Havoc (26 page)

I never gave the rest of Haven's world much
thought. He's right. She's still learning so much, so much that
often I take for granted. I've been so enthralled by her and what
she does to me that I let it blindside my number one mission, which
was to take care of her. And my job's far from over. I don't want
Haven thinking she needs me in a way that scares her, but I want
her to need me like I do her—filling parts that no other soul on
this planet can. As much as I hate when Sir offers advice like
this, I can't help but agree.

The sound of Haven's heels cut through and
stomp out my other thoughts, and she marches into sight instead.
She looks even more gorgeous than I thought she would in her
shoulder-baring dress with her hair pulled back to show her glowing
face. I can't take her out like this. I'll kill Glove. I just know
I will. As if reading my thoughts, she smiles at me. I smile
back.

“Now, Haven, remember your background.” Sir
stands alongside me. “It's important not to mention anything–”

I offer my hand for her to take. She finishes
Sir’s sentence for him, “From my actual past. I know.”

My lips plant a kiss on her cheek and whisper
in her ear, “You look beautiful.”

“Have fun,” he declares, walking us to the
door. “Be careful.”

His eyes lock with mine. He's telling me to
be careful with whatever choices I decide to make tonight, whether
or not I ask her to be my wife. Any ideas of marriage I may have
had weren't coming to fruition tonight, but there's no need to tell
him that. With a nod, I respond, “We will, Sir.”

The drive is short and filled with the sound
of her precious laughter. She's giggling over stories of her and
Mindy from earlier, things she saw while they were shopping, things
people said to her. It's like the whole world makes her smile. I
can't imagine what that's like.

After arriving at the restaurant, the valet
parks us, and I quickly grab her hand again, hating to be so far
away from her.

“This place looks fancy,” she says
insecurely, scooting closer to me, her face pushing down like she
can't compete with what's inside. If only she knew she was so much
better than them.

“You look perfect,” I reassure her, putting a
kiss on the side of her forehead as we reach the hostess.
“Walker.”

After a couple of clicks, she politely says,
“This way.”

We're led to a table, one away from the
window, and immediately I recognize my surroundings. A flush of
heat washes over my body. We always sat here. Sir said he loved the
lighting of my mom in it. He used to rave to her about it when we
came. I assume, since our last names are the same, it's still in
the system that this is our table even though it hasn't been for
years.

I pull out Haven's seat, trying to shake the
memory. She sits, places her hands in her lap, and looks intrigued
as the menu is placed in front of her.

I sit down across from her as I look at the
cover of the menu, remembering how I didn't understand growing up
how it couldn't have numbers next to the words.

“This is really nice,” she says again. “Are
you sure you don't wanna go somewhere else? Burger maybe?”

“No burgers, babe.”

“We could do hot dogs.”

“Haven.” My eyes meet hers. “It's OK. I know
it's expensive, but you're worth every penny. Feel free to get
whatever you want, angel.”

She looks overwhelmed. I give her space and
admire while she nibbles her bottom lip, unsure of what to get.
Once she chooses and we order, our hands meet again on the table,
mine cradling hers softly. It makes her smile largely.

“You know, my mom and dad used to love places
like this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she remembers with an even more
beautiful smile. “He used to love for her to get all dolled up in
her little black dress and heels. Used to tell her she had legs for
days.” Haven giggles. “He used to call her his Bond girl. James
Bond movies were his favorite. I didn't get what he meant until I
got a little older.”

I smile proudly, “Bond girl, huh? Explains
why you look like one.”

She gives my hand a light tap, “Stop it.”
Realizing she was off her back story, letting information that
wasn't precooked for her slip out, she quickly shakes her head and
whispers, “I should stop it.”

Desperate for her to keep the conversation
about her family going, I state, “It's OK. I mean, it's just the
two of us. No one can really hear you but me.”

