The sun peaks up over a clear blue sky as I navigate the Jacksonville morning traffic. The radio is off but I tap my hand against the side of my leg in anticipation. Three days ago, I met Gigi in Orlando and she gave me Hank’s house key. Today, I put it to use.
My phone rings through the car’s Bluetooth system and I fumble it, my fingers moist with apprehension. Gigi’s smiling face, with Hank’s same dimples, brightens the screen.
“Hey, you’re up early,” I say.
“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep. I’m excited for you.”
“Really? Because I’m scared as hell.” I don’t doubt my feelings, just my powers of persuasion.
“You’ll do great. It’ll work out. Trust me.”
“You can’t be so sure. You didn’t see his face. I bared my soul and he walked out. He didn’t even look back. What if this doesn’t work?” This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. My confidence comes and goes in small bursts. Gigi’s convinced me that he couldn’t have turned off his feelings for me already, and I believe her. But then I experience a tremor of uncertainty. Have I hurt him too much? Is it too late? What if it doesn’t work out like I have planned?
“Yeah, what if it doesn’t? But what if it does? Are you so afraid it might not work out you’re not willing to try? I might have a kid with ADHD. I might have a difficult delivery with this next one. I might—”
“All right, I get it.” I laugh.
“Anyway, I called to tell you nothing has changed. Mom e-mailed Hank yesterday and he’s still scheduled on getting in later this afternoon.”
“I guess it’s all systems go.” I rub my palms across the skirt of my navy-and-white sundress before reaching for a piece of gum in hopes of steading my nerves.
“Yippee,” she says and I picture her clapping in happiness and excitement.
“Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck. If in doubt, get naked.”
“Gigi,” I exclaim.
We laugh, though mine’s more from nervousness. Thinking about getting naked in front of Hank and being rebuffed, well, I’ll take that risk if it comes down to it. But I really hope it doesn’t.
“Did you get his favorite beer? How about the chocolate-covered strawberries?” Gigi asks.
“Yes, to both.”
“You know, I was thinking, you should take off your underwear. Maybe even your bra. Guys can tell right away if a girl doesn’t have on those things and it might work to your benefit.”
“I’m going to hang up on you now,” I say and park my car a few houses down from Hank’s, hoping to hide it among the cars lining the street.
“OK, but you call me if you decide to chicken out or something because that isn’t an option. Remember, you got this.”
“Yeah.” I try to sound convincing but it comes out weak.
“You got this,” she screams in my ear.
We laugh and say a quick good-bye. I put my plan into motion.
Waiting for Hank is less about prepping his house and more about prepping my nerves. I put the beer on ice in a fancy table cooler and set out cheese, crackers, and strawberries, licking the chocolate off my fingers. I move the cooler and food to the living room coffee table, then, move it back to the kitchen. While I wait—Hank’s window of arrival spans four hours—I change the ice out twice.
Gigi made me promise I would practice my speech in every room so I’d be as prepared as possible. I practice in the kitchen and in the living room. When I start it in his room it sounds stupid and I decide to scrap the idea. Maybe I should get naked and wait for him on his bed. I slip off my sandals and reach back to unfasten my dress. Nothing says I love you to a guy like sex, or so I’m told. But the thought of waiting, naked, for who knows how long is creepy, wrong. Only thing missing from this crazy picture is a bunny in a pot, on the stove, straight out of Fatal Attraction.
I decide to wait in the living room and quickly refasten my dress. I forgo the shoes and walk to the kitchen to grab a beer. I’m passing between rooms when a key in the door makes the bolt turn with an audible click. I freeze. He’s early. Do I dash for the couch? Move to stand before the door? Where are my shoes? I turn in circles and freeze again when the door swings open and Hank tosses in his sea bag, shuffling in behind it.
We stare at each other. It’s only a guess as to what he’s thinking but I’m experiencing a rush of thoughts. He looks exhausted. Where are my shoes? This isn’t how I planned on starting this. Man, I love him.
“I guess you found my hide-a-key.” He steps back out the door and kicks over a rock. Damn Gigi. I bet she knew a key was there the entire time.
I shake my head when he looks at me and we say in unison, “Gigi.”
“Hear me out,” I say as I rush to him. I want to grab his hands, cup his face, or wrap my arms around his neck. I want to touch him but the wary look in his eyes and the heavy sigh falling from his lips stops me from going any further.
“I heard you last time.”
“Yes, but you didn’t listen. You didn’t see. I love you. I want to be with you. I want—”
“I can’t do this right now.” He shoulders past me.
“I’m not leaving until you listen to what I have to say.” I dog his footsteps, walking so close that when he stops at the kitchen, drops his sea bag, and turns, I bump into his side.
