diaries.”

“I know you did, darling.”

Monet turned down the radio and faced me.

“How did you know I read it? Oh, I forgot, you’re psychic.”

“No, I’m not psychic. I read your review on
Amazon.
You gave it a five-star review. I knew it was you. It was like you were speaking to me.”

“I was,” she replied.

“I want to be your beta reader for your next novel,” Monet volunteered.

With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on her thigh, I replied, “So what makes you so sure there will be another book?”

“Because I know my man. And I say there is another book in you.”

“Babe, I dunno. I lost two close friendships over that book. After I wrote the book I reached out to two Marines that served with me in Mogadishu. Marines that in my opinion defined the Somali experience with valor and courage. Both parlayed their experiences into successful careers. But once they found out that I wrote a book about
Operation Restore Hope
things changed. I never intended on treading on their domain, I only wanted to stake my own. After the book was published I never heard from them again and I don’t know why. It was disappointing and hurtful if I’m honest.”

“Clay, then they were never really your friends. Real friends support you. And that’s what I’m gonna do for your next book every step of the way.”

“Writing a book is so consuming. Anyway, what would I write about?”

Monet paused in deep thought.

“Hmm, write about something you’re passionate about, excited about. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

“You just gave me an idea. Something that I’m passionate and excited about? That’s you and me.”

“Anything but that. No way, Jose,” Monet replied defensively.

“Why not? I think it would be a good read,” I commented.

“Clay, women would judge me for having an affair on my husband. Not to mention Marc would go on a warpath if he found out. End of conversation.”

Monet thought she talked me out of the idea of writing our story, but she was far from it.

Together we spotted the exit sign to Dulles Airport and the reality of separation was like a kick in the stomach. I started to feel depressed because of uncertainty and the thought of losing her again.

“Clay, I promise not to cry. We’re gonna be okay, right?”

The uncertainty in her voice started to set me off. But I managed to hold it in. I couldn’t look into her brown eyes without losing it, so I avoided direct eye contact.

She wouldn’t let go of my hand even while I checked my luggage. Then came the hard part.

As I walked to security control I could feel my legs wanting to buckle. I didn’t want to leave her, and it was just killing me knowing I would have to say goodbye in a few moments.

“May I see your boarding pass, sir?”

“Sure. Are the international flights on time?” I asked.

I was praying for a cancellation or at least a delay so I could spend just a little more time with Monet.

“You can check the monitor after you pass through. Mr. Thompson, you’re good to go. Please proceed to the line on your left.”

I kept wiping single tears from either eye as I turned around to give Monet one last hug. Monet nervously reached into her purse for a tissue but by the time it was in her hand it was too late. She sobbed, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

Seeing her burst into tears just completely overwhelmed me with emotion. The security control officer asked us to move aside to allow other passengers through.

Monet repeated the same words over and over.

“We’re gonna be okay, right?”

I wiped the tears from her face and tried to assure her.

“Look at me, look at me. I’m still here. I will always be here. Don’t ever forget that, okay? I love you, Ms. Dawson.”

“Okay, I’ll hold you to that. You’d better go now.”

We kissed one last time before I reentered the security line. My heart was heavy. I looked back to wave at every opportunity. She remained in place waving back until I passed through the X-ray booth. I couldn’t see her anymore. I felt loneliness setting in. I desperately wanted to hold her in my arms. But in my heart I knew it would be a while before I could make that happen again. She was gone.

W
elcome to England. May I see your passport and landing card,” asked the nice lady at UK Customs and Immigration.

“I have two passports, ma’am. My work visa and componency stamp are in my expired passport,” I explained.

Normally this response results in a five-minute delay and the paging of a supervisor. But this young woman was knowledgeable and expeditious. My passport was stamped and I found myself at the baggage claim in record time.

All the jockeying I had to do to get out of the car park reminded me why Heathrow Airport was one of the busiest airports in the world. Once I was on the M25 motorway it was a smooth 90-minute drive north to Huntingdon where I called home. What a difference a day makes. Just 24 hours ago I was with Monet.