Seeing her internal debate to listen to what
Sir said and to share with me things she knows she can't share with
anyone else, I prep to push just a little more. We're safe. We'll
never see the people here in the restaurant again. And while we
still don't know where Old Man Banks is, it's safe assuming he's
not here. It's probably also safe to assume no one who associates
with him is here. Besides, I wanna know the real her, the her she
finally desires to share.

“So, what was her name?”

“Elena. But Dad always called her Elle.”

“Beautiful. And what was his name?”

“Dallas.”

“Strong. I like it.”

I watch as a smile crawls on her face before
she giggles, “Mom would have loved you.”

“You think so?”

“God, yes.” Her voice gets more animated,
more excited. “Would've given me a list of things to say and not
say to make sure I didn't chase you away.”

“You could never chase me away.” She smiles,
and a strand of hair falls in her face. “And what about Dallas?
Would he approve of me?”

Her head tilts back and forth as if debating,
“He would hate you being in the military only because he would hate
to see me worrying about you so much, but he'd adore you to the
point it wouldn't matter.”

I try to hold back my smile but can't help
it. She plays with the tags around her neck, keeping my attention
focused on her. As our salads get delivered, she continues on with
stories from her childhood, all of them causing her to glow just a
little more. Every time her face lights up, my heart melts. Before
our main course has arrived, I feel like I can barely control the
warm feelings that have overcome me. Everything she says only makes
me want more. Drinking in her memories is getting me drunker than
any alcohol ever could.

Around the time dessert arrives, she shifts
her body, “What about you? You think your mom would have approved
of me?”

The question slows my chewing down. Dessert
is my favorite thing next to the breadsticks. With a nod, I
reassure her, “She would've loved you. Asked why I haven't asked
you to marry me yet.” The word marry raises her eyebrows like, if I
were to ask right now, she would say yes. “I'd have to tell
her—because right now your life needs to be more about you—and I
get that. And some day I will ask, and it'll be the right time. The
perfect time.” Sir's words roll out of my mouth rephrased.

“What was her name?”

“Jamie.” I smile, “She also would've given me
advice that you probably shouldn't get from your mother.”

Intrigued, she leans forward, “Like
what?”

Mom's memory stabs at me in the side like a
sharp knife toying with my ribs. “Probably would've said something
about making sure to get the condoms ribbed for her pleasure.” The
comment sends Haven into a giggling frenzy. “Or given me a
Kamasutra book as something to read like a study manual. Not to say
Mom was sex craved, but she was wild. And crazy. Funny. More
importantly, she just would've wanted me to make sure I was doing
everything capable to keep you pleased.”

“I love her already,” Haven teases, taking a
bite of chocolate dessert.

The words get caught in my throat as tears
try to stick, too, “Me too.”

Silence settles for a minute before she
continues, “Tell me something about your dad.”

My body tightens back up. “Dad” died years
ago, and I don't ever think about him. Even now as the bricks from
my mind crumble and my mother's memories flood powerfully at me,
thoughts of him don't want to surface.

“You've met him.”

“Yeah, I've met him, but much like you, I
imagine he was different before her death.” I don't look up. The
fork in my hand stabs repeatedly at the piece of cake I was after,
my appetite suddenly vacant. “Clint.”

“Haven.”

“Come on, Clint,” she whispers softly, wiping
her hands on her napkin. “Give me something. Give me a memory from
back then.” Her voice urges, and then she does something I can't
resist. She gently touches my arm and whispers, “Please.”

I look down at her hand touching me so
sweetly. My face grins, and I remain silent, doing my best to
figure out if any memories of him before her death are still alive
to be found.

One crawls up and starts scratching at my
brain like a puppy at the back door. It wants me to let it out.
Begging. Whining. “I was ten. It was one of the last games of the
season, one of the only ones he ever saw. We were up by three
points. It was our last inning at bat, and it was my turn. I was on
the bench next to this kid they called Meek the Geek.”

“Why'd they call him that?”

“His last name was Meekers. He had these
thick, Coke-bottle glasses, the way you would imagine a
stereotypical nerdy kid, down to the constant runny nose. Anyway,
he hadn't played once all season, and I knew, I knew the one thing
he wanted was to just get out on the field and swing one time. It
was on his face every time I was called up to bat. It was like he
wished it were him.”

