Collateral (16 page)

landmark. Old. Beautiful. Safer

than the sidewalk. I duck inside,

cut through the lobby, to the alfresco

Mai Tai Bar. Find a quiet table,

overlooking the ocean. As close

to the sand as I want to be until

I have Cole by my side. A nice-looking

waiter brings me a drink menu.

I open it with tremulous hands.

Pina Colada
? Not strong enough.

Blue Hawaiian
? Too sweet.
Sex

on the Beach
? Really don't think

so. I order the bar's namesake drink.

Rum, liqueur, fresh juice, and more rum.

That works for me. I sip mai tais

and watch the surf for almost two hours,

accomplishing one-third of my plan.

A couple of times. But, oddly enough,

rather than fortify my courage,

the alcohol only bolsters my fear.

Afternoon segues to early evening, and

I might just keep on sitting here,

except I get a call.
Hey, sweetheart.

Where are you? I'm at the hotel.

And what did you tell the lady

at the desk? She was damn nice.

“I told her you were a little off,

so she'd better tread carefully.

I'm at the Royal Hawaiian, and

starving. Come find me?” No

hesitation at all, he demands,

What's wrong?
Is he psychic?

Can he tell I'm buzzed? I don't know,

but when I try to deny, he says,

I can hear it in your voice, Ashley.

“Everything's fine. I promise.

What do you want to drink?

It'll be here when you get here.

And I'm buying, soldier.”

It takes a half-hour for him

to shower, change into civvies,

and walk over. By the time

he gets here, a double scotch

on the rocks is waiting for him.

Much more patiently than I.

Is never easy. Whether he's gone

off to war, or on duty at home.

But there is nothing quite like

that much-anticipated moment

when you first set eyes on him again

after so much time apart. When love

connects you, it's like your heart

draws you to him, though distance

eclipses the space between you.

And when he's close, no way could

you miss him, not even when he's clear

across a crowded bar. I spot him

the moment he steps through

the doorway, and before I have

the chance to wave, he has seen me,

too. That must be what they mean

by “heartstrings.” Only ours are more

like heart cables, near impossible

to sever. Despite all the activity,

he reaches me in four long strides

and lifts me into his arms; we kiss

with the knowledge of Eden.

I can feel people staring, but hardly

care. For these few perfect seconds,

every minute without him is ground

into dust, left for the sea breeze

to blow into memory. “I love you,”

I breathe into his mouth. “I love you.”

A couple of months since I last saw him.

But it feels borderline forever. We sit

very close and under the table my leg

is hooked around his. Touch is what

we need to catch up on, not gossip about

our family or friends. We discuss them

regularly, long distance. Of course, a few

questions are expected—how's his mom,

who's slowly recovering from meningitis?

(Answer: Better, though she's lost some

hearing.) Or, have I heard from my little

brother, who's backpacking Europe?

(Answer: Yes, and he's found a girlfriend

so he's staying for a while.) It's so lovely here,

we decide to hang out and order a seafood

pizza to go with our drinks, which keep

coming. I've lost count of how many,

but the fuzz which has sprouted inside

my skull is a decent clue. It actually

doesn't feel so bad until, uncomfortably,

the conversation turns to Darian.

How's she doing? I heard from Spence.

He's a little freaked out. She doesn't

return his calls. Do you know why?

I know it's an innocent question.

But how am I supposed to answer

it honestly without betraying her

trust? An unpleasant high-tension

wire buzzing starts in the hollow

behind my lower jaw. “No clue.”

Cole takes a bite of pizza. Chews.

Doesn't swallow before he says,

He thinks she's messing around.

A few crumbs escape his mouth.

Disgusting. The buzz volume increases.

“Really? Why would he think that?”

He shrugs. Sips his drink, chasing

the food down his throat.
I'm not

sure, hon. Maybe he's just paranoid.

For some stupid reason, the “hon”

irritates me. For some stupider reason,

I actually say, “Maybe he deserves it.”

Cole's mouth drops open. Glad

it's empty. His cool yellow eyes

measure me.
No man deserves that.

No
man
deserves that? I need to shut

up. Can't. “Not even a man who hits

his wife?” The buzz swells, fills my head.

Everything was perfect. How could

it turn so bad so fast? I suspect it has

something to do with the alcohol,

this avalanche toward all-out verbal

battle.
Is that what she told you?

Did she happen to mention the rest?

“The rest! What rest? Wait. You
knew
?

And you never said anything?”

Would you have said something

if I hadn't brought it up first?

I hate when he uses logic to turn

things on me. The couple at the next

table stands up abruptly. The lady

tosses a nervous glance in our direction,

right before they hustle toward the exit.

I lower my voice, fight to keep it steady,

attempting my own reverse logic.

“So, tell me, Cole. What is the rest?”

I'm surprised you don't know. Darian

was pregnant with Spence's baby.

She got rid of it while he was gone.

He only found out because they got

drunk and she confessed the whole

story, just to hurt him. It worked.

