Fighting for Arielle (24 page)

McCrary, being the intelligent man he is, takes the hint, places his hands in his pockets
, and gives a sheepish smile.  

“Of course.
 Anything else while I’m out?”  

His eyes move between Macy’s and mine.
 

“I don’t think so.
 Take your time, stretch your legs, and enjoy being out of this drab room for a bit,” Macy orders.

His apologetic and pained gaze lingers toward mine before he turns away and exits the room.

Macy’s eyes follow him out the door, then her head whips around to look at me.  

“Alright, out with it.
 What’s wrong?”  Macy says in a concerned, yet stern way.  “Don’t try to tell me everything is all fine and dandy.  Instead of walking into a room full of relief and excitement. I felt like I was walking into a funeral.  The air is so heavy in here.”

My chin quivers
, and I clear my throat, trying to relieve some of the constriction.  

“He knew, Mace,” is all I can get out.
 

I look at Macy’s confused face.
 

“Brody.
 He knew Brody was back.”

“Who knew?”
 

Macy’s confusion transforms into clarity right before my eyes.
 

“How?” s
he asks in a little more than a whisper.  

I begin to cry.
 

Macy stands up and grabs a hair brush from the table next to the bed.
 I don’t know if brushing my hair is more soothing to her or me, but it does help give me something else to focus on.  

“Hang on.
 So you’re saying that McCrary knew Brody was back in port?”  She thinks over her words for a moment.  “But surely he didn’t know he was at your apartment.”

“Of course he didn’t.
 Brody was in the JAG office talking to one of McCrary’s co-workers.  McCrary didn’t actually know who Brody was at first, but it didn’t take him long to deduce his identity based on their conversation.”

Macy conti
nues to gently brush my hair.  “Poor McCrary...  It must have taken everything he had to not give him a good beat down in the office.”  

Macy places the brush to the side, pulls up a chair, and sits beside the bed.
 

“Ari, I can tell you’re really hurt by this, and rightfully so, but McCrary is one of the most thoughtful people I’ve ever met.
 I’m sure he had a good reason, at least in his mind.”

“That’s just it, Mace.”
 

I begin to cry again.
 

“I think he was less concerned with my becoming nervous or freaking out because I feared for my safety
, and more concerned that I might not move out or, even worse, go back to Brody.  I...I thought he knew me better than that.”

Macy takes my hand and begins massaging my knuckles.
 She is the queen of creating distractions and diversions.  

“I think he knows you better than you’re crediting him.
 Sure, in the grand scheme of things, you two haven’t known each other that long, but the length of time you can claim to be in contact with someone and number of facts you can spout off about a person do not measure how well you know them or how closely bonded you are.  I’ve known you about as long as he has, and I like to think we are close friends who know each other quite well.  And, I haven’t even gotten a sexy dance from you.”

We both laugh, but Macy continues in her serious tone.
 “What I’m saying is, yes, you have every right to be hurt and angry with his omission of the fact that Brody was back, but be honest, Ari.  What would you have done if he came home and told you Brody was back in Hawaii?”

“Nothing.
 It wouldn’t have changed anything,” I spit out quickly.  

Macy raises a knowing eyebrow and drops her chin, looking at me dubiously.
 I give my answer a little more thought before speaking this time.  

“I don’t know…
  I probably would’ve freaked out a little and not known what to do with myself, but I was already determined to move out.  My problem is that McCrary acts like there was a possibility I would have gone back to that apartment and then stayed.”

“Is that your final answer?”
 Macy’s expression changes to one of pity.  “You know I love you, and I don’t judge you, but I think you’re glossing over some major details and possibilities.  You’re saying that when you found out Brody was in town, you would’ve stayed at McCrary’s that night?”  

Before I can answer, she does it for me.
 

“No
, you wouldn’t have.  I’m not saying everything is hunky dory, and
poof!
McCrary is back to saint status, but I’m saying you should take a really hard look at yourself and just how much control Brody has over you when you are alone with him, especially in that awful apartment.  Just walking into the energy in there made me feel sad and want to hang my head in insecurity.”

“W
hen were you in my apartment?” I ask in surprise.

“McCrary called me looking for you and asked for your address.
 He had a feeling something might be wrong.  After talking to him, I also had a bad feeling.”  She smiles as if remembering something.  “When I got there, I saw a freaked out McCrary talking to you and making sure you knew help was on the way, some Elkins guy making phone calls and dictating how the story would play out on paper- which was that McCrary was visiting Elkins’ house when they happened upon a drunk and disorderly guy beating his wife -and a giant tortoise sitting on top of a bloody and whiney Brody.  Best thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life, honestly.”

