When I See You (34 page)

"See you soon."

I retrace my steps back to the dinner table.

"We need to stop by Kate's hotel for some eye drug Dr. Tethers has recommended," I say. "I'm supposed to use them before our session tomorrow morning. Jordan, would you mind taking me by there before we head back to my parents'?"

"To Kate's hotel?" Jordan asks.

"Yes."

"You have a session with Dr. Tethers and Kate tomorrow?"

"Yes. A session," I say firmly. I detect the doubt in her tone. "She's trying to help me
see
."

"Right. And, she isn't needy or anything," Jordan says. "Excuse me. I'll get dessert. We'll need to get going then. Max is getting anxious for me to get back. Wouldn't want you to miss your session with Kate in the morning because you didn't get your medication."

She's pissed.
I wince at her sharp tone. Ashleigh and Tate actually stop talking, suddenly in tune to the heated exchange going on between Jordan and me. "It's not like that," I say.

"It's not like what?"

Her anger is easy to discern. Not answering her question directly is probably the only way to handle her.

"I'll help you clear," I say.

"No. I don't want anything from you," Jordan says.

≈ ≈

At one point, while Jordan and Ashleigh make a point of disappearing together with the excuse of getting dessert, Tate takes me aside.

"Just
tell
her," he said. "Tell her about Annie."

"You know I don't talk about Annie."

"Well, maybe, you should. Because frankly, Brock, you're being a jerk and you know it."

"I'm blind. Why can't you people see that?"

"What does being blind have to do with Jordan?" Tate asks.

"Everything."

"Jordan can take care of herself."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because she's suffered from loss just like you. I don't think it's asking for too much for you to be nice to her."

"I
am
nice to her. It's too much. All of it."

"What's going on with you?"

"We have a connection."

"I can see that. Everyone can. But, why are you so miserable about that?"

"She was Ethan's
wife
."

"Ethan—isn't coming back." Tate sighs. "Do you know you incline your head towards her whenever she's in the room? The connection between you two is pretty obvious for anyone to see."

"Well, aren't you lucky that you can
see,
" I say.

The two women's voices filter through to us. Tate mutters something about behaving myself and moves away from me. He compliments Jordan for putting together such a magnificent dessert, while I'm left in the dark as to what it is.

"Here," she says, touching my right shoulder and placing a fork in my hand. "Chocolate cake with whipped cream and raspberries."

"Thanks." I have reached helpless status again.

After that exchange, the only other sound from her is the scraping of her chair against the wood floor to my right. I spend the next ten minutes struggling to eat every bite of the cake, but I'm too stressed out by her veiled anger at me and her very presence at this point.

Tate and Ashleigh make a point of leaving us alone, feigning a sudden interest in locking up Tate's place, but that only makes it worse. We're alone now and definitely not talking.

My ability to fix the situation reaches an all-time low. No matter what I say, I get only one-word responses from Jordan.

Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"Can I help you clean up?"

"No."

She leaves me sitting at the dining room table. The effort to blindly find my way to the kitchen is insurmountable, so I just sit there and swim with the blackness.

Everything is fucked up. Me, most of all.

Fifteen minutes later, she calls out. "Let's go. I want to be back on time so I can tuck Max in. He's getting cranky. He wants a bedtime story."

"Fine," I say with an edge. I get out my cell phone and call Tate to let him know we're taking off.

"Talk to her," he says just before I hang up.

We make the long walk to the car without saying anything. The drive back into town is the polar opposite from the one we shared on the way to the Lazy J as we both stew in the stony silence and attend to the emotional wounds we've managed to inflict upon each other over the long afternoon and into the evening.

I give her directions to the Renaissance. I hear her key them into the car's GPS. The mechanical voice breaks the long silence with intermittent directions. It's the only sound during the car ride for the longest time.

"I just can't believe they're rushing into this," she says after twenty minutes.

"Tate and Ashleigh?"

"Yeah. They've known each for three days. Three days! Who does that?"

"I believe you and Ethan knew each other for a total of fifteen minutes before he asked you to marry him," I say quietly.

"That was different," she says with a catch in her voice.

"How was that different?"

I'm curious now. I flashback to the wide grin on Ethan's face, when we'd met up at the airport in Dulles for our first tour. 'I met someone,' Ethan had said. 'I married her. She's everything.' He'd gotten out a picture of the two of them in Vegas. And, there was Jordan in a white summer dress with her long mahogany hair in a French braid, looking like a Greek goddess. I remember her amazing smile and the way she stared up at Ethan. What I remember the most, when I first saw that picture, was the feeling that there was no one else in the world, but the two of them and how excluded I felt. Ethan had met and married a stranger. Where did that leave me? The answer became clear not long after we arrived in Afghanistan. Nothing had really changed. Ethan was married, but it was this whole separate life from Afghanistan, from Austin, from even me.

Until now.

"We were both young and crazy," she says now, breaking my reverie. "Too naive to know that nothing ever lasts."

"You really believe that? That nothing ever lasts?" I'm taken aback at her cynicism, even though I recognize it.

"What would you have me believe, Brock? Happily ever-afters?" She laughs bitterly. "That was Ethan's thing, not mine. You think I enjoy being right? No. I don't enjoy it. And, even though I don't believe in happily-ever-after, it doesn't stop it from hurting when it doesn't work out, when the people I love the most
die.
Not now. Not ever."

I want to answer her, to somehow convince her and myself that things can work out, but her cell phone rings, effectively ending our conversation.