“You're up, Walker,” Coach calls at me from
the dugout door, clipboard pressed tightly to his chest.

I look over at Meekers just as he wipes his
nose again with the back of his pale arm. He's staring at the
ground, drawing a picture of something with his cleats. I think
it's supposed to be the Superman symbol. At least he's got
all-right taste in superheroes.

“Walker, you're up,” Coach repeats, but I
keep looking at Meekers. Poor kid, just wants to get on the field.
Truth is he most likely won't play another season. Between his
allergies and over concerned mother who puts extra sunscreen on him
every chance she gets, I'm shocked he made this season.

Suddenly, I rub my shoulder and tell Coach,
“My arm’s killing me. It aches so bad I don't think I can swing
again today. Put Meekers in instead.”

Coach's face contorts, while Meekers’s face
lights up like those words were a gift from God. At that moment,
Coach sees the reaction. He sees in Meeker exactly what I just
did.

“All right, Walker, rest that arm of yours.
Meekers, you're up.”

Meekers stares at me in disbelief. In fact,
he stares so long that it becomes uncomfortable.

I smile, “Give 'em your best shot.”

Meekers scampers off the bench and rushes to
the field. It’s the top on the ninth, and we're already up, so
really, what do we have to lose giving the kid a chance?

The first ball is a strike. No surprise
there, but at least he looks happy. Pitch two soars, and Meekers
swings with what looks like everything in him, sending the ball
higher than I would have ever thought he could make it go.

He rushes to first, while the man on third
races home. Both make it safely—Meekers is on the board with an
RBI! As the game comes to a close, Meekers’s mother bum-rushes the
field, shrieking, tears on her face, so excited to see her son
finally in a game. She hugs him and kisses him, and cries. I watch
with my hands gripped on the bench in excitement. I helped that. I
helped make them both happy.

Turning around, I see Sir staring down at me,
a very stern, hard look on his face. I glance over to see Mom busy
packing up our stuff, so I know she's not going to help me from
getting chewed out.

I meet him on the other side of the fence
just when he looks over at the sight of Meekers’ mom cuddling him
in tighter. He stares for a moment and turns back to me. He puts
his hand on my shoulder and says, “You did good.”

“But, I took myself out.”

He nods and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I
know, son. And I'm proud of you.'”

The words ring in my ears and clog up my
throat. It's suddenly so much harder to breathe. Feeling the
thickness in the air around me, I give Haven's hand a good squeeze.
“That was the last time he told me he was proud of me.”

She doesn't say anything. Her eyes are
staring at our joined hands, thoughts clearly running through her
mind, but what exactly, I'm unsure of. Suddenly, she lifts her
delicate face up, eager to say something.

“You know, Clint, your dad . . . he's still
proud of you.”

I shake my head, “Haven.”

“Even if you say otherwise, Clint, I know he
is. I'm going to say something here and risk you being mad at
me.”

“I could never be mad at you,” I whisper as
the check lands on the table.

“You know, I don't know what went on between
the two of you. I don't know what happened to make you so distant,
but I do know, Clint, that your dad is still alive. And he still
cares about you. And he still wants his son in his life.” The words
cause me to shift uncomfortably as I look up into her eyes. “And
the two of you need to let whatever split you apart die because you
still have each other. You have a father, Clint, and that's
something I'll never get to have again. Don't get me wrong. I love
the way the neighborhood is now my family and treats me that way,
but my flesh-and-blood family is gone, no matter how alive their
memories are to me. But you, you two have the chance to make more
memories and be together. And you should take it. You know, there's
a real good chance from what I know about your mom that, if your
mom knew the way you two were behaving, the two men I'm guessing
she loved more than her own life, she wouldn't be happy. She'd
probably be pissed. She'd expect more from both of you. I'm not
saying forget everything that's happened between you. But maybe,
sweetheart, it's time to forgive. Move forward.”