The Charlotte Chronicles (16 page)

T
he tension hits
me the minute I walk into the suite that Christian’s family is currently staying in. Despite the hefty per night price tag, this place is too small for Christian, Peyton, and their two year old. I make a note to move housing up to the top of the list. Ideally their child should have stayed behind while I looked for the right property and Christian met with his new team. 

I’m not sure whose idea it was to have the whole family here, but no one is happy making the large three room upper-story suite feel like a stifling linen closet. My eyes slide from the scowl-lined face of Christian to the tense one of Peyton. Only Peyton even attempts to smile at me when I arrive.

“How is sweet Christie doing today?” I ask as I advance toward the sofa and scoop up their beautiful baby girl into my arms.  I rub my nose against her soft skin, enjoying the pats of her tiny hands against my cheek. 

“Fine, despite the ungodly flight. I don’t understand why they didn’t send the team plane for us,” Peyton says with a dark look.

“Babe, I couldn’t ask for that.”

“You asked for the trade,” she shoots back. “Maybe think about your family next time.”

I settle onto the sofa next to Peyton. “Hey, Peyton. I’m here. I’m going to take care of everything. You will love it here. The beach and the sand will be awesome for Christie. And the Commandants are a great family organization. You know Shelly Hoffman, too, so it’s not like everyone here is a stranger.”

Some of her anger is deflating. “I haven’t talked to Shelly in forever,” she admits.

“I’m sure she understands.” Why wouldn’t she? Being the significant other of an athlete is its own special club—harrowing, exciting, but with a lot of emotional baggage. 

“Thanks, Charlie.” She gives me a hug. We play with the baby for a little while longer until Peyton takes her off to have a mid-morning snack in one of the other rooms, giving me time and privacy to talk to Christian.

“It’s a mess,” he admits when we sit down at the table. “Get us out of here ASAP. And go to Tiffany’s. This is something Pey Pey has been wanting for a while now. I was going to buy it for her birthday but. . .” he trails off. He’s worried that she won’t be around for her birthday. A bracelet isn’t going to convince her not to leave, but I’m not a couple’s counselor. I am an errand girl though. I take a photo of the diamond and gold bracelet he has on his phone. “Do your magic.”

“I will. You concentrate on making this trade worthwhile.” We run over a few broad ideas of what he wants in a home and a nanny, and then I dismiss him to get into the details with Peyton. Having facilitated their move two years ago on the opposite coast, I’m able to show her three properties I’ve already bookmarked online as recommendations when she returns from feeding baby Christie.  

“I’m thinking Rancho Santa Fe. You’ll be living next to other athletes, bankers, and even the occasional movie star. There’s not a lot of racial diversity, but it’s better than it was, say, ten years ago.” 

Peyton presses her lips together. “I’m having my mother move up. She wouldn’t have liked Baltimore, but San Diego would be okay.”

“See,” I nudge her slightly. “This isn’t so bad. I’m sure Christian was thinking of you when he asked for the trade.” 

When she gives me a 
don’t bullshit me
 glare, I raise my eyebrows and move on. We both know Christian thinks of his career first and his family second, but I do think he loves Peyton. They’ve been together five years, which, for athletes, is like thirty in real-life terms. After contacting a real estate agent as well as giving Peyton instructions to two different parks and an indoor play area that she can take Christie to, I head over to the Fashion Valley Mall and the nearest Tiffany store.

When I get there, I pause to peruse the small black box displays of necklaces and watches for gifts for my family. I haven’t seen Mom and Dad in months, what with my business taking off. I need to get back to Chicago. I talk to them once a week, but it’s not the same. A delicate necklace with a citrine oval unfaceted gemstone with tiny delicate gold leaves curling around the edges catches my eye. It has my mom written all over it, and the price tag is one that even I can afford without dipping into my trust. Just beyond the black display block mounted on a thin steel pole, my gaze is arrested by a tall, broad-shouldered man leaning over a counter. As he straightens and his dark, military short hair comes into view, my heart skips a beat. 