I laugh a deep laugh, which hurts as it ripples through my sore body.
 I imagine the scene and how Brody must have looked trapped under a tortoise.  

“I think Swanks might need a cape or something.”

Macy nods in agreement.  

“He and McCrary could be a crime fighting pair.
 You know, as long as they have enough advance notice for Swanks to make his way over to the scene.  He’s not exactly speedy, but he is awesome.”  

Macy pauses.
 “Ari, I have a confession to make.”

“What’s that?”

Macy looks off into the distance.  “When I went in and heard Brody whining on the floor, I cussed him out.  And spit on him.  And kicked him, for good measure.”  

I smile at my wonderfully protective friend and know I would have done the same if I were in her situation.
 

Macy brings her fingers to her mouth and begins to nibble on her fingernails.
 

“I also may have snapped a picture on my phone of Swanks on top of him.”

“Macy!  You’re terrible!”

“I couldn’t help it!
 He looked so proud of himself.  It was like he was smiling and holding his head up high.  Brody is nowhere in the picture.  I don’t need a lasting memory of him.”

I’m not yet ready to look at the picture of
Señor Swankypants- Superhero Tortoise in Disguise, but one day I will.  Right now, my focus is getting better physically and getting out of this hospital.  I also have a lot to mull over and need to have some very honest discussions with both McCrary and myself.

A
fter McCrary returns, and Macy leaves, we talk more about the events, his motivations behind his dishonesty, as well as my honest and likely responses had he told me about Brody at the time.  McCrary’s sincerity is very clear to me.  While we will have a lot to talk about in the coming days and weeks, along with some feelings and insecurities to work through, I know that his intentions may have been slightly askew, but perhaps not as misguided as one might think.  

I am very emotionally fragile at this point in my life
, and I continue to fight this unhealthy and unseen control that Brody holds over me.  I have no affectionate feelings toward him whatsoever, but that doesn’t change the fact that when I am alone with him or spending a lot of time in that suffocating apartment, my spirit does deteriorate, and he knows it.  I know it too; I just don’t like to admit it.  No one likes to feel as if someone has an unhealthy hold on them, or that someone who is only out to cause you pain and harm, can still keep control of you emotionally, but that’s exactly how it is with Brody.  If I am completely honest with myself, I have to admit that, despite finding McCrary and the fullness he brings to my life, if Brody had not been underway or out of sight and out of mind, I probably would not have had the courage to take the steps to move my life forward so expeditiously.

Instead of dwelling on the
coulda, shoulda, woulda
thoughts, I commit myself to accepting my situation as it currently stands and coming to terms with how things actually played out, so I can move on.  McCrary should have been honest with me, but I should have been honest with myself too.  We vow to be honest with one another from this moment forward.  No relationship is perfect because no human is perfect.  We are all prone to mistakes, some more egregious than others, but when we make those mistakes, we must choose to evaluate what happened, the result, and figure out how to change things so that it doesn’t happen again.  

I’ve learned that the hallmarks of any strong relationship are communication, pleasure, and respect.
 Do you talk to one another about the good, the bad, the happy, the sad, and the mundane?  Do you take time to laugh with one another, share a smile, and appreciate each other?    Do you say nice things about each other, even when not in the other’s presence?  Our relationship sits on those hallmarks and will continue to build upon that foundation.  When we hit a snag or feel a little shaky, we still have those original pillars from which we will rebuild.

Arielle

I
am discharged from the hospital with a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and several scrapes and bruises.  I am now in the care of a handsomely scruffy McCrary Ashby who has been given strict instructions to order me to rest, much to my disappointment.  Being holed up in bed with him for a week or so does not make me want to rest.  He is adorable as he listens intently to all discharge instructions and writes down follow-up appointments.  He insists that I not argue with the nurses when they say I need to ride in a wheelchair out to his Jeep, despite my being perfectly capable to walk.  He also is very cautious and gentle as he helps me into the car and buckles my seatbelt for me, again, in spite of my protests.  

Riding in the car, my mind wanders to all of the fun and sexy things this whole being relegated to bed rule could bring.
 Realizing that if he feels he needs to buckle my seatbelt for me, sex is way off the table, I decide instead to take advantage of the time in other ways.

I look over to him and grin.
 

“McCrary?”
 

“Yes, honey bunny?

“While I’m laid up in bed, can we watch
So You Think You Can Dance?
”

“Sure.
 Don’t think I didn’t notice that you set my DVR to record it.”

“I was just looking out for you,” I smile.
 “Can we watch
42nd Street?
”

“Of course.”

“Can we watch
Clueless
?”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

I laugh and even let out a tiny snort, but I know I will get him to watch it with me, and he will snuggle with me through the whole thing, allowing me to live out my teenage fantasy.  

