The Secret Of Us

“Do you think that’s what’s happening now, with Matt? Do you think he’s running away from how he really feels about me, or do you think that he’s telling the truth? That he doesn’t have any feelings for me more than friendship?” I knew the answer I wanted, and she knew the answer I wanted. But I also knew she would be honest.

“I don’t know Matt’s heart, Eira. Maybe not even he knows what he’s really feeling. But maybe these next months away from you will give him time to figure all of that out.”

For almost as long as I could remember, my father drove a 1986 Saab 900S – a seemingly immortal piece of machinery and Swedish craftsmanship that wore its battle scars with pride. It was unmistakable – in more ways than one. Its approach was loud enough to hear halfway down the street, a sound that resembled the roar of jet engines, and its curving silhouette was what my father fondly described as “slipper-like.” As it aged, it also ailed, and my father had to find more and more ingenious ways of nursing the car along. Engine turnover required just the right combination of jiggles, wiggles, and cajoling – and even then, it wasn’t always a sure thing.

The car drew an interesting parallel to life, the way relationships must be handled with a degree of care and commitment peculiar to each person and each situation. Some need just the right sequence of jiggles and clicks, some require holding your head at a certain angle while you stand on one foot – whatever the mitigating circumstances, it all comes down to a decision that all the effort is worth it.

And then seeing it through.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, I’d made the decision that everything here was worth it. That my relationship with Matt was worth all the effort, all the nurturing, all the patience that sometimes felt exhausting and painful. There were days that I wanted to throw in the towel, to pick up the phone and tell Matt that this relationship we had was poisonous, dangerous, and that we would both be better off if things ended now. No more contact.

Just over.

And then I would remember how much I loved him, how much I wanted him to be part of my life – even if the degree to which he was part of my life wasn’t exactly what I wanted. I couldn’t imagine things without him, not after all the time I’d had to get used to him being there.

There would be such a chasm, a void, if he was gone. And I was afraid to face that.

So instead, I held on to what I considered the lesser of the two evils, a known entity, and reasoned that things would change eventually. Either he would come to his senses, or I would become blissfully desensitized.

That was where things seemed to stand the day Matt walked through the doors of the airport to start his deployment. The situation between us seemed about as firm as Jell-O when it’s in that state of not-quite-solid-not-quite-liquid before it’s set.

Which left the possibility of us figuring things out together any time soon seeming slim, too.

Matt’s ninety days of deployment seemed to pass both too slowly and too quickly. There were days that crept by endlessly, and days that were over before they’d even started. One thing that each of those ninety days held in common was the silence. No word – no phone calls, no e-mails, no letters. Nothing from Matt in the way of communication, and I felt sometimes as though I was going to go insane with worry.

All of the previous deployments during our friendship had been consistently peppered with e-mails and fairly regular phone conversations. Now, there was nothing. Nothing except the maddening absence, the deafening silence.

And the ambiguous way we’d left things before he’d gotten on that plane.

So here I was, stuck in limbo and caught in a state of indecision.

Maybe a more logical person would have taken those ninety days of silence and decided that none of it was worth any more thought, any more heartache.

Maybe those ninety days would have been used to rebuild a separate life, one that completely closed Matt out and cut him off, but I seemed unable to think past the immediacy of my need to fix this awkwardness between us.

And my inability to do it.

It was, strangely, like having my feet encased in cement.

And maybe just as dangerous.

I didn’t know what to do or really how to feel, and so I did what I always did when I didn’t know my next move – I worked, I worked some more, and when I wasn’t working, I took out my fine-tip pens and sketchpad and drew. For me, there was escape and release in the creativity I found on the white expanse of the page. I could express my emotions – my turmoils and joys – in the strokes of my pen, and people seemed to like the results.

I filled three sketchbooks while Matt was gone, creating a visual diary of sorts. Maybe one day I would know what to do with them, but for now, they were mine, tracing the arc of my heartbreak even as I hoped to find the beauty in all of this.

