Unbroken Connection (5 page)

Chapter 7

THE PLAN

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #10

D
IVE
B
UDDY
: honeymooners again

D
ATE
: 10/17

D
IVE
#: 1,223

L
OCATION
: Phuket

D
IVE
S
ITE
: Shark Point

W
EATHER
C
ONDITION
: sunny

W
ATER
C
ONDITION
: flat

D
EPTH
: 60’

V
ISIBILITY
: 50’

W
ATER
T
EMP
.: 78 F

B
OTTOM
T
IME
: 34 minutes

C
OMMENTS
:

Last dive with my newlyweds. This AM he aced the written test. She barely passed. But in the water, he struggled—she swam circles around him. I signed off their certs, and she pulled him away to celebrate—wrapped around him, chewing on his ear. Miracle the guy can still walk.

I pack up, try to get Leesie online before I have to leave. Freak. She’s not there. Come on, Leese. Figure it out. I’m here waiting. I’m early, girl. Wake up, sign on. Again.

She surprised me the other night. Voracious. Who knew? I should have. I’ve tasted her appetite. She’s amazing when she melts. Married we’d be free of all those hang-ups, playing by the rules. She can melt in my arms whenever she wants.

Who cares if we’re both still eighteen. We’re legal. That’s what counts. She’ll be nineteen in two months. Maybe we can get married at Christmas. Wonder if I can get off? If I have to, I’ll quit. No way will she resist me asking her in person. If I can get her hot, it’ll be easy. Why didn’t I think of this back in Florida? It would have been so much better than breaking up. That was right, though. Hurt like hell, but I needed to give her up—let her go before I destroyed everything that made me love her. It was the only thing to do. Then.

I can’t help it if she came back.

I can’t help it if she still loves me.

I can’t help loving her.

She’ll marry me. Not even the Mormon stuff scares me. She can raise our kids like she was raised. That’s cool with me. I’ll respect it all our lives together. Support her, help her.

I promised I’d listen. I think I can do that now without getting livid. Before I was so freaked. My parents’ loss was fresh and raw. Every time she tried to reassure me with her holy act, it felt like she was raking through my oozing wounds. I hated that.

I can listen to her now, fake nice, let her pray all she wants, if it means keeping her—really making her mine after all.

She’ll say ‘yes.’ Sooner or later, she’ll say ‘yes.’

Freak, I got to go, babe. Where are you?

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM # 52, HOMECOMING

I bake a mob of chocolate chip cookies,

chewy with oatmeal, expensive

when you have to buy all the stuff,

and wonder where Michael was last night

while I pack the cookies with the last

of the Washington Delicious Apples

Dad mail-ordered me. How did he know?

I never said.

I check my face, add concealer.

I fell asleep waiting for Michael,

but the alarm went off at 4 AM.

I waited until 6. Nothing.

Nowhere. I fight not to imagine

the somewhere he could be.

Noah’s on time, and we walk to the stadium,

milling with all the guys who made him ask me

and their giggling dates,

enjoying a crisp touch of fall,

trees golden and scarlet,

beds of fall flowers and soft green lawns

perfectly tended by an army of students

early this morning.

The whole place glows.

Why don’t I?

Noah smiles. “Can I carry that?”

I swallow away my dry mouth and nerves.

“You’ve got the blankets.”

“I’ll manage both.” He touches my arm when he takes

the picnic basket I borrowed off Roxi,

my California roommate,

who’s prepared for everything.

I have a boyfriend in Thailand.

I have a boyfriend in Thailand.

I want to shout, turn and bolt.

We’re back together—sort of.

Either that or we’re engaged.

Need to change my online status:

Complicated. That’s us.

Then boys like Noah won’t call.

They want pure, simple.

He spreads the blankets

on the bleacher.

I reward him with cookies.

Best he’s ever tasted.

(Gram gave me her secret recipe

when I was part of the family.)

I gaze off into sky as blue as Michael’s ocean.

“You should try my apple pie.”

“Is that an invitation?”

Noah’s mouth is full of cookie.

The crowd roars kick-off so he misses

the no way, that’s Michael’s, plain

on my face.

We score a lot and win,

pass the cookies around.

I’m the only one who eats the apples.

Later, riding the Creeper steaming for Heber,

the train cars chugging through the night to a Top 40s beat,

we salsa and waltz.

He talks about brothers on missions

in hot, steamy places.

I grab his shoulder. “Did you say Thailand?”

“No, South Korea.”

I relax my grip. “Know anyone serving in Thailand?”

He shakes his head, watching me,

getting it. “Do you?”

“I have a friend working there. He needs

some missionaries.”

Noah’s hand slips in mine—

suddenly slicker than it was before.

“Maybe more than a friend?”

Heat rises to my face—and I stare

out the window at the lights speeding

away from me. “Used to be.”

We both know I’m lying.

He eases away from me, swallows. “My dad

joined for my mom.”

“My mom, too. Is he still active—your dad?”

Noah’s head shakes. “He stuck it out

for awhile—five kids—then it fell apart.

A mom on her own isn’t the plan.”

The pain of Noah’s past, the loss and ache,

tinged with rejection—from his father

to the girls he liked who always

wanted someone else—

like me, tonight—

oozes up around his golf shirt collar

and bleeds into his words.

“You don’t want that.”

“I know.” I pull my eyes away from the black night

outside. “That’s why he’s in Thailand.

And I’m going to have a great time

at this dance

with you.”

LEESIE HUNT / CHATSPOT LOG / 10/18 11:28 PM