Oh, my God. Darian, how could

you? The far side of the tale comes

around to shade the beginning gray.

Why are things never black and

white? My stomach lurches. Still,

“But that's no excuse for violence.”

Cole snorts.
Violence doesn't need

an excuse. And sometimes it's called for.

I'm getting pissed all over again.

“Against women? As bad as that was,

Darian didn't deserve to get hit. I suppose

you think rape is deserved sometimes, too?”

He is quiet much too long. Finally,

he says,
I think maybe it can be.

The buzz becomes an explosion.

“Seriously? What if I told you today . . .”

I relate the cabbage-man story, doing

my level best not to slur words. Or cry.

Obviously the guy was disturbed.

And considering how you're dressed . . .

I stand. Pick up my drink. Let it fly.

Often. In fact, we've had only a few

disagreements, and even fewer that

led to serious exchanges of anger-

driven words. I'll never forget any

of them, especially the first. It was

going into the Christmas holiday

season in 2008. Cole and I had

spent three weeks of the summer

before playing house on Oahu.

One of his buddies had gone

stateside, leaving his off-base

apartment empty. Cole tossed

a little traveling cash his way so

we could use the older one-bedroom

place as our vacation digs. Well,

my vacation. Cole had regular duty

during the weekdays. Came home

to me the rest of the time, just like

a regular married Marine might.

While he was at work, I spent days

at the beach, roller blading and taking

my elementary surfing to a whole new

level. Over that short time, we solidified

the “two-as-one” of us. I was really

starting to believe we could make it

as a couple, albeit an often separated,

half-a-world-away-from-each-other,

couple. But then a small dose of reality

intruded. I had to go back to school.

Some people would have looked at

other options—transferring to a college

in Hawaii, or maybe dropping out.

When I asked Mom what she thought,

she offered solid advice.
If you withdraw,

what will you do? Serve piña coladas

to tourists and waste the last two years?

Your prepaid tuition is California based.

Anyway, your young man is returning

to Iraq in a few months. What's the point?

The point was, she had a point. Even

Cole agreed. So, back I trekked

to San Diego to start my junior year.

I settled in just fine. Once again

got used to long-distance communicating

with the man who was so central

to the woman I was growing into.

They say the military makes you older

than your years. Ask me, that applies

to more than just the soldier.

Might have belied that idea, however.

Neither Cole nor I acted very mature.

I had spent another birthday alone,

though Cole did send me a dozen

yellow roses and a framed poem

he wrote especially for me. A love

poem, which meant a thousand times

more than those beautiful flowers.

I didn't really expect him to be able to

deliver them in person. A soldier only

gets so much time away from his duty.

The problem popped up when he was

granted leave to come stateside for

Christmas. I assumed he planned on

spending it with me, and decided to

surprise him with a trip to Lodi. Neither

of us had met each other's families yet.

I figured it was time to introduce him

to mine. Meanwhile, unfortunately,

he booked his flight home to Cheyenne.

When he called to let me know he'd

stop by on his way back to Kaneohe,

I freaked. “What do you mean, on

your way back? I thought we were

spending Christmas together! I told

my parents we'd be there. I promised.”

Without even asking me? Why

would you do a stupid thing like that?

The “stupid” slapped. My eyes watered.

“I wanted to surprise you. Cole, you were

in Iraq last year, and you'll probably

be there next year, too. Can't we be

together on Christmas? That's what

people in love do. Or is that stupid, too?”

I do love you, Ashley. But I also love

Mom. I haven't seen her in eight months.

You and I had that great time over

the summer. This will probably be

my only chance to visit Wyoming

before we deploy again, most likely

in April. You have your entire family, but

I'm all Mom's got left. You wouldn't ask

me to leave her alone on Christmas.

You're not really that selfish, right?

He was totally right. His mom lived

alone, and she didn't get to see him

often. But at the time, disappointment

overwhelmed every shred of logic.

“Selfish? Really? You think I'm selfish

because we actually have the chance

to celebrate Christmas together, and

I somehow expected you to want that?

Because I was so excited to show

you off to my parents? I want them

to know you, so they can love you, too.

Or maybe you don't want that. Maybe . . .”

The thought struck suddenly, from

some hidden place, like a rattlesnake

unseen in the brush. What if . . . ?

“Maybe you don't want that. Or me.”

Don't be ridiculous, Ashley.

“Stupid.” “Selfish.” And now “ridiculous.”

I blew. “Stop calling me names!

This is just so . . . so unfair! Fine.

Go ahead. Go to Wyoming! But don't

bother stopping here. All I do is wait

for you, Cole. I wait for you to call.

To e-mail. To deploy. To come home.

To find a little time for me in the craziness

of your life. I'm tired of waiting. Tired

of being nothing but an afterthought.”

Across the room. It smacked the wall

like a missile, fell to the floor. And then

I crumbled into a million pieces. A rubble

of emotion. I stormed. I cried. I cursed.

I screamed. I was lucky the neighbors