When Matt came home, when his deployment was over, and he walked past the security desk to meet me in the waiting area at the airport, the air seemed thick with all the words we weren’t saying. All the words that hadn’t been spoken in the ninety days he’d been gone, all of the words that needed to have been said in the now eight months that had passed since we’d kissed.

Now, they all seemed inescapable.

I knew – standing there, in the midst of all the people welcoming their loved ones home, teary as they wrapped each other in warm embraces – that things were going to have to change. We would have to decide, once and for all, where we stood. I wanted so badly to reach out to him, to close the gap between us that seemed like a chasm as wide as the Grand Canyon, but all of the uncertainty kept me rooted and silent.

And then it happened.

He took a step.

He placed his hand on my cheek, his touch feather light and tender, and whispered so softly that the words were nearly swallowed by the chaotic activity of the terminal.

“I love you, Eira Larson. Please tell me it’s not too late for me,” he breathed.

Matt’s eyes were moist with tears, all the pain and pleading and hope nakedly exposed on his face. I saw my own power to break him reflected in the depthless pools of his warm brown eyes, my own vulnerability mirrored by every emotion so plainly written there.

A choked sob escaped my lips, every moment of insecurity and pain and wanting bubbling to the surface and pushing past all the defenses I thought I’d so painstakingly constructed. I wasn’t sure I could trust my voice enough to tell him everything I wanted to say, but I also knew the gravity of this moment. Whatever I said or didn’t say now would resonate forever, the same way a bomb blast seemed to ring forever in the ears of anyone close enough to hear it.

This moment was deafening.

This moment was sweet.

This moment would determine our fate.

I closed my eyes and tipped my chin, feeling warmth spread slowly through my body, a liquid heat that was purely joyful.

I realized as I opened my eyes that I was smiling – a closed bud rather than a fully opened blossom – the first blush of a smile. Tears whispered at the rims of my eyes, softening my vision.

Matt pursed his lips and then opened his mouth to speak again, but I shook my head to stop his flow of words. I was still silent, still smiling, as I reached up and placed my hand on his chest, just over his heart. I felt it pounding under the palm of my hand, steady and strong through the thick fabric of his uniform.

“It’s never too late to say I love you,” I said, so soft it was nearly inaudible in the din.

It was all I could manage, but it was all Matt needed to hear.

He told me, later, that being away had given him time to realize just what he stood to lose.

He had realized that I had become much more than a friend, and that he truly wanted more.

He wanted me, forever.

“Forever,” he said, holding my hand in his as we sat, side by side on the steps of his apartment. Fireflies were floating through the air all around us, lighting the darkness with their magical glow and lending romance to what might have been an ordinary evening. He lifted my hand and kissed my fingertips, my nose, my forehead.

“Forever, Eira,” he whispered again. “That’s what I want with you. Will you marry me?”

He spoke the words almost too softly to hear, as though he was afraid the sound of his voice might break the spell. But they were there, floating like gossamer in the evening breeze, dancing in the dark with the fireflies all around us. Slowly, carefully, Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring, a small and simple gold band set with a single diamond that might have seemed unimpressive to some – but for me, the glistening facets of that round-cut stone were more beautiful than any others I had seen. For me, that stone meant that the dream I had dreamed for so long was now finally coming true.

“Yes, Matt,” I whispered back. “For now and forever, yes.”

Chapter Seven

November 2008

Three years.

Thirty-six months.

Roughly eleven hundred days.

It had been over three years since I’d seen or heard from him, but here he was, in the flesh.

Impossibly, it would have seemed, as in those three years, I’d moved a thousand miles away, leaving the home I had so loved in North Carolina to transplant my broken life into Florida sand, where I shared no history with Matt. Where I thought the tides of the Pensacola Bay would wash away the pain and leave me with a fresh future, like the unmarred sand on a shoreline after a wave has receded.