No, Charlotte. It is not Nathan. Not every tall, dark-haired male in San Diego is Nathan.
 

But I can’t tear my eyes away. I will him to look at me. The sales assistant is pulling out a tray and setting it in front of him. He lifts a shiny object from the tray and holds it up, turning slightly so that the light catches it. And I see it. And then 
him
. The drumbeat in my ears is so loud it’s as if the percussion section of the entire band is standing right next to me. My breath is becoming shallow and harsh, but I can’t wrench my eyes away. I eat up this glimpse of him. My eyes hungrily rove over his lovely face, the strong nose and square jaw and full lips that are pursed slightly. His head cocks to the side, as if he’s trying to peer around the window display . . . at me? I duck to the side, pressing up against the gray granite exterior that frames the glass windows. Numerous mall shoppers walk by, probably staring at the strange girl plastered flat against the wall unmoving. Minutes pass, but I can’t leave. Nor can I go inside. 

“Miss? Miss? Miss? Lady!” 

The last word filters through my muddled brain, and I look up to see a police officer and a mall security guard standing in front of me. Their hands are on their hips, close to their weapons, and they appear confused and unhappy.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m just leaving.” The security guard follows me all the way to the parking lot. When climb into my rented Honda Fit, though, I’m still too shaky to drive off. Instead, I fumble in my purse and grab my phone. The second speed dial button is Nick.

His voicemail message kicks in almost immediately.
Can’t answer the phone. Text me because I don’t listen to messages. 

Ignoring his instruction, I babble a message. “I’m in San Diego. I saw Nate at Tiffany’s. He was buying a ring. Or looking at one. Is he getting married? Is he really getting married, and no one told me?” 

Hanging up before Nick hears me sob on the message that he might never listen to, I start the car and drive back to my hotel. I could call Aunt Grace, his mother. I could call
my
mother. Both would know the truth about Nate’s relationship status. Unless . . . unless this is some woman he’s kept secret, and he’s going to marry her and spring her on us the next time we all get together as a family.  

Finally, I break down and call Reese. “I need you to come here,” I say without preamble. 

“You having problems with Christian?”

Oh god, Christian and Peyton. The bracelet I’m supposed to buy to soften the trade is still unpurchased, and the whole to-do list for them sits untouched in my purse. Sitting up, I fumble for my bag and find the little orange notebook that I’ve picked out for Christian. Opening it up, I glance unseeing down the list. I can’t concentrate. Throwing the book across the room, I say, “No. Not yet. That’s not important. I saw 
him.
”

“Who? Christian? You’re supposed to see him. He’s your client.”

“No, Reese. Pay attention. Nate. He was in Tiffany’s looking at diamond rings.” I start crying, sobbing really. “He’s getting married.”

“Back up the horse, honey, what happened? Start with why you are even at Tiffany’s.”

Hiccupping, I try to get myself under control. “I had to go to buy a bracelet for Peyton. She’s pissed about the trade. Christian was trying to buy his way back into her good graces. When I glanced in the window, I saw him. He was staring at a tray of engagement rings.”

“You don’t know that,” Reese says. “He could have been buying something for his mom—like a cocktail ring or something. Why do you think it was an engagement ring?”

“He was holding one up as if he was trying to decide if it was big enough.”

“She’s probably a huge bitch, and they’ll be divorced within the year.” Reese tries to comfort me. 

“Maybe.” But what if I run into them during my time in San Diego? He’ll be all smiles and wanting to introduce me to her. She is probably tall and really, really gorgeous. Like a Nordic goddess. I need a barrier, something or . . .
someone
 to deflect some of that pain. “Come here. Be my boyfriend,” I beg.

“Oh, honey. You know I don’t swing that way.” 

“No, I mean, come to San Diego and do this job with me. That way, if I run into him and his fiancé—” I almost gag at the word “—I can smile and say, here’s my super hot boyfriend Reese. Nice to meet you.” 

