Fighting for Arielle (20 page)

“She was at home alone
, and she forgot to set the house alarm.  Some young kids broke in, thinking no one was home.  They were unarmed, and say they didn’t intend to harm anyone, except they did.  My mother heard some noise from the floor below and went downstairs to find its source.  During her descent, she saw one of them in the darkness and became startled.  She slipped and fell down in such a way that she was mortally wounded.  The boys tried to help her, they called 911, but she was unresponsive when paramedics arrived on the scene.”

McCrary recounts the det
ails as if he’s reading them from the newspaper.  It must be how he copes with the loss.  I hope he doesn’t become upset with my prying, but I love that he is opening up to me.  

“How long ago was it?”

He continues in the same distant voice.  “Five months ago.  They were living in the Washington DC area.  My father was supposed to retire, and they were supposed to be traveling the world, spending their golden years together, but he’s never one to stop working.  He was traveling on assignment when it happened.”  

I can hear the pain and resentment start to reflect in his speech as he talks more.
 I wonder if he has much contact with his family anymore.  

“Where were your brothers?”

“Brock was stationed in Norfolk, Virginia at the time, and Josh was in Bangor, Washington.”  

He pauses.
 

Answering my next question
, he says, “I was here.” He continues, “I remember getting the phone call from my uncle, who is also a naval officer.  He said my dad was on his way back to DC at the time and too broken up to call anyone.  I initiated the Red Cross message to notify Brock since he was out to sea at the time, and I called Josh to tell him.  Those were the two most difficult phone calls I’ve ever had to make.  It was so unexpected, you know?  We were all in complete and utter shock.  Everyone loved my mother, and they lived in a safe neighborhood.”  

McCrary pauses
, and I breathe in the silence.  

“I’ve been angry wit
h my father ever since.  He was supposed to be there with her.  He was supposed to give up the military, and if he had, things may have turned out differently.  Instead, he wasn’t there.  None of us were.  She had four men in her life who could have been with her, or somehow protected her, but we didn’t.  I failed to protect her and I failed her as a son.”

“McCrary…”
 

I pause because I don’t know how to respond.
 

I just say, “I’m so sorry.”

McCrary certainly didn’t fail her; none of them did.  No one could have foreseen how things would happen.  I want to tell him how proud I am of him for being so strong, and how honored I am that he opened up to me, or how much I love him for being in touch with his honest emotions, but McCrary doesn’t need me to come up with reassuring words or little nuggets of wisdom.  Instead, he just needs someone to listen, to be here, and to support him.   

I continue to hug, caress, and breathe along with him throughout the entire night, thankful for everything.

Arielle

O
ur weekend bliss turns to weekday blah as I get up for work each day this week before the sun is up, per usual.  I drag myself out of bed, run a toothbrush over my teeth, and try to defrizz my hair some, before setting out to work.  On Monday, Macy asks me for my usual play-by-play retelling of my weekend.  She never lets me skip any details.  

“You actually like
, danced danced?  Like you would on stage?  To music?”  

I try not to grin outwardly as much as I am on the inside.
 

“Yes I did.
 I’ve been dancing all of my life, so that’s nothing new.”

“Yeah, but this time you had a captive audience.
 And a really yummy one at that.  How do you not get self-conscious or just want to rip his clothes off at any moment?  I know I sure want to.”  

B
y the time Friday rolls around, I am a walking zombie.  Macy enters the office abruptly.  

“Hey Mace,” I say
, not even looking up to greet her.

“Hey girl,” Macy says warily.
 

I look up to see Macy chewing on her nails.
 I’ve noticed before that she’s a nail biter, but she doesn’t really bring a lot of attention to it, so I put it out of my mind with ease, usually.  She seems to be gnawing at them a little more than usual, and after I cannot ignore it any more, she has my attention.  

“Are you nervous about something?”
 I ask, motioning toward her hands in her mouth.

She yanks her fingers away i
n surprise and embarrassment.  “No.  I always bite my nails.”

I stand to stretch, looking over to her practically slobbering on her knuckles
, and put one hand on my hip.  “I know that, but today, you look like you’re eating them like they’re tiny drumsticks.”

