Disarm (6 page)

“Yes. The vendor told me that Cleopatra's eye shadow was made out of ground lapis lazuli.” He slipped the necklace around my neck, which was a thick chain with a three-teardrop design. His eyes took me in for a long while before he finally said, “Blue is your color.”

I smiled. “Like the color of your eyes.” I held his gaze, wishing I knew what the hell was going through his mind.

He swallowed, then said, “You're different.”

Out of everything, I was definitely not expecting that. “I am? How?”

“I don't know. You always just seemed so restless before, and now . . .” He ran a finger along my jaw. “It's like a stillness has descended over you.”

I must have looked heartbroken because he quickly added, “I mean that in a good way.”

I lay back into the pillows and chewed on his words. The past six months had forced me to become independent. I had always had Jason or Henry to depend on, but without either of them, I'd been forced to rely on me. It had been a sobering, empowering, lonely experience. “I guess I've changed,” I finally said.

I looked up at him and studied the dark circles under his eyes. I wanted to point out that he was different as well, as if a shadow was blanketing him, but didn't think it would be received well. So I just put away the gifts and pulled him back onto the bed, hoping that the morning light would bring us back to ourselves.

I woke up shivering some time later. I burrowed under the blanket, trying to locate Henry's warmth but he was nowhere to be found. When I opened my eyes, I found myself alone in a dark room and for one terrifying moment, I thought I was in a new nightmare. Then I heard the front door slam shut and the jingle of keys as they landed on the countertop. The bedroom door squeaked open and Henry peered in.

I sat up, pushing unruly hair out of my face, and turned on a lamp. “Hey, where did you go?”

He came inside and sat on the bed. He was wearing a black moisture-wicking sweatshirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. “I couldn't sleep so I went running.”

“What time is it?”

He looked at his watch. “Nearly midnight.”

“And you're not sleepy?”

He shrugged as he pulled off his clothes and walked to the bathroom. “I'm just jet-lagged.”

“Henry?”

He looked over his shoulder, the bathroom light illuminating the lines on his face. “Yeah?”

“Everything okay?” I asked. He still hadn't told me about the attack on the base; I was beginning to wonder if he would talk about it at all. I'd read about PTSD and its symptoms, hoping to be ready should Henry be affected by the attack, but so far, I still wasn't sure. I wished there was some sort of litmus test I could give him, to get a definitive answer so I could formulate a plan of attack, but all I had was the man himself and he wasn't in the mood to disclose that information.

“I'm good,” he said and closed the bathroom door.

PROBLEMS IN LOGISTICS

The next day, after getting ready for work, I went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Henry came out of his bedroom a few minutes later already in his ABU pants and a tan undershirt. He placed his jacket on the back of the chair and headed to the coffeepot.

“I've already poured some out,” I said, cracking eggs into the pan. I turned to grab the salt and pepper and ran into his back. He dodged out of the way, but accidentally hit me with the drawer as he pulled out some forks.

“Sorry,” he said, massaging my hip.

I doubled over as his fingers brushed against a ticklish spot and the spatula in my hand smacked him in the chest. “Sorry,” I said, reaching for some paper towels to dab at the mess.

He looked down at his shirt, at the oil stain that was already blooming on the cotton fabric, with an unreadable expression. He stepped out of the kitchen and pulled the shirt off, shaking his head. “Damn, that was my last clean undershirt,” he said and strode off to his bathroom.

I looked around the kitchen, unable to figure out why I suddenly felt relieved to be alone. Taking advantage of Henry's absence, I quickly cooked the omelets, made toast, and set everything out on the table. By the time Henry emerged from the bathroom, everything was ready. After putting his shirt in the dryer, he stood at the table with his hands on his hips.

“You all right?” I asked, sipping my coffee.

He frowned. “You did it all without me.”

A pang of regret shot through me. Henry and I had always made this breakfast together before he left for Afghanistan but today it seemed easier to just do it all myself. “I guess I got used to doing everything alone.”

“Next time, I can help.” He sat down and took a sip of coffee. “But this looks good,” he added and we ate.

By the next morning, I'd figured out that I needed to relinquish some control in the kitchen. I left the coffee untouched, hoping that he would figure it out, but he stood at the other side of the counter and watched me with wary eyes.

I guess he needed an embossed invitation or something. “Can you do the coffee, please?”

He grinned and entered the fray, grabbing the can of coffee beans and preparing the coffeemaker. It took some time and a few bumps, but we finally learned how to move around each other again, as if retracing the steps to our little daily dance routine. When we sat down to eat, we raised our steaming mugs of coffee, celebrating our little victory with knowing smiles.