I mumble an apology and take a step back.
He pulls a beer out of my table cooler and twists off the top. He takes several long gulps and I survey his rumpled uniform, the stubble on his face, and the slight pink tint to his sun-kissed skin. Where did he go? Was he in danger? I suddenly understood the message Andrea had pressed upon me. Live everyday as if it’s the one before a deployment. Yes, the specifics matter but only so much as they provide knowledge. Specifics such as where he was or what he did aren’t as important as how we live the day, together.
He brings the beer down and meets my gaze, cocking a brow, “I don’t think there is anything you can say at this point.” He shakes his head and walks away.
“Hank,” I cry out.
He disappears into his bedroom. The shower turns on. I refuse to be dismissed so easily and chase after him.
“Hank,” I say again when I enter his bedroom. “Please.”
“Please what? I heard you.” He strips off his khaki shirt and white undershirt. He’s going about his business as if this is no big deal whatsoever.
“Tell me what you want from me.” I take a deep breath to steady my voice. I don’t want to cry but it’s inevitable. The tears are pushing against me, waiting to break free.
“I wanted it all. I wanted you to want me too. I wanted—” he says.
“I do want you. I’ve always wanted you but I’ve been too afraid. My mom lost the love of her life and it almost broke her. Losing you would be the same for me. Devastating.”
He looks me up and down. “You don’t look devastated.” He sits on the edge of his bed, kicks off his shoes, and tugs off his socks. I’ll convince him before he gets in that shower or by God I’ll follow him in there, clothes and all.
“Just hear me out. I’m willing to leave once you’ve listened.”
“It’s too late.” He doesn’t look at me.
“I know I’ve let you down. I know I’ve hurt you. But if you could see past that, find it in your heart to give me another try, I’ll spend every day showing you how much I love you. I’ll show you, even during the times I’m the most afraid, how I no longer live my life behind my cloak of fear. I’ll show you how I’ve embraced it and am using it to make me stronger. I’ll show you that I’m the girl you remember. Your love wasn’t wasted on me.”
“Paisley—” He stands and puts his hands on his hips.
“Just tell me you don’t still love me. Look at me and tell me that it’s really over.” I rush to where he is and place my hand on his chest, over his heart.
“Just say it,” His heart races beneath my hand and it encourages me. He’s breathing heavy through his nose, but his lips are no longer pressed in a thin line. They’ve softened.
“I just got home. I need a shower and—”
A burst of courage and hope explodes in me. This is it, the moment that can change everything for us. I bend down on one knee, open my arms wide, and look at him.
“Hank Lancaster, you’re the love of my life. I want to share every day with you. I want to fight with you, laugh with you, and touch you every chance I get. I want to be with you for the rest of my life and I don’t care what that looks like, whether one of us is injured, angry, happy, sad, moody, or our families interfere. I don’t care, I want you. Will you—”
He swoops down and lifts me, bringing me to my feet.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he says.
As soon as he lets go I drop down on one knee again. He picks me up, and I drop down again, arms extended.
“Dammit, Paisley. Do not say it.” He picks me up, pausing. Waiting for me to give some sign, a twitch, that I plan on going back on my knee or that I’m going to comply with his demand. I hold still. He lets go slowly, and I quickly drop down once more.
“I love you,” I declare. “I want to make love with you in parks, in your truck, and on your motorcycle. Especially your motorcycle. That’s really hot. I want to be waiting here when you get back from a long trip, a deployment, at the end of a day. You are what I have always wanted. You—”
“Would you stop already? You don’t get to finish this. That’s my job, so shut up.” A small rumble of a laugh escapes from between his lips as his arms go around me, pressing me against his chest. I dangle briefly before I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist.
“I was only going to ask you to be my boyfriend,” I say. “I don’t know what you thought I was going to say.”
“Shut up.”
“I love you.” I look into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“I love you,” he says.
Of this I have no doubt. I see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. He’s proven it over and over again with his actions. Now it’s my turn to prove it to him. When our lips touch, it brings the giddiness of a first kiss and the tenderness of true love. I cup his face and deepen the kiss, branding him with the promise of my forever love.
“Thanks for waiting for me,” I whisper when we come apart. He walks us to his bathroom, heavy with steam from the shower, and unzips my dress.
“I never had a choice. I’ve always been yours,” he says.
“Not the bee upon the blossom,
In the pride o’ sunny noon
Not the little sporting fairy,
All beneath the simmer moon;
Not the poet, in the moment
Fancy lightens in his e’e,
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,
That thy presence gi’es to me.”
-Robert Burns