I hear rustling and then a zipper being pulled. “Okay, I’m packing. I’m not posing as your boyfriend though. That never works because, according to all the books I’ve read, you’ll fall in love with me and then I’ll have to break your heart.” I start laughing just as Reese intended. “But I am flying out on the first plane because I love you and you’re my best friend. At the very least we can stalk him and find out exactly who this wench is, and then you’ll be all prepared for a random meet and greet. How hot is it there?”

“Really hot,” I answer. Drawers are being opened and shut as Reese selects his Southern California wardrobe. 

“How many guys you been with since him?” he asks suddenly.  I can’t answer, but he reads the silence perfectly. “Charlie. No.”

Defensively, I say, “I dated.”

“You’ve been separated for how long?”

“Nine years,” I mumble. 

“Nine fucking years?” He yells into the phone. “You haven’t played hide the sausage in nine years?  Charlie, I’m so disappointed!”

“I’ve done other stuff,” I stammer. “I tried but whenever it came down to it, I couldn’t do it. I felt like I was cheating on him.”

“No wonder you are hung up on this guy. I’m packing right now. We are going down to the Gaslamp District, and you are going to get laid. Dr. Reese prescribes at least three one night stands. Then we can think about a nice guy that you will date for a period of six months or so before moving on.”

“Why
three
one night stands?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

“It takes at least two to actually enjoy it.” A zipping sound signals he’s done packing. “You are a grown-ass woman, but you’re still stuck on your high school sweetheart because you don’t know what kind of sex you can have with a man. Let me tell you that being with a guy who actually knows his way around a body is a hell of a lot different than a teenager. Plus, older guys have more stamina and are just way more damn creative.”

Telling Reese that I thought Nate was pretty amazing as a seventeen-year-old would only result in more lectures about boys versus men, so I keep my mouth shut. 

Reese sighs. “Repeat after me: I’m a grown-ass woman.” 

When I don’t immediately parrot his sentence back, he barks, “Say it, Charlotte.” 

“I’m a grown-ass woman.”

“I’m a grown-ass woman, and I deserve to have an adult relationship.”

“I’m a grown-ass woman, and I deserve to have an adult relationship,” I repeat obediently. “What’s the point of the one night stands?”

“Shock to your system. It’s like a cleanse. You need to flush the bad toxins out of your system and put new, good ones in.”

“Isn’t a cleanse like fasting, which I’ve done for, oh, nine years?” I point out.

“Unfortunately for you, the cleanse has gone on for so long, that you’ve been revirginized. A one night stand or three will wake you up to the possibilities. Shit, you’ve enshrined this guy for so long. You’re going to need three one night stands because the first guy who even breathes on your lady parts is going to set you off.”

“Okay, that image is kind of gross, particularly coming from you.” 

“I’ve got more where that comes from. Prepare yourself,” he sings into the phone before he hangs up.

Reese’s irreverent attitude is just what I need. Picking up the discarded notebook, I start in on the list of to-dos. My business has saved me these last few years. Letting myself fail at this is not an option.

T
he operation to
rescue the wealthy American couple is green lighted. It’s almost a relief to concentrate on something else other than Charlie and that soon-to-be dead motherfucker Reese. In fact, as we practice our extraction moves over and over, there isn’t room to think of anything other than where I’ll be, the positioning of my teammates, when we’ll take the shot, and how we’ll infiltrate the ship to rescue the hostages.

This wasn’t going to be like the mission we undertook six months ago trying to rescue a journalist. After we’d failed, the journalist had been moved and it took another ninety days to find her again. One of my teammates lost his mind during that time period. He’d tormented himself every day, every hour that ticked by.

One day he’d turned to me and said, “You lost someone. I get it now.”

“I haven’t lost anyone,” I’d answered because everyone I loved was alive. Charlotte didn’t talk to me anymore, but she was alive.