A look of disgust that turns into trepidation overcomes her face
, and she looks down, playing with her fingers.  

“Well...
  Okay…” she says with a sigh.  “Two things: I may have told Ross about you and McCrary.  I’m so sorry Ari; it just kind of slipped out, and I tell him everything, and I was excited for you...BUT he won’t tell anyone, I swear.  He has some opinions on it, but that doesn’t matter.  He will not break my confidence.  Well, your confidence.”

Worry
punches me in the gut.  I don’t know Ross at all, nor do I really know Macy, but she seemed so trustworthy before today.  This is why I don’t have friends, and precisely why I knew it was a bad idea to get too close to McCrary in the first place.  I’m very disappointed and hurt by Macy’s admission, but then, I wonder if the tables were turned, whether or not I would share something like that with McCrary.  Regardless, Ross does know, and while I may be reeling on the inside, I don’t think Macy’s intentions were malicious in nature.  I resolve myself to be cool, for now while I am around Macy, and go into full-on panic mode later.  

Macy, reading my face, mutters, “You’re angry with me.”

I don’t respond.  She’s right.  I am angry with her, but I don’t want to be.  However, I don’t know how to deal with this, if I can do anything to deal with it.  

“I’m so sorry, Ari.
 He’s not a gossip or one to air others’ dirty laundry.  I promise your secret is safe.”

I heave a heavy sigh.
 

“I know you’re sorry, Mace.
 I’m not angry with you.  My feelings are hurt, and I’m trying really hard to not run out of here with my arms up like Kermit the Frog in some sort of crazy the-world-is-coming-to-an-end panic, but I still love ya.”  

Macy smiles and reaches to me in a relieved embrace.

 “You know you’re the only woman for me.”  I wink at her.  “Although, before I say all is forgiven, you said there were two things.  What’s the second?”

Macy looks at me shyly
, then sweetly says, “Will you teach me how to dance?  You know, how to give a private show?”

I give her a bigger, friendlier hug than before.
 

“You know I got you, girl.
 When I’m done teaching you some mad boner-inducing dance skills, you’ll be a changed woman, and Ross won’t know what hit him.”

“You’re the only one who understands me, Boo.”
 Macy hugs me back in excitement.

B
etween our first and second morning workouts, I text McCrary.

Did it hurt?

A few seconds later I read the incoming text on my screen.

Did what hurt?

I grin as I type back.

When you fell from Heaven?

We text back and forth a few times.

McCrary:
 
That’s terrible.

Me:
 
I know!  Listen, I want to talk to you about something.  Dinner later?

McCrary:
 
Sure.  Just remember that I’m going out with some friends tonight.  It’s been on my schedule for over a month.  If you’re wanting feedback on last night’s performance, I have none, other than to request an encore.

Me:
 
I remember.  Macy and I are supposed to paint the town while you’re busy doing whatever it is boys do together.  And, no feedback needed.  I know I’m awesome, but ask and ye shall receive, my good man.  

McCrary:
 
I should be out of the office at a decent hour.  
Rendez-vous à 6:30?

Me:
 
Oui, ma tête petite chou
.
 

McCrary:
 
Who are you calling a cabbage head?  And a little one at that?

Me:
 
You.  But you’re MY cabbage head.  Trust me there’s nothing little about your head.  Either of them.  ;)

McCrary:
 
Well, when you put it that way…I’m honored.  See you in a few at your place.

Just the exchange of data that transfers between our phones, in the form of letters and words on my screen, warms me over and puts a little more skip in my step each time we exchange texts.  

***

I
walk into the gym office after my final workout for the day when I hear my phone buzz in my purse.  It’s a text from McCrary, which results in warm and fuzzies all over my body, like every text from him.

Hey, I’m not going to make it to the gym today.  I have a meeting that just came up and my brother left me a voicemail when I stepped out of the office that sounded important, so I’m going to give him a call as well.

I’m a little disappointed I won’t see him for my usual 10-15 minutes in the gym, but then I scold myself for being so selfish.  He doesn’t mention his brothers much, and I know they talk even less, so I get over myself fast.  