I pause a moment
, then ask with hope, “Will you play your violin for me when we get home?”

His face lights up
, and his smile brightens as his earnest and beautifully dark eyes look directly into mine.  Kissing me on the forehead, he says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

T
hose things are precisely what we do.  He holds my hand as I smile and cry and thrash about during recorded episodes of
So You Think You Can Dance
.  He also listens intently as I give my self-professed expert opinions and explain what was great, or not as great, about the technique, performance, and choreography of each routine.  He continues to snuggle up to me as I bounce around the bed, singing and tapping my feet along with Ruby Keeler in the original black and white movie of
42nd Street
.  He also does his best to not roll his eyes as I quote every line, with accurate inflection, of
Clueless
.  He listens to my argument that I once heard that the characters are saying, “I’m Audi,” but that I refuse to believe it and insist that the line is, “I’m outtie.”  And he doesn’t even make fun of me when I cry like a big baby at the end of the movie.  

Of course, he plays the violin for me.
 He doesn’t just play the violin for me, he speaks directly to my heart.  With every movement of the bow across the strings, the vibrations combining to emit sounds are not simply notes being played.  Each note is the release and presentation of his emotions: his love, his loss, his mundane, his past, his future, and his present.  

As I listen to him emote and tell more stories via those strings than he could ever tell with words, I close my eyes and imagine what it must feel like to give up something you love because of the intense emotions it causes.
 I picture him, a beautiful man, but someone’s little boy, standing alongside his brothers and cousin, giving his mother a tribute of his love, sorrow, loyalty, and gratitude the best way he knew how at her funeral.  The pain and resentment he feels toward his father and guilt within his heart, placed aside for a few minutes, so that he can direct his energies toward the remembrance and celebration of his mother’s spirit and legacy.  

I breathe in all of his emotions and let them course through my veins
, all at the same time.  I open my eyes and gaze upon his face, deep in concentration and full of experience, and I think that every time I believe it is impossible to love this man any more than I currently do, I prove myself wrong.  In that moment, our souls are connected and fully entwined for eternity.  For at least one small hiccup of time, I experience true vulnerability and bliss.  I realize that the love you share with another, and the connection you feel with them, does not always come in the most obvious of ways.  

When McCrary and I make love, my heart is filled with his dedication and admiration for me, and in those moments of beautiful rapture, I know I am whole.
 However, this seemingly benign moment unexpectedly tells me that he is what my life has been missing all along.  He is indeed my missing piece.  My one.  My only.

When the last vibration of the last note he plays dissipates in the air around us, he looks over to me, his face earnest, and I cannot help but beam with both pride and gratitude.
 

“Those are the most sincere and stunning words you’ve ever shared with me.
 Thank you.  I love you more than my limited vocabulary can articulate.”

He places his instrument gently on the piano bench and comes over to me on the couch, places his hands on my cheeks, and pulls my face into his.
 I note the similarity of our current position to the first time I ever came over here.  It was the first time I was afforded a glimpse into my future and my home.  Our home.  McCrary lifts my chin, and his wide eyes sparkle.  

“Your eyes, your smile, you
r body- the way it reacts to me -and your spirit articulate everything perfectly.  I love you more than I thought humanly possible, ‘my dearest and most beautiful,’ Arielle Abbott.”  

I catch his Jane Austen reference and use of Mr. Darcy’s line to Elizabeth Bennett, and I think, yet again, I fall in love
with him just a little bit more.

***

I
t’s not hard to put the real world out of your mind when you’re holed up for a week recuperating with McCrary Ashby doting on you and being by your side just about all day, every day.  I was supposed to dance in another show over the weekend, but missed it.  I tried to convince McCrary I was fine and perfectly capable of dancing, but he just pulled out the paperwork with the discharge instructions that ordered me to rest and abstain from “vigorous activity.”  Instead, we watched 80’s movies involving dancing, which was fun, but in a completely different way.

My shoulder is almost healed, my headaches almost gone, and my bruises have all but disappeared from my skin.
 It is our last Sunday before McCrary has to go back to work and life as we know it now ceases.  Tomorrow, we will return to him being LCDR McCrary Ashby, JAGC, and I- Arielle Abbott, married woman.  Once again, we will have to be together in secret.  I’ve gotten so used to him being in my daily life that I almost forget how our circumstances make our relationship against the rules.  

I’m told that Macy brought Swanks over to McCrary’s house and fed him while I was in the hospital.
 She stopped by a few times while I was recovering out of the hospital, but I could tell that she wanted to speak with me alone.  I made a date with her to come over tomorrow, when McCrary goes back to work.  