He looked confused. “Then why do you look like I feel?”

“How’s that?”

“Like I’m dead inside. Like losing that girl killed whatever I had in here.” He thumped his chest.

The pain in his eyes was so strong I wanted to look away, but he was my teammate. He deserved to have my attention.

“Yeah, okay, I lost my girl only she’s still alive.”

“She cheat on you? Find a Jody back home?”

Jody’s the nickname we give every guy who fucks the women that stay while the men are off risking their asses for God and country. I shake my head. “No. I . . . I let her go.”

He looked away swiftly, but not before I saw the contempt in his eyes. “Never thought you were a coward, Monk. A fool, maybe. But not a coward.”

When I got back, I pulled out Charlotte’s letters. I read them the entire night and when dawn lit up the sky, I’d known that he was right. I’d been a coward for far too long, and I had to do something about it.

All too soon the op is over, and we are riding in the helo back to land where we’ll catch a flight on the oh-so-comfortable C5 Galaxy back to San Diego. 

While everyone else around me is sacked out like good little seamen, lying on a crate or propped up against a pallet using their rucksacks as pillows, I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see my Charlotte being molested by some asshole named Reese. When I got back to land, I was going to need a leave of absence. Three or four days are all I would need to find out everything about this Reese dude and destroy him. Then I’d . . . my plans fell apart there. Mostly I thought I’d pick up Charlotte, shove her in my rental, and bring her back to San Diego with me. I’d put her in my bed and wouldn’t let her leave until she admitted she still loved me.

Lieutenant Daniel Sykes, the CO of my SEAL Team Nine, must notice my agitation because he gets up from his cozy bed of wood, metal, and rough cloth to come sit next to me.  “When I was a Petty Officer Second Class, my girlfriend who I’d dated since the ninth grade broke up with me because she was in love with her lab partner, Darryl. Maybe his name was Dennis. I decided that Dennis could go to hell and that Alyson was missing me. So I fly home after a two month mission and head straight for her apartment. Alyson was entertaining the asshole. There was some shouting. Some tears. I punched him out. And if it wasn’t for the fact that she had some feeling left for me, old Dennis might have called the police and then my CO would be called and I’d have gotten kicked off the teams.”

“LT, you know I’m not going to do anything that would dishonor the teams,” I assure him. I knew how to play this game. We’d gotten into plenty of trouble off base in the past, but so long as no local law enforcement had to be called, it was all good. My destruction of Reese would be silent and deadly. The law enforcement wouldn’t even know I was in town.

“I’m merely saying I recognize that look on your face. Probably every one of us has worn it at one time or another. Don’t let your heart lead you into trouble. I’d hate for you to end up having a black mark on what has otherwise been a stellar career. You given any thought to OTS? You’d be a good mustang.”

Mustangs were guys who went to Officer Training School and made the jump from enlisted to officer. As an officer you got paid more and you had more responsibility. I don’t really care for either. I like being enlisted. It’s where work gets done, not that I don’t admire the shit out of LT Sykes, but I don’t want to deal with his headaches either.

Plus, enlisted men are more fun to hang around, and even though rank is pretty fluid on the teams, when we’re out of the theatre and back at base, there are definite lines of separation.

“I’ll think about it, sir,” I hedge, but LT has known me long enough and is smart enough to read my hesitation.

“You do that.” He stands. “And get some sleep. That’s an order.”

I force myself to sleep by mentally assembling and reassembling my gun and then pointing it. I wake up to Petty Officer Second Class Tom Cheung describing his next door neighbor. “Girl is so stacked I don’t know how she is able to walk upright.”

“You offer to help her like a gentleman, right?” laughs Senior Chief Michael “Cabby” Hale.

“Course I do. I say, ‘Miss Emily, why don’t you take my arm and press your precious titties against my biceps while I walk you to your car?’”

“That’s real courtly of you, Bride.” Everyone calls Cheung Bride because one night, he somehow got his sheet tucked into his shorts, and it trailed behind him like a goddamned train on a wedding gown.