I type back.

My day will be a little more dull without you in it for those few extra minutes, but I completely understand.
 :)  I hope he called to tell you something good.  And…now I’m singing “Tell Me Something Good” in my head.

I grin at my phone, like an idiot, waiting for him to reply.

You put that song in my head now.  Thanks a lot.  I will exact my revenge, somehow.

I shoot back quickly.

I’m shaking in my boots.

I lay my phone on the desk to gather my things so I can leave for the day.

Blue hooker boots?  *wink*  ;-)

McCrary Ashby using emoticons is a thought I find hilarious, for some reason.  I don’t know what it is exactly, but I guess it’s the idea of him sitting at his official desk in his official office in his official uniform, typing out winking faces, and talking about blue hooker boots, that makes it so entertaining to me.  

I reply to his text.

Are there any other kind? *double wink* (Well, actually there are so, so many other kinds, but I can’t reveal all of my sexy shoes right away.
 I’d get old to you pretty quickly.)

My phone buzzes seconds after I send the last text.

I’ll want you regardless of whether you get old quickly or age at a snail’s pace.  Before you correct my interpretation of your turn of phrase, I know what you meant, but I’m choosing to ignore it in favor of serving my own needs.  Also, you have me thinking about shoes now, which is wrong on so many levels.

I laugh out loud in the empty office.  He always cracks me up.  Following his sentimental lead, I decide to say something sweet in return.  

Vous êtes bonheur dans mon monde terne.

In response to my statement, that roughly translates to “You are happiness in my dull world,” or at least as far as I can remember- my French is rusty.

He responds with
 :

Vous êtes mon monde.

I translate that phrase with ease.  It says, “You are my world.”  Those words are beautiful in both French and English, laden with love and devotion.  I’m the worst at letting beautiful and sentimental things linger in the atmosphere.  I never know how to just let the honest words and serious emotions hang above me, allowing me to wrap myself in them.  

In my true fashion, I lighten the mood with something clever.

Are you a thief?
 Because you just stole my heart.  

He knows my inability to take true compliments at face value and appreciate beautiful sentiments toward me, but he doesn’t let my antics ruin what would otherwise be a lovely conversation.

Perhaps, but now that I have been extended the great honor of holding your heart, I will cherish it; help repair it; love it, even when it is angry with me or doesn’t exactly beat for me; and I will never, ever let it go.  

My heart flutters just a little bit, and I can’t find a snarky comeback or way to change the conversational tone, so I let the words remain, floating in both my head space and the atmosphere around me, slowly drifting upward into the cosmos.

*****

McCrary

A
ll day, I am distracted by what Arielle might want to talk about tonight.  She doesn’t usually request to talk about a particular subject or topic so formally.  In fact, she usually just spits out whatever it is that’s on her mind at any given time, and even if she doesn’t, I can always tell what she’s thinking; her attempts to keep emotion other than happiness or silliness from showing in her face and eyes are still feeble at best.  Her face continues to tell me everything that’s swirling around in her head before she manages to say it aloud.  I find it a little frustrating and disheartening that she cannot accept a compliment.  I always speak in earnest when I speak of my feelings about her, yet she tries to dodge compliments or divert attention, and the mood, elsewhere.

In preparation of leaving my office for the day, I check my email one last time, close my books, and gather my things.
 

I pull out my phone and punch out a text to Arielle.
 

Are you a Snickers bar?  Because you sure satisfy me.  In other news: I should be heading out of here soon, on my way to a couch near you.

I think I ought to keep things light, just in case her mood is already serious.  The conversation with my brother was actually quite pleasant, and I found out that I’m going to be an uncle.  I marvel at how much my life has shifted and changed in such great magnitude, but all in positive ways.  

I see my phone light up on my desk with a text from Arielle.

Oooo...that one was especially terrible.
 Is that a McCrary original?  

I smile at my illuminated screen.

Did you expect anything less?

My phone lights up quickly, in response.

I am both proud and a little ashamed of you at the same time.  Have you left yet?