I’d begun rebuilding here, in this small community set along the shores of Florida’s Panhandle, trying to find my own treasures in this jewel-box so famously known as the Emerald Coast. I’d spent the last three years trying to get over him, to forget how much I loved him, to forget how much he’d hurt me. Thinking of what I’d say to him if I ever had the opportunity to say it to his face – and now here he was.

Right in front of me, smiling at me as though he had no idea who I was. Talking as casually as he would with someone he’d never met, someone with whom he had absolutely no history.

And I had absolutely no idea what to say.

“Can I get that rare, or is that against the rules?” he asked, flashing me another smile.

A smile.

A smile that I wanted to slap off of his face.

A smile that I wanted to scream at him for, to demand explanation for.

How could he sit there, smiling at me like that, when he’d done what he’d done?

I forced my attention back to the present and reached for the menu he’d extended towards me, realizing I was going to have to pull it together. Otherwise, I risked looking pitiful and desperate, the wounded woman who’d never gotten over being dumped. No matter that I wasn’t the one at fault, that I’d been left with no real explanation.

This was my proving ground, and I was determined not to fail.

I summoned every muscle in my face to rearrange my mouth into something resembling an easy smile as I answered.

“Rare it is,” I replied, my voice sounding strained and unfamiliar to my own ears as I stood there, trying to convince myself not to reach out and dump ice water in his lap.

Trying to talk myself out of hauling off and punching him hard enough to break his nose.

Instead, I was trying to remember to breathe, to remember that I was strong.

Why didn’t I feel that way?

“Did you get that?”

It wasn’t until then that I really took notice of the man sharing Matt’s table, looking up at me with a bored expression that seemed less than respectful of my place on the food chain.

I smiled tightly at him. “Why don’t you repeat it so that we can both make sure I got it right?” I asked, my pen poised above my pad while I stared at him as though in rapt attention.

The man was positively vile. There was nothing outright about it, as he was handsome at first glance, but the attitude he seemed to exude like bad cologne ruined everything about his looks.

“Prime rib. Rare. Bordeaux mushrooms, asparagus. And get another round while you’re at it,” he added, holding up his highball and rattling the ice cubes around in the empty glass. “Got it now?” He arched an eyebrow in naked condescension and waited with exaggerated patience as I scrawled his order.

I realized as I wrote that I was almost grateful for his presence. It was absurd, but the outrage he was arousing in me was like a balm for the confused feelings of frustrated anger that Matt was bringing to light. It certainly was a distraction, at any rate.

I smiled down at him and then at Matt, upping my wattage as I shifted my gaze.

“Okay, then. I’ll go put your orders in and be right back with those drinks,” I said breezily.

I shoved my pen and pad in the pocket of my apron, turning on my heel to retreat to the sanctuary of the kitchen. There were way too many warring emotions coursing through me right now, and I wasn’t quite sure which one would end up winning. It was a little too important for me to be able to keep my cool, both for the sake of my dignity, as well as for the sake of my job.

“Eira, honey, what’s wrong? You don’t look so good,” Maggie said, sidling up next to me as I punched the order into the computer. She laid a hand lightly on my back and gave me an appraising look.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I sighed, not meeting her eyes for fear that I would give myself away.

“Tell me another one,” she replied.

Obviously, I needed to work on being more convincing. The woman was relentless, though, and I knew she would refuse to leave me alone with my thoughts if she had any inkling that something might be wrong. I gave her a sidelong glance, trying to be discreet about it so that she wouldn’t catch me looking. I didn’t want to give her any more reason to probe for details. There wasn’t enough time or enough energy in me right now to get into explanations about what had me so tied up in knots.

“Really, I’m fine,” I said firmly, finishing up at the computer and stepping away, hoping she would do me the favor of taking the hint.

“Eira, I know you, and you’re not fine.”

I stopped in my tracks and looked over my shoulder at her, leveling my gaze.