While our breakfast routine was back on track, Henry's sleep schedule was still off-kilter. He continued to toss and turn at night, and soon my own sleep also began to suffer. The only time I fell into a deep sleep was when he'd climb out of bed at four a.m. to go running, when the bed would finally be still and I could relax.

One night, I decided to try something different to see if it would help. I kissed him good night in the living room then headed to my room.

Henry was right at my heels.

“Why the hell are you in here?” he asked, watching from the door as I crawled under my duvet.

“If I remember correctly, this is
my
bed.”

He rolled his eyes. “I mean, why aren't you sleeping in my room?”

“To let you get some sleep,” I stated simply. I fluffed my pillow and lay down.

“It's just jet lag,” he said, walking across the room and standing over me with arms crossed over his chest.

I gave him a skeptical look. “Jet lag doesn't last this long.” I sighed. “Look, I just want to see if my presence, or lack thereof, will help you sleep better.”

He raised one eyebrow. “If you think that sleeping by myself will do me good,” he said, throwing aside my covers, “then you don't know me very well at all.” And with one swift movement, he lifted me up in his arms and stole me out of my room.

In his room, he deposited me on his bed and fell in beside me. “You're not the reason why I can't sleep, okay?” he said.

“Then what's bothering you?” I asked. When he said nothing, I whispered, “Hey, let's talk.”

“About what?”

“Whatever. Anything you want.”

He shifted so that he was looking at the ceiling and no longer at me. He said nothing, only turned off the bedside lamp.

“Maybe about what happened over there,” I said, hoping the cloak of darkness would give him the courage to speak.

The pillow rustled when he shook his head. “Just give me some time, Els. I just need to process.”

I wasn't exactly sure what processing entailed, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt, as I always did, and hoped that it wouldn't be long before he was back to normal.

Sometime in the early hours, the buzzing of his phone pulled me from sleep. “Your phone,” I croaked, touching Henry's arm.

All of a sudden, Henry wrenched his arm away, forming a fist as it flew up to protect his face. He sat up with a start, breathing heavily, his muscles coiled for attack.

I lay beside him, frozen in place, my brain still trying to process what the hell had just taken place.

His head jerked to the buzzing on the nightstand. He finally relaxed when he reached over to turn the phone off.

“Are you okay?” I whispered, wanting to touch him yet too afraid to move.

He turned to me as his hands searched in the dark for my face. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

I shook my head, my heart still thudding wildly.

“I'm sorry if I scared you,” he said gently. He pressed a kiss to my cheek, then climbed out of bed, pulling on his clothes for another long morning run, not bothering to explain what had him on edge.

Thus began our new normal. Henry was always up early, if he slept at all, and ran laps at the park. He was always back by the time I climbed out of bed to get ready for work. We'd eat breakfast together and kiss good-bye at the parking lot.

In the afternoons, after coming home from work, he'd give me a kiss before heading off to the gym for a few hours, making me feel like I was living alone again. Some nights he didn't return until I was climbing into bed—my own—and he would pull the caveman stunt by throwing me over his shoulder and taking me to his room. The fun of it wore off after a while.

Even though we had plenty of sex, I felt detached from him in a way I've never felt before. I'd always taken pride in being able to read his moods, but now I was mystified by the sudden veil that would lay across his features, often at the most random times. I felt like I was standing on a dock, reaching out as far as I could, and Henry was in a boat that was drifting away with the morning tide.

So I did the only thing I could to still feel connected to him—I would wrap my arms around him, press my cheek to his back, and just thank God that Henry was alive, that he was safe, and that Afghanistan didn't take him from me too.

One day, I received an envelope with Henry's handwriting on it mixed in with the junk mail. It was addressed to me and postmarked in March, at the beginning of the deployment. I couldn't decide which was more surprising: the fact that it was delivered so late or that it arrived here at all.

I didn't know why my fingers were shaking as I gently tore open the envelope, but I felt jittery, unsure of what I was in for.

Dear Elsie,

So here it is, your very first romantic war letter! I still can't believe I'm writing you like this, in such an intimate way. I've always wanted to write you a love letter but now it's legit, now I can actually send it off with due reason.

We arrived a week ago after a hellacious series of plane rides. It sucked. We got halfway here but somewhere over the Atlantic, there was a problem with the plane and we had to go back to Baltimore. So we had the distinct pleasure of sitting in a People Mover on a runway for six hours, not able to go into the terminal because we hadn't gone through security. Then we stopped in Ireland at four a.m., where they opened the bar for us for twenty minutes while we refueled (yay Guinness!). Then we flew to Cyprus where we stayed in the plane for six hours, and from there we flew to Kuwait City, then finally, we caught a convoy to Bagram Air Base. All in all, the trip took forty-six horrendous hours
.

