When I See You (2 page)

I reach the top of the stairs, turn, and look down at both of them. His words reach for me. This profound sadness assails me. My eyes sting. I stare down at the two of them. There they are, two courageous men, who consider themselves bigger than life, standing in the fading twilight looking up at me. The eerie half moon bathes the beach and the two of them in trick white light. They seem insignificant and small in comparison to the behemoth almost-black ocean churning behind them. The hundred feet marked off between the three of us seems suddenly ominous.

"Love you, for always," I say to Ethan, blowing him a kiss.

He pretends to catch it with one hand and then smiles up at me in the moonlight. There's something in the way he looks at me then that makes me want to run back down the stairs and straight into his arms, but, I don't.

No.

I turn back towards our beach house as Ashleigh calls my name. I shiver at the eerie feeling that has surfaced inside of me. I shake my head side-to-side to undo this sense of foreboding.

Within minutes, I'm pulled back into the role of hostess. I'm caught up in refilling wine glasses, replenishing the ice bucket, and finding more food for the late night guests that still grace our back patio. They are all here to say good-bye to Ethan before he heads back to Afghanistan with his sniper partner, Lieutenant Brock Wainwright.

Good-bye. He and I have to say good-bye.

Again.

I wipe away a stray tear, put on a fake smile, and rejoin our party guests.

≈ ≈

"I'm heading out," Ashleigh says.

She runs her fingers through her long blond mane of hair. It's not quite as long as mine. I've always envied her golden color, while she's always admired mine, dark mahogany, like my famous mother's. A shade or two darker though. And, I'm not famous. But, I'm not dead either.

I watch as Ashleigh's hands move down to smooth the pleats of her black mini skirt which barely covers her endless long legs. I grin at this subtle flirtatious maneuver. Her red tank top is low-cut and reveals the tops of her breasts. I know she knows this. I feel this pang of envy at her perfection. The girl leads a charmed life. She gives me her I've-got-this-handled smile. And, I roll my eyes at her and jerk my head over in Brock's direction where he is talking animatedly to my husband.

"With him? Are you sure that's a good idea?" I ask.

I don't normally get involved in her liaisons. I've witnessed too many to count. Ashleigh always seems prepared and carries an endless supply of condoms and can recite the I'm-smart-and-I'm-careful speech by heart. Her moral code is ruled by Venus and she certainly doesn't require my guidance.

"Jealous much?" Ashleigh looks at me in surprise.

"No," I say, uncertain. I grimace and hold up my hands as if to ward her off and turn away. Even I think I sound defensive and I can't really comprehend it myself. Brock Wainwright has been an unexplainable irritation, since he arrived at our beach house four days ago, after spending three weeks of his leave with his own family in Austin. I guess the basic premise is: I don't like sharing Ethan with anybody. Our time together is so limited. Ethan's sniper partner is another person taking my husband's attention away from me.

I busy myself at the counter and measure out a shot of tequila. I haven't really drunk anything tonight, but now I'm in the mood.

Ashleigh comes over and stands next to me.

"Hey." She touches my arm. "What's wrong? Spill it; you've been on edge all night."

"Nothing."

I try to swig the tequila like a pro, but cough a little as I drain the shot glass. Ashleigh hands me the lime wedge and I suck the juice from it.

"He's leaving.
Again
," Ashleigh says.

"Right."

The misery of Ethan's leaving has already begun to seep back in. The heartache creeps into my voice with the use of the word
leaving
.

"But, this is it, right? The last tour? Then, he'll be home for good."

She puts her arm around my shoulders. I lean against her and sigh.

"True."

I pull away from her and try to smile while I pour myself another shot.

"You've forgotten the part where he is gone for the next year—the four hundred and thirty-three days in between now and then."

My best friend looks sympathetic. "I don't know how you do it.

She joins me for the third one and sets out another shot glass. We are busy getting ready for this one, when Brock and Ethan make their way over to us.

Feeling the rush of the alcohol, I openly stare at Brock Wainwright. He is different from Ethan in every way, except height. They are both tall. But Brock is more Calvin Klein underwear model with his chiseled features and dark crew-cut hair; he's got a Henry Cavill look going on. Ethan constantly teases me about my undeniable obsession with The Tudors actor, and now, his look-alike is across the room from me in the real-life persona of one Second Lieutenant Brock Wainwright. Even the man's crooked smile, though incongruent with the flawlessness of his good looks, mirrors the actor's from the photographs I've seen. It's unnerving.
Who is that good-looking in real life?

Ethan is slighter in build, reminiscent of his wide receiver football days at Yale, tall and lanky. His blond hair is straight like golden flax. He keeps it short, for the service, in this bristle-like crew cut. I've always wanted him to wear it longer, but I enjoy sweeping my hand over the top of his head and feeling the boar brush softness of his hair beneath my fingers. I do this now and pull him to me as the tequila courses through me and softens the sharp edges of all of me.

"Kiss me." I reach inside his shirt and feel for his heartbeat.

"Jordan, my tequila girl, you know how that stuff makes you do crazy things." Ethan laughs, then lowers his head and brushes his lips across mine.

"Let me show you how crazy I am."

I grin at Ethan and pull him even closer. The taste of his cologne and hint of his sweat arouse me in an instant. I close my eyes and breathe him in and lose myself in his kiss. For now, all is right with my world.

Moments later, I open my eyes, look past Ethan's shoulder, and meet the unexpected gaze of Brock Wainwright. He looks disconcerted, then surprised, as if he's just figured something out.

In my tequila-induced haze, I stare back and attempt to discern what he's thinking. It's confusing. There's just something in the way he looks at me. It's as if he understands the secret depths of my terror—my fear of losing the one I love the most. It is as if he, somehow, knows my secret—the burdensome inner fear I constantly battle. I shiver and glance away from the man and center my full attention back on Ethan.