“You’re right. I’m not. And I can’t really explain anything right now, but I need you to have my back on this.” I tossed my head in the direction of the dining room. “There’s something out there that I really…” I paused, unsure of how to explain. “I’m clocking out, Maggie. Right now. There’s enough staff to cover dinner tonight, so I’m going to clock out. Then I’m going to pick up the drinks that I left on order at the bar and deliver them before I leave. After that,” I swallowed a growing lump of apprehension in my throat, “after that, I don’t know. But I need you to back me up on this. I’ll explain everything later.”

I closed my eyes, willing Maggie not to press me for details.

“Please, do this for me, Maggie. Please,” I pleaded.

I opened my eyes to find her staring at me, studying my face and my posture. She bit back the protest that was obviously working its way off her tongue and nodded silently. I turned back towards the swinging doors of the kitchen, pushing through with a determination I didn’t really feel, leaving her staring after me with concern.

Maggie was my best friend these days, someone I knew I could count on for anything, any time. We’d known each other for a couple of years now, but most of that time, it had just been on a casual level, the kind of acquaintance that is sporadic at best. We ran into one another at parties every once in a while, maybe caught a glimpse and exchanged a friendly wave or a smile across the room if we found ourselves in the same restaurant. But it had never really gelled into anything until the previous year, when I’d started waiting tables.

Porterhouse was a small steakhouse with an intimate atmosphere, an exclusive menu, and a discriminating wine list – all of which made it an up-and-coming gem in the eyes of the region’s most persnickety foodies.

The locale didn’t exactly hurt, either. With its red brick façade, leaded windows flanked by vintage lamps, and an antique door, the restaurant had an architectural charm that meshed seamlessly with its surroundings in downtown Pensacola, occupying a corner of Cervantes Street that was within walking distance of the city’s cultural hub and most treasured scenery.

I’d put in an application on a whim, needing a respite from the monotony of the corporate scene I’d somehow become mired in. I wanted a job I could leave without worry of what was waiting for me the next day, something to take my mind off the life I was living that was so far from the one I thought I would have.

Maggie Blake was the restaurant’s owner, manager, and head waitress – and her smile was more than a welcome sight on my first day of work. I had an ally, someone to show me the ropes, a familiar face among all the strangers whose names I would have to learn along with the menu. Since then, we’d forged a friendship that had gotten me through some pretty low times, days when the burning pain of loneliness felt as fresh as if it had all happened yesterday.

Even without the fifteen-year age difference, Maggie and I were, by all admissions, complete opposites. She was petite and voluptuous with bright, bottle-blonde hair cut in a disheveled pixie that placed her features front and center. Big, round blue eyes were fringed by long eyelashes and offset with expertly tweezed eyebrows that seemed, at times, to be even more expressive than her tongue. She had a pert little nose and bee-stung lips, two attributes of which I was insanely jealous. Genetics had blessed her with a cup size that regularly made men swoon, though at the end of a long shift, she seemed to consider it more of a curse.

These were not the least of the ways in which Maggie and I differed from one another. She was fearless, candid, and brash. If Maggie saw something she wanted, she went for it without fear of failure.

I, conversely, was over-analytical, diplomatic, and level-headed.

Most of the time.

I was also constantly second-guessing myself and extremely self-conscious. Right now, I would have given anything to have half of her self-possession and fearlessness.

Would Maggie dump a drink in Matt’s lap or slap that oh-so-innocent smile off his face?

Probably.

I, however, was far too aware of the repercussions, so the drink would stay in the glass – and my hands would stay a safe distance away from Matt’s face.

I tapped my info into the time clock and headed to the bar to gather the drinks from the bartender. I made my way back to the table, willing myself to forget how well I knew one of the men sitting there – how he took his coffee, what kind of toothpaste he used, where all of his scars were.

I had to forget, if I was ever going to survive.

Obviously, it was possible to do – he seemed to have done it so well himself.