“She let you stick your face in those tatas?” Ensign Ryan Elison pipes up. Elison’s so new he squeaks when he walks. He’s eager to please and desperately wants to fit in, but he’s replacing a guy that we all really liked who’d bitten it on a fucked-up training mission. None of us hold it against Elison, but even he knows that immediate acceptance isn’t going to come.

“Ensign Elison, this is a delicate mission. A man only gets a few chances in his life to see a rack this spectacular. I’m not going to rush it.”

“You’ve been gone for two months,” Cab interjects. “She’s probably moved.”

“Am I a SEAL?” Bride asks. It’s a rhetorical question. “Do I not know how to plan, execute said plan, and then achieve my objective?”

“I thought I was in charge of planning,” LT says wryly, and we all laugh when Bride flicks him off.

“What’re you doing when you get back, Cab?” Bride asks

“I’m going to see if the sweet honey over in Oceanside still has room in her bed for me. Her going away blow job was stellar. I need to measure it against her welcome home one.”

“And if the going away one is better?” Ensign Elison asks.

“Shit, sir, then I’ll get a going away one, which I’ve already told you was spec-fucking-tacular. I’ll get gone with a smile on my face. Even a bad blow job is just fine.”

“What about you, Jackson?” Elison asks.

“I’m going to propose,” I say. It pops out, but it sounds right. To everyone else, it’s so surprising there’s silence for once. Everyone gapes at me as the thump of the engine beats loudly against the metal sides.

“Shit, didn’t even know you were dating anyone.”

“It’s the letter girl, right?” Bride offers.

“Who’s the letter girl?” asks Elison. He doesn’t know my history with Charlotte—unlike Cabby who’s been with me through BUD/S, the naval school where they try to sort out the SEALs from the wannabes by trying to kill you every day. Cabby stares at me like I’m half out of my mind. And I am. No question. I won’t ever be right again if I don’t get Charlotte back.

With a sigh, he turns away and redirects attention at Elison. “Ensign, we need to give you a nickname.”

Elison sits up straighter. A nickname means he belongs.

“I’m leaning toward Howdy Doody,” I offer.

“Fuck you, Jackson,” he retorts, which is good. We don’t want a mealy mouthbreather serving with us.

“He doesn’t do that,” Bride laughs.

Elison immediately colors and stammers out an apology. “I-I-I didn’t mean it like that. And if you are gay, I’m okay with that. Not that you have to tell me. It wasn’t an advance. I wasn’t coming on to you.”

This makes Bride laugh all the more. “Don’t you know why we call Jackson Monk, Howdy?”

His blushing makes the nickname stick, and as Elison’s face falls in dismay, he mutters a little sullenly, “No.”

“Because in all the time he’s been on the teams, he’s never touched a person. Not a guy or a girl, isn’t that right, Monk?” Bride says. He used to sneer it, but after a few fists in the face and then a lot of liquor afterwards, we’d come to an understanding. We didn’t talk about my sex life . . . until now I guess. I let it go because he isn’t wrong.

I’ve had plenty of opportunity. Every SEAL does. There’s always someone out there who wants to say they banged an elite warrior and many who look at us as tickets out of whatever poor circumstances they’re in, only to find that it was better to be single than tied to a guy who is gone half the year on secretive missions that he could never talk about. A guy who spends more time with his SEAL team members than his own family. Lots of women got sick and tired of that quick.

I’d tried a few times. I’d accepted a few women’s invitations to their homes or apartments or hotel rooms, but ultimately I’d left them dissatisfied and angry. As for me, each time renewed my belief that celibacy was my punishment. I’d turned my back on Charlotte. My unwillingness to follow through with any other woman has to do with the fact that while I was able to walk away from her, every part of me—including my stupid cock—still believes we belong to Charlotte Randolph.

