His Road Home (5 page)

How would she sign this one? Not “With Love” or “XOXO” if it tracked with the postcards pinned to his board. Week One: the Seattle Space Needle, “from Grace.” Week Two: a Washington State Ferry, “Take care, Grace.” Week Three: a pink-tinted Mount Rainier looming behind the Seattle skyline, “Keep at it! Grace.” When they started texting daily, the postcard frequency decreased. From “Thinking of you, Grace,” she’d moved to signing the last two with her initial crammed below the filled message space. He guessed she assumed that by now he’d know who “G” stood for. While that was more personal than “Take Care” or her full name, the distance from “G” to “Love” could be Denali.

How
was
the
Marquis
today?

He wouldn’t whine about the brutal table session or the core work. On the other side of the joint living room, Kade had a colostomy bag and half a dick. He felt lucky to be tall enough to piss standing, so no complaints.
We
exchanged
tips
on
tomato
fertilizer.

You’re
kidding.

You
don’t
think
we
talked
shit
all
morning?

Palm
to
head.

That’s
my
line.
All his old material was useless these days, but Grace made him feel like he had so much to share.

* * *

Both day and night shifts mingled on deck with a stash of microbrew to celebrate the end of the cruise. Grace’s bottle was half-empty as she leaned on the rail listening to co-workers compare big fish stories, but it was close to nine o’clock, so she slipped below deck.

By the time the first bars of “Call Me Maybe” played to signal Rey, she’d arrived at her berth.

Hi.

Weeks ago she’d stopped comparing him to the boyfriend who’d managed three calls last summer before dropping off her sonar as fast as a Russian sub.

Hi
back.
Final
pollock
count
today.
Her text program wanted to capitalize it like the last name of the drip painter.
Great
numbers—up
40.

No
squidding!

If she had a dollar for all the times...
Scheduled
to
dock
in
Seattle
Friday.
Can’t
wait
for
my
own
shower
and
bed.

Will
U
let
minnow
when?

Only
if
you
stop
the
puns!
After her earlier cruise, he’d ordered fresh milk, bread and fruit from an online grocery service to be waiting for her. Guessing that he wanted to do that again almost atoned for the atrocious joke.

Sorry
if
I
went
overboard.
Needed
distraction.

She ignored his nautical pun and typed,
Something
wrong?

Not
w
/
me.
Kade’s
in
a
rough
spot.

She suspected Kade’s injuries must be worse than his because of the protective way he wrote about the younger soldier, but she didn’t know if asking would be nosy or supportive.
If
you
want
to
share
,
I’m
here.

His
wife
left.
Don’t
know
if
she’s
coming
back.
She’s
young—21
like
him.

I
could—
Her fingers hesitated. She wasn’t a real fiancée and didn’t know military life, so what good was offering to talk to a girl she’d never met?
Anything
I
can
do?
she sent instead.

Tell
me
more
about
your
fish.

Doesn’t
bore
you?

Treadmill
is
boring.
Pacific
Ocean?
Gulf
of
Alaska?
Your
stories
take
me
out
of
this
box.
Feel
like
a
pirate.

You’re
the
first
person
who
likes
my
fish
stories.
Did that reveal too much insecurity? Overthinking, as usual, so she hit send.

I
would
listen
to—or
read—anything
you
want
to
tell
me.
Anything.

That line made her feel warm, like being wrapped in a hug. For a moment she almost sensed his arms and lips, a good memory, but he wanted a fish story. She liked to give him what he wanted, so she sent a close-up of last night’s net dump.
See
one
that’s
different?

Looks
inedible.
What
is
it?

A
decayed
high
heel.
Red
bottom
means
it
was
fancy
ladies’
shoe.
Size
8.
Fits
me!

Sole
is
yummy
w
/
Tabasco.

You
promised
to
stop!
She snapped a shot of the metal wall and single porthole at the foot of her bunk.
Tell
me
that
isn’t
boring?

Here.
Two green chairs and a small table sat in front of a window. The flash from his phone reflected off the dark glass, so she couldn’t tell if he had a view during the day.
Worse.

She zoomed on the right side of the photo where a rectangle of colors looked like a bulletin board. That might be her PR photo and that was definitely the Space Needle postcard she’d sent the week she returned to Seattle.