I turned right onto my street and, although I was experiencing a bit of separation anxiety, it was nice to be home. I missed my cat Missy. Missy was abandoned when her owner deployed to Afghanistan. One day after work I came home to a cat carrier with a fat tabby inside, courtesy of a neighbor. She looked like she was about to deliver a litter of kittens so I took her to the vet for a checkup. I spent £25 ($40) just to find out she wasn’t pregnant, she was just fat.

I opened my door and Missy was sitting at the top of the stairs as if she was expecting me. She didn’t act excited but I knew she missed me. I dropped my bags and gave her a hug knowing she would jump out of my arms in seconds. Missy was a dignified cat; any display of affection was on her terms.

I knew she wanted to go out so I let her out the back door. The weather was overcast and gloomy but that was the norm and I was accustomed to it. I saw Gabby, the next door neighbor’s nine-year-old daughter, bouncing on her trampoline singing
We Will Rock You
by Queen. Ever since I did a magic show for her last birthday party she and I were pals.

“Mr. Clay, Mr. Clay, do a magic trick, do a magic trick,” Gabby asked while doing back flips.

“Mr. Clay is tired Gabby, but maybe later. Did you look after Missy while I was gone?” I asked as I peeped over the fence.

“Yes.”

“So, how’s Carl and Louise?”

“Daddy is working long hours now. He’s not very happy at the moment. Mummy’s at
Tesco.
I told her I needed some rubbers and a pad for school.”

“Well, if she forgets, I have a spare note pad and a few erasers in my study.”

“Mr. Clay, I think my bouncy ball is in your yard. Can you throw it back?”

If I ever had a daughter, Gabby would be her. Her dad was Irish and her mom was from the Seychelles. The result was a beautiful little girl with long locks of sandy colored hair and a perfect smile. Gabby was an angel.

As savvy as I was when it came to beating jet lag, this time it was more of a struggle. For me, the key to beating jet lag was simply staying up and going to bed at your normal time. It was just after 11am but I was tired as hell. Maybe if I could just take a half-hour cat nap I could recharge my batteries and make it through the rest of the day. I’ll just snooze for 30 minutes, that’s all.

Yawn.
I lifted the pillow from my head and looked at the clock. I had overslept by six hours. Missy was sleeping at the end of the bed and it was dark outside.

I was mad at myself. Not so much because I overslept but I hadn’t called Monet to tell her I made it home. I checked my cell and I had 11 missed calls from her. I looked at my watch and knew she was still at work. I sent Monet an email to explain what happened.

Missy jumped off the bed and I could hear her scratching on the back door so I let her out.

As I opened the backdoor the smell of cigarettes wafted past me like a stink cloud.

“Hey, Carl is that you?” I asked, looking through a slot between the fence.

Carl was a Cambridge police detective who worked in Britain’s Serious Organized Crime Agency, also known as SOCA. SOCA was an elite agency that existed to protect Britain from the greatest threats to society, to include terrorism and organized crime. Only the best of the best were recruited to work in SOCA. Carl never talked about his job but you could always tell when he was working on something big. He would start smoking again.

Carl had a shaved head and wore studded earrings in both ears. He was a proud Brit and proudly displayed the Union Jack flag on his front porch. He wasn’t a big guy but he was gruff and probably had a mean streak. We got along because we both had a law enforcement background and he knew some of the coppers I worked with at INTERPOL.

“Hiya, mate,” Carl said between drags.

“Gabby is growin’ up fast; I hope you have a shotgun for when she gets older.”

Carl popped his head just over the fence.

“The world’s a scary place. I wish hormone-raging, teenaged boys was all I had to worry about,” Carl replied as he took his last drag.

Carl spoke with such intensity it had to be work-related so I didn’t go there.

“Clay, there’s a storm coming. Good night,” he said as he put his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe.

“Good morning, Clay and welcome back. A lot has happened while you were away. At the moment, we have no play in
Operation Searchlight,
so we remain in a holding pattern until we get the word. Any questions?”

I shook my head.

“Dismissed,” said the Branch Chief.

I felt like an idiot for not reading the pass down messages before the briefing, but I overslept and walked in late.

The agents and analysts gathered their notes and whispered amongst themselves. I felt paranoid. I tapped my coworker Ann on the shoulder as we headed to our office spaces down the hall.