I would much rather have spent those forty-six hours in bed with you.

So life at Bagram Air Base is not so bad. It was information overload the first few days, but now my team and I have the hang of it. I oversee the airmen who guard the base, while I myself go to a lot of meetings and briefings. The food in the chow hall isn't half bad (it's not half good either) but beer here is plentiful. The only problem is that it's nonalcoholic beer. It's pure torture but we drink it anyway. I will be such a lightweight by the time I come home.

I've found that we have a lot of free time here. Most guys watch movies, read, hang out. One of my guys, Hanson, is learning how to play the guitar. I run a lot and go to the gym. I'm hoping to be ripped by the time I get back to you. I know how much you like to touch my muscles, one in particular. ;)

I miss you. I didn't think it was possible to miss someone this much. I think that look on your face as the bus drove away will forever be embedded in my brain. I hate that I'm putting you through all of this unnecessary worry and pain. I know that my telling you my feelings right before I left was selfish, but I just couldn't leave without saying anything. I couldn't bear it if I were stuck here day after day, while you were back there not knowing that someone loves you with all of their being.

I love you, Elsie. I've been crazy about you for as long as I can remember. Every douchey thing I've done to you in the past, everything I did to keep you from other guys, that was just me trying to save you for myself. But something always held me back, whether it was Jason, or that scary look your dad gets, or maybe it was just the thought that if we're together too soon, we would end up ruining what could be in the future. So I waited for the perfect time, and waited and waited. Obviously, I couldn't wait anymore. I wouldn't say a week before a deployment was the perfect time, but sometimes the truth has a way of coming out whether you want it to or not.

Do you remember the first time I came back from college? You told me I'd gained the freshman fifteen and I told you you'd gained the junior-junk-in-the-trunk. The look on your face was hysterical, but you really got me back when you just wiggled that ass at me as you walked away. You thought I was mad at you because I rushed home. I was actually just trying to hide my hard-on!

I'm laughing right now as I think about that. I think that's why I was so drawn to you from the beginning—you were the goodness and light when my life was so full of darkness. And you really know how to tickle my funny bone (insert other bone joke here).

You are the sweetest, kindest person I know, and even if we weren't together, I'd still think that. I still can't believe the past week before my deployment really happened. My biggest teen fantasy has been fulfilled.

You have no idea how hard it's been, watching you parade around our apartment in only a towel or when you wear shirts without a bra. You thought I didn't notice, but trust me, guys have a sixth sense when it comes to breasts and the amount of fabric covering them. But I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable, so I tried to ignore you and your innocent seductions, until you sexy-danced with me at the bar. That night I knew I couldn't hide my feelings anymore, couldn't pretend that you're just my figurative little sister. Basically, I couldn't keep my hands off you any longer. That was a dangerous game you played, but I guess, in the end it paid off.

I'm in pain here. I'm in a constant state of arousal because you are always in the back of my mind, teasing me in that way that you do. I love being inside you, feeling you tighten around me. Somebody needs to bottle that feeling and sell it because it's fucking fantastic and I'm not sharing you with anyone, so.

These six months are going to be hell. I'm going to ravage you a hundred different ways when I get home. Count on that.

I love you, Elsie. I can't say it enough. I'm a very lucky guy to be coming home to you.

Henry

My tears landed on the lined paper as I folded it up, feeling like I'd had a glimpse of the past, to what Henry used to be. It made me physically ache to see the stark differences between the two men, to know that the man in this letter wasn't the same one that came back.

I hugged the paper to my chest, hope renewing me. Here was proof, a map to the man I had fallen in love with, and I would find a way back to him no matter what.

One Friday night, after a particularly trying week, we went to Tapwerks to belatedly celebrate his homecoming. I invited everyone I could think of, including Beth, Sam, and Dave. In the end, there were about nine of us, all standing around a table and talking over the loud music.

I kept glancing up at Henry, too occupied with his enjoyment to really enjoy the atmosphere myself. But he seemed content, laughing and joking around with his buddies, so for a moment, I allowed myself to hope that maybe all he needed was a night out with friends to restore him back to himself.

I could really be naïve sometimes.

I'd almost forgotten the Dave incident, being too consumed by Henry, but Dave apparently hadn't. He stood as far away from me as possible and refused to look at me, probably under the impression that if he didn't acknowledge my presence, then that kiss never happened.

When Henry went to the bathroom, Dave pulled me away from the table and asked if I was going to tell Henry what had happened.

“It's up to you,” I told him, filled with the happy buzz that came with good friends and good drinks. “Either way, I think he'll be fine.”

“But you're his girlfriend,” he said with a frown.