I
have
a
request.
His message interrupted her puzzling out the things pinned on his wall.
Can
you
send
a
picture
of
yourself?
How
you
look
right
now
,
on
the
boat.
I
imagine
you
w
/
ponytail
and
sunburn.

She touched her cheeks. They felt heated, and she was certain she was flushed with wind and sun and now something more. He was right about the ponytail, too, since they showered every third day to conserve freshwater. Holding her camera at arm’s length felt awkward, and she reminded herself to smile with her full mouth, including her teeth and eyes.

Done.
And sent, before she turned chicken.

Thank
you
, he replied.

Do
I
get
one?

It came within seconds. The Rey she’d visited at Walter Reed had looked bewildered and ill, but the man on her screen looked confident and strong. He had semi-short hair, like most researchers who came out on the ship, but there the resemblance to her coworkers stopped. His half-smile combined with his defined cheekbones, the knife-edge of his nose, his slash-line eyebrows and dark eyes to look attractive at the same time as dangerous. There wasn’t a hint of softness around his chin or neck. Rey was harder than the men she knew, that was clear.

She must have stared too long, because he texted a question mark. She shook her head to clear it and tried to think.
You
look
good.

Feel
good
this
week.
Expect
full
-
size
C
-
legs
Wednesday.
Going
to
stare
straight
in
the
Marquis’s
eyes
,
mano
a
mano.

The image of grappling with Rey took her back again to the heat of his lips under hers, his hands digging into her shoulders and pulling her into his bed on the last morning together at Walter Reed. Tonight the slightest allusion made her think of their too-brief liplock, memories that were simultaneously not detailed enough to be satisfying, yet too detailed to be ignored. She rolled to her side, but the new position didn’t relieve the fidgety urge to move her legs.

Time to shift to a safe topic like a book.
Did
you
like
Endurance?

Not
as
much
as
Kon
-
Tiki.
You?

She’d fallen asleep over the adventure sailing stories. Rey seemed to read a book a day, a pace she couldn’t match.
Dirty
secret:
didn’t
get
far.
Sea
air
did
me
in.

If
that’s
a
dirty
secret
,
you
need
help.

When
do
you
read?
She almost wanted him to say good-night so she could look at his picture again, which felt like sneaking candy.
Don’t
you
ever
sleep?

Still
wake
up
at
4
,
so
I
read.
He’d explained his phantom leg pains, but she wondered if he also had nightmares.
You
in
your
bunk?

This must be the night for personal questions. She and Rey texted every night, but neither of them had mentioned seeing each other again, nor had they ever referred to their goodbye kisses. The brief question heightened her awareness that he was a man, a man with whom she talked every day and with whom she’d once exchanged a handful of searing kisses. The ship’s surging movements amplified the vibrations in her fingers as she typed her answer in equally short words, but she suspected they would open a new door.
Yes.
You
too?

In
my
bed.
Remember?

The single word, which must refer to their last minutes together at Walter Reed, knocked a giant hole in the invisible barrier between them. Given that the calendar said August and the interlude on his hospital bed had been in April, she thought about the feel of his lips often enough to earn the label frequent. Or maybe desperate.

Can
you
send
a
photo
with
your
hair
loose?
That’s
how
I
think
of
you.

She read his request twice before she remembered to breathe.

Sorry
if
that
was
out
of
line.

Why not do it? She flicked her hair and lay on her pillow, but felt too exposed and closed her eyes before she pushed the button.

His answer came quickly.
Now
I
can
imagine
what
you
look
like
asleep
after
we
text.
Me:

He’d applied some sort of magazine-model filter to his photo, because he shouldn’t look that good sprawled on a pillow. He had one hand behind his head, which stretched his sleeve over his arm muscles and revealed the edges of his tattoo. His eyes looked almost asleep, or maybe barely awake, and she could imagine he was next to her.

She rolled to her stomach, worried that if she didn’t cool off, in five minutes she’d be removing clothes like a teenager.

The knock on the steel bulkhead door made her jump. “Phone sex patrol,” her roommate’s voice called.

“We’re not even talking,” she yelled while she typed,
Casey’s
here.