“So is it the letter girl?” Elison is the only one brave enough to ask. He doesn’t know better, but I don’t care–not at this point.

“It’s the letter girl,” I affirm.

“Will she say yes?”

“Am I not a SEAL that knows how to plan, execute said plan, and achieve my objective?” I mock, but my anger is self-directed.

Elison nods his head. Truthfully, I think she’ll say no, but I’ll keep asking until I am too old to form words and my body is dust.

A
fter we land
, after we are debriefed, after we are given instructions on our next training session and then debriefed again, I am free. I drive to the only jewelry store I know of, look at a bunch of sparkly things, and then got distracted by a head of blonde hair flying by the store windows. Deciding that today is not the day to make this decision, I call Nick.

“Hey, big bro! Good to hear your voice.” His relief is evident although unstated. I know he worries—that they all do. I wonder if she still does.

“I was thinking about coming out. I’ve got shore leave starting in a couple of days.”

“That’d be awesome. I’m back at camp, but I’m sure you can find something to do to occupy your time.”

“Great. I’m booking a flight right now.” I hesitate because I’m going to ask him about Charlotte—a subject that has been off limits for a couple of years now, since we got into a fight about how I never should have started that shit with her. “Is anyone else in the family around?” I ask casually but he knows. We’re brothers. How could he not?

“Charlie? She’s actually close to you. A boy of hers got traded to the SD Commandants . . . in fact, I got a call from her the other day. You got shit to tell me?”

Charlie? That’s what the Reese fuckhead called her. “Since when has Charlotte suddenly got a boy’s nickname?” I’m annoyed and ignore the rest of the question.

“Since when do you care?” he shoots back. “And answer the goddamned question. Are you bringing home some girl to Mom?”

Nick’s abundant use of profanity rivals almost anyone on my team, and we are all notorious for being unable to have a conversation without at least a fuck spit out every other sentence.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Where’s Charlotte?”

“She’s in fucking San Diego. I just told you that.”

“I’m not bringing anyone home to Mom,” I say. “Where in San Diego? This is a big fucking town.”

“I don’t know,” he huffs. “I’m guessing wherever it is you buy rings because she apparently believes you are planning to propose to some Southern California girl that none of us have ever met.”

I filter through his words, turning them over in my head, trying to grasp the full meaning of them, and as they tumble into place, I’m both elated and worried. “I’m only ever going to marry one girl, Nick.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. “Well . . .” he says. I’ve apparently dumbfounded him. “Well. Good. Good.” He begins to laugh, a loud but almost kind of painful sound. “I can’t fucking believe it. It’s taken you longer to get your head on straight than the mission to the moon, but you have, right? I got her cell phone number. You need that?”

“No.” I stole it from his phone the last time we saw each other.

“She usually stays in those boutique hotels, so who knows where she’s at in the city. Fuck. Let me check my messages again . . . no, she never said where she was staying. Hold on. Let me text her.”

While I wait for a response, I feel a burn of jealousy toward Nick. He knows where she is. He can text her with ease. But all of this is a situation of my own making. I’m the one who broke us, and I’ll be the one to put us back together.

“She’s at the Del,” he says finally with a laugh. “You lucky son of a bitch. She’s right next door.”

“Thanks.” We spend the next fifteen minutes catching up on everything else. He doesn’t like the rookie wide receiver they drafted, thinks he spends too much time yukking it up to the media. Nick likes everyone to keep their excesses on the down low. Want to bang a supermodel? That’s fine, just don’t brag about it when you do. He thinks it’s a distraction. The only thing you should be known for is your play on the field, not off of it.

After I ring off, the blonde hair I saw in the window at Tiffany’s when I was holding one of the diamonds up to the light springs to mind. I didn’t even consider at the time that it could have been Charlotte, because what were the odds? But she’s here and, like Nick said, next door. The Hotel Del Coronado is an institution that sits right up the beach from where we train. The island of Coronado is a small postage stamp piece of land across the bay from San Diego.