"Max," she says with surprise. "Henry dialed the number for you, huh? No, you can't go fishing. It's late. It's getting dark. I'll be there soon and I'll read you a story. What? Well, Henry's right. It's getting dark. Just be good and listen to him; okay, baby? I love you. Okay, I've got to go. Mommy's driving Brock's car, right now. I'll see you soon. I love you, Max. I'll be there soon."

≈ ≈

Jordan parks the car with the valet at Kate's hotel. I whip out my walking stick, intent on showing my independence. This lasts a full two minutes, until we reach the lobby where I have to depend on Jordan to locate and lead the way on to the elevators.

"Room 2911," I say with nonchalance.

Only her perfume speaks to me. It's some amazing French scent that I remember a parade of forgotten women wearing before I met her. It's fading floral tones reach for me in this tight space we inevitably share. The snippets of complete strangers' conversations float all around us as we ride the elevator and get pressed closer together as more people get on then off. It's a slow, arduous ascent to the twenty-ninth floor. I count five different openings and closings of the doors in the space of three minutes. It's a busy place for a Sunday night. The crowd of people continues to push Jordan and me closer together. I take advantage of the close quarters by encircling her waist with my free arm while she holds onto my jacket sleeve. I breathe in the mesmerizing floral scent of her hair and enjoy the heady sensation of being right next to her.

"Floor 29," she says at the same time the elevator dings.

We move as one unit out of the elevator and on to what I surmise must be a long carpeted hallway. Behind us, the distinct sounds of the elevator ambiance quickly fade. Jordan stops and must be gauging the hallway signs. "This way," she says after a few seconds.

I'm pulled along in the direction of Kate's hotel room and revel in the irony of the situation. I'll be introducing Ethan's widow, my current sexual fantasy, to Kate, my former psychiatrist and past sexual fantasy. Fucked up doesn't begin to explain it.

The sound of a lock being unlatched and a door opening serves as my only cue that we've reached Kate's hotel room, because Jordan isn't talking.

"Dr. Major Kate Richards, this is Jordan Holloway."

"Wow. Come in. You look just like that actress, Laurel Breckinridge," Kate says with an uncertain laugh. I can practically feel her sizing up Jordan's fine attributes. "It's an amazing resemblance, in fact."

"She doesn't—"

"Laurel Breckinridge was my mother," Jordan says, cutting me off.

"Oh. Wow. That's incredible." Kate sighs. "Brock, you failed to mention that connection."

Her reprimand is real enough. I roll my eyes.

"I've never told you anything about Jordan," I say.

"Yes. Curious," Kate says slowly. "Come in. Both of you. Jordan, sit here. You look cold. Are you cold?"

"I'm not cold."

"Oh. Well, you look cold. Undone, perhaps. Is everything all right? I'm sure this is an emotional time for you, right now." She takes a deep breath and sighs. "Brock showed you the house, then? What was that like? How did you feel? And, Ethan spent your inheritance? Are you okay with that? I mean, if that's what you want, great. But is it what you want?"

Mortified that I told Kate so much on the phone and by the personal nature of the questions she's busy firing at Jordan, I move to intercede.

"Kate, she's not a patient," I say.

"Yes, but she's connected to you, Brock. In lots of ways, it seems. I'm sure her interests are as pure as mine in having you see again." Kate seems to pause for effect.

I close my eyes for a second. Tension seeps into me.

This is not going to go well. What was I thinking?

"Right, Jordan? You would help Brock in any way that you can," Kate says sweetly. "I'm sure of it."

"My intentions are as pure as yours," Jordan says.

"Drink?" Kate asks. Her high heels click across the bare floor.

"Love one."

"Wine? Champagne? Something stronger?" Kate asks.

"Champagne. Let's celebrate," Jordan says.

"What are we celebrating?" I ask, wary, all at once.

"Why, you, of course. And, our purest of intentions in having you see again." Jordan links her arm with mine and effectively leads me into the room. "Here, let me help you over to the sofa," she says, and then whispers, "Sit down, Brock. Let's get you a drink and get what we came for, so we can get the hell out of here."

She's pissed. She hates Kate. She makes that clear by the sharpness of her tone.

I gulp at the champagne, hoping to kill the bottle as fast as possible.

Kate makes a production out of administering the eye drops and spends an inordinate amount of time telling Jordan how to put them in three times a day, as if she's explaining this to Max instead of the grown woman sitting right next to me.

"Got it," Jordan says after Kate's five-minute dissertation. "I've got it, Kate. I can handle him."

"Great. So, tell me about growing up as a child of famous parents. Davis and Laurel Breckinridge. Wow." Kate sighs. "What was that like?"

"Magical. Amazing. Right up until the point they were murdered in Barcelona. After that, it was different," Jordan says with notable disquiet.

End of story. Yet, Kate ignores Jordan's reluctance to talk about her past and continues on with a litany of personal questions, which Jordan manages to deflect with clearly evasive answers. I listen in fascination as the two women spar.

"So," Jordan says in a rare opening, when Kate isn't plying her with another inappropriate question. "I hear you and Brock gave it a go, but it didn't work out."

Kate sputters her champagne.

"Yes. Well. I'm his psychiatrist. His superior officer."

"That's what I thought," Jordan says easily, like they're old friends.

"Those are two very good reasons for not fucking him." She stops for a moment. Then, she says in a low, hushed voice. "I take it you
like
what you do. That perhaps you're
good
at it."

"I am." The shrillness in Kate's voice gives her away. She's defensive.