McCrary is outside
taking a phone call.  As I play some of the sheet music I downloaded and printed, I can see McCrary’s face from my vantage point, and he appears agitated.  I wonder what the party on the other end of the line is saying.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen McCrary truly look angry.  I know he can be hard-nosed in the courtroom, but full-on lawyer McCrary is a side of him I have yet to see for myself.  I’ve overheard comments and conversations from his co-workers and others in passing at the gym, and rumor has it that he can be really intimidating.  To me, he’s just a kind, loving, and gentle person, although he can be a bit commanding in the bedroom, but admittedly, I rather like it.  I remember the animalistic growl I heard as he burst through the door to my apartment and the reports of the injuries Brody sustained that night, but I did not see any of it.  I giggle to myself with pride as I think how he saved and protected me.  Then, I remind myself to warn others to not get on his bad side.  

McCrary ends his phone call and comes back into the house, still looking unsettled, but his face is warmer than when he was on the call.
 

“
Porgy and Bess
,” he says.

“Hmmm?”
 I look up from the notes on the page.  “Oh,
Porgy and Bess
...  Correct as always.”

“
’Summertime,’ to be exact.”  McCrary sits on the piano bench next to me. “In a lower key.”

“Yes it’s
‘Summertime,’ and in a lower key because I can no longer sing as strongly as a soprano.”  

I play on, but am distracted by his close proximity.
 

“You know when you sit next to me, you limit my arm space
, and I can’t reach all of the notes with my tiny hands and fingers.”

 
I accidentally, but not really, jab him with my elbow as I move my hands along the keyboard.  

Nudging me back, he says, “I’ll compromise.
 You play the right hand, and I’ll play the left.”

“You’re giving me the easy hand.
 Deal.”  

We play the remainder of the song together.
 His fingers touch the keys far more deftly and gracefully than mine.  I’m glad he elected for me to play the right hand.  I’m sure he sees how I fake and fumble over the left hand notes most of the time.  He also takes a few liberties with the music, which are far beyond my ability to play.

I realize this is the first time he’s played or touched his mother’s piano since she passed away.
 He is constantly doing things that confirm my love and adoration for him; however, this time, I’m not only wrapped up in my love for him, but also so incredibly proud of him.  He has made so many strides toward healing and forgiving himself for her death, which was something not even he could have predicted or prevented, and he’s beginning to accept that as fact.  His bravery never ceases to amaze me as I know this is the most pain he’s allowed himself to feel.  He normally just shuts his pain away, deep within himself, and doesn’t allow himself to grieve.  

We are about halfway through the song
, and I begin to sing the words.  McCrary eases his right hand over to my side of the keyboard and begins to take over the melody.  I take my hand off of the keyboard completely and continue to sing.  While I don’t think my singing skills are truly amazing, I can carry a tune and have some singing experience.  I’m not usually shy when it comes to performing, regardless of how untrained I think I might sound or look.

The song ends with the words:

So, hush little baby

Don’t you cry

That is the
exact opposite of what I feel I might do.  I’ve turned into a real sap lately, but every little step that McCrary makes toward redemption from himself is an accomplishment, and something that releases the self-imposed chains of guilt he carries, an ounce at a time.

McCrary begins to play a classical piece
, and it’s one I recognize and know well, although I can’t play it myself.  It’s Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 no. 3.  It’s one of my favorite piano pieces that starts out slowly, builds up in speed and volume, then slows again to an end that seems to linger and makes you want more.  I watch his fingers move across the keys as if he’s not had a break from playing.  My focus moves from his fingers, up his arms, and to his face.  His eyes are closed and his face haunted.  The speed in which the notes are played increases as he opens his eyes and focuses on his hands while he plays loud notes that stretch his hands and fingers almost completely across the piano.  Watching the care and passion he exudes while playing makes me want to hug him and never let go.  

This is why I love this man, not because he’s gorgeous and smart and can speak four languages and play any instrument, but because he’s showing me his soul, surging it through his fingers to the black and white keys below.
 This is his expression of his raw feelings that he’s been fighting so long to forget.  When he played the violin for me, it was wonderful and expressed his pain and regret, but his playing this piano and this piece of music is hauntingly beautiful.

As the music slows and decrescendos to its quiet last note, I see McCrary’s eyes are watered and downtrodden.
 I sit next to him, placing my arms around him, and kiss his cheek.  We remain in that position, silent for some time.  I want to talk about what he’s feeling or say something funny just make him smile, but I know he needs this catharsis in order to find solace.  

After a while, he smooths my hair with his left hand and breaks our palatable
silence.  “That was my mother’s favorite piece.  I practiced and practiced it so I could perfect it.  She would sit in our music room as I played it for her.  She said when I played it, it was magical.”