My husband's seductive claim on me leaves no doubt as to what we're going to be doing in the next couple of hours, even as I remind him we have guests. I push away the image of Brock's troubled face and cling tighter to Ethan and attempt to halt the proverbial march of fear of losing him that is already attempting to take hold of me.

≈ ≈

A few hours later, the four of us are the only ones left. Everyone else has made their way home. We have an eclectic group of friends these days. Most of them are our neighbors around Malibu—friends with distant ties to my famous parents or some of our college friends that stayed around the area after graduation—affluent, but likable, people. I lost my parents when I was seventeen, so my only sense of family is Ethan, his parents who reside in Austin like Brock's family, and Ashleigh, of course. Ashleigh has been there for me for more than ten years, when we were still sophomores in high school.

Right now, my best friend is draped all over Brock in a suggestive way. She sits in his lap with her arm possessively curved around his neck. Brock doesn't seem to mind. Ashleigh's sexual conquests don't normally bother me, but even with tequila coursing through me, I am strangely annoyed by her demonstrative intentions with Ethan's best friend. We have imbibed in almost the entire bottle of tequila. Ethan grins over at the amorous cozy couple across from us.

"You should stay the night," Ethan says to Ashleigh, winking at her.

I give my husband a pleading look, but it's too late. Brock is already agreeing that Ashleigh should spend the night, and Ashleigh is already out of the man's lap and pulling him to his feet.

With obvious intent, she pulls him along the hallway, to our guest room, where Brock's been staying. She's stayed in that room, herself, on numerous weekends with me, when Ethan is gone. She winks back at us.

"It's our second to the last night. I want to be alone. Alone, alone."

"We'll be alone," Ethan says, coming to his feet.

He towers over me with a beguiling look. "Now, let me show you what we're going to do, Mrs. Holloway."

In one swift motion, he picks me up and starts carrying me down toward our master bedroom at the opposite end of the hallway. I laugh up at Ethan. He brushes my neck with his lips.

"Night, Wainwright." Ethan turns and calls out to Brock.

That's when I catch another curious look from Brock at the other end of the hallway. An undeniable look of sadness crosses his features. My first instinct is to call out good night, but, before I can, Brock turns away and shuts the door to the guest room with such finality that I'm taken aback.

Contrition travels through me. I don't know why.

"I love you," Ethan whispers.

His lips travel down the side of my neck and then he sets me down and closes our bedroom door with his left foot. I laugh, shaking my head side-to-side as he moves toward me. His intense loving gaze effectively chases away the strange emotions that Brock Wainwright evokes. I center my focus back on the man standing in front of me.

My world. Ethan.

He's all I see.

*≈*≈*

Chapter 2. Show me what I'm looking for

Jordan

Three-year-olds always get up on time, and with Max, it's always been early. I feel the soft tap on my shoulder and self-consciously pull the sheets up over my naked body. Keeping my eyes closed, I smile.

"Momma. Pancakes."

I open one eye and ascertain the time of 6:05 a.m. Shit. Four hours of sleep and the overindulgence in tequila is a combination that wreaks havoc on all of me now. Max's cherub face comes into view. Ethan stirs beside me. I glance over at him and see him smile even though his eyes remain closed.

"Maximilian, is that you?" Ethan asks.

This is all the invitation our three-year-old needs; he clamors into our bed, jumping onto Ethan, who is unprepared for the onslaught of Max. Ethan groans as Max lands directly on top of him. I start to laugh, but take advantage of the commotion, covertly slide out of bed, and grab my black robe that I unceremoniously cast aside late last night. I tie it around my waist as I go.

"Breakfast," I mutter. My enthusiasm for cooking wavers a little as I say this. My head begins to pound from the tequila as soon as I come to a full stand.

"French toast!" they both say together.

I glance back at Max, the perfect little replica of Ethan, and then the man, himself, and smile. "Fine. Come help me?"

Ethan winks at me and promises to come and help me out in a few minutes. He easily swings Max high above his head. Our son squeals with laughter. Ethan gives me this knowing look over Max's head as he lowers him to his chest. I think Ethan's just beginning to realize just what all he misses when he's away from us. I blow them both a kiss as I leave.

The intoxicating smell of rich coffee reaches me. When I reach the kitchen doorway, I discover Brock is already up. He's made the coffee. Like the perfect house guest, he pours me a cup, and adds a little cream just the way I like it. I'm too surprised to respond.
How does he know how I take my coffee
?

"I saw Ethan fix your coffee yesterday," he says.

"Oh." I blow on the steaming cup and take a cautious sip. "Thank you. Isn't it a little early to be up?"

"I'm an early riser. Always have been. I sleep light. I heard the birds around 4:30 a.m. this morning. I grew up on a ranch, sleeping in was never an option with my father." He winces and then flashes me one of his white smiles.

I shake my head as if to clear it from these wayward thoughts, that begin with the notable silent admission that the man is extremely good-looking and end with, I shouldn't even be noticing. Yet, in the four days he's been here, this is something I've been undeniably aware of, since we first shook hands, when Ethan introduced us. "Jordan, this is Brock. I can't believe you two are finally getting to meet each other. What's it been almost four years since we've been able to make this happen?" Ethan had asked.

It's been almost four years, since we said, "I do," in Vegas, just after I'd found out I was pregnant, exactly eight weeks after we met, just before Ethan shipped out to Germany and on to Afghanistan with his best friend from Austin and sniper partner, Lieutenant Brock Wainwright.

With an unquenchable obsession for bizarre facts, I added it up, once, and still keep track. We've been married for one thousand, four hundred and twenty-eight days, and I've spent a total of two hundred and ninety-seven of them with Ethan, counting today.