“We were beginning to think maybe you had to grow the corn and distill the Scotch yourself,” said Matt’s dinner companion as I started to place his drink on the table. The man was nothing if not a bottomless font of insults.

I felt my anger boil as my grip tightened around the highball glass.

And suddenly, the Scotch was no longer safely contained in its glass. It was dripping down his face, into the lap of his overpriced Italian suit trousers.

The man stared at me in shock, suddenly silent as his brain processed what I had just done.

Before my own mind had a moment to reconsider, I picked up the remaining glass from my tray and dumped its contents into Matt’s own awe-slackened face.

I felt strangely liberated.

“That, sir,” I said, directing my first words to Matt’s dinner companion, “was to teach you to treat people with a little more respect, even when they’re just a waitress.” My voice was low with extremely controlled rage.

I felt more like shrieking, but I knew I’d already gotten enough attention simply by dumping out the drinks. My eyes flashed hotly in Matt’s direction.

“And you,” I spat. “Matt.” The name came out like a dirty word. “You. What the hell do you think you’re doing here, acting like you don’t know me? Are you really that callous that you couldn’t just leave me alone? You had to come here and see just how messed up I was, have a little laugh at my expense?” I fumed. “Sorry to disappoint you, Matt. I’m doing great. You did me a favor, you know that? At least I found out what a selfish coward you are before it was too late.” I paused, trying to get my breathing under control. “I only hope to God no woman is stupid enough to ever get involved with you.”

I straightened my spine and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as I regained my composure. Hair that was now back to its natural color, a light shade of brown that I had once considered unremarkable. Once Matt had left, returning to nature seemed almost a show of defiance, destruction of the red hair he had loved so much. It seemed to be a symbolic gesture, even though he wouldn’t be there to see it.

Or so I had thought.

“Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen. Your new server will be with you shortly.”

I turned sharply on my heel, so swift that I was a little afraid I might stumble and ruin my exit.

My last glimpse of Matt and the other man at his table was satisfying, if I’m being honest. They were both silenced by shock, and my tirade had been swift and deadly, leaving them without much opportunity to respond before I was gone again. I dashed out of the restaurant to my car and slumped into the driver’s seat, exhausted and victorious.

Maybe all of this would finally, truly be behind me.

“Where are we going, Matt?” I asked, laughing as he drove excitedly down the busy street.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, grinning wildly as he darted his truck in between the gathering afternoon traffic.

“Why won’t you just tell me and put me out of my misery?”

“And spoil the surprise? Uh uh.” He slowed suddenly as we approached a turning lane and flicked his turning signal to life.

“This is a car wash,” I said, stating the obvious as we pulled into the parking lot of an automatic car wash. “Didn’t you just wash the truck yesterday?” I looked at him inquisitively. I knew the man was a bit anal about keeping the exterior of his beloved little blue truck gleaming, but this was a whole new level I’d never seen before. It hadn’t rained, and from what I’d seen, there was hardly a speck of dirt anywhere.

“Yes, but that was different.” He snuck a quick peek at my face. “Don’t look at me like that. I can explain,” he said. “When I was little, my dad would take me to the car wash, and we’d sit in the car and watch all the wired brushes and sponges whipping around and covering everything in soapy bubbles. We had a rule that we had to hold our breaths for as long as we could – otherwise we’d drown. Winner got an ice cream,” Matt continued, his voice far off as he remembered those happy moments of his childhood. He’d never told me this one, and I felt as though he was letting me just a little farther into his heart. “I always won,” he said with a smile.

“So what do you think?” I asked Maggie three hours later, when we were sitting on her couch. The restaurant was closed for the night, and she’d called me to insist that I come over and enlighten her on the evening’s events.

As her employee and as her friend, I knew I owed her that much.

For the first half hour I’d been there, I’d talked about anything and everything except the man who has inspired such uncharacteristic behavior in me – but I couldn’t dodge her questions any longer.