Fighting for Arielle (8 page)

Arielle

S
taring at the large, white building that potentially houses the ticket to my future, I’m still wary as to whether or not this is a step I want to take.  What if they laugh in my face or tell me how ungrateful I am, or worse, that I deserve the situation I’m in?  When I made the appointment to talk to someone about filing for divorce, I was still uncertain as to whether or not I would actually show up today.  I take in a deep breath and give myself an inner pep talk.  

Feeling powerful and confident, I push the doors open with unnecessary force
, causing them to hit their door stoppers loudly, but I don’t care; I’m on a mission.

***

“
I
’m very sorry, ma’am, but Lieutenant Elkins is out for the next few days.  Did you not receive a phone call?” the woman with the name tag reading
PO1 S. Lewis
asks me.

“No...well, maybe...I don’t know.”  I begin to nervously tug at my ponytail.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”  She looks up at me, confused.

I can’t bring myself
to make eye contact with her.  “It’s uh...complicated, but I don’t know if I have any new voicemails,” I sputter out.

“Again, I apologize ma’am.
 If you leave your name and number, I can have Lieutenant Elkins call you as soon as he gets back. Ms.?”

“Abbott.
 Ari Abbott.”

I clear my throat and square my shoulders.
 I need to act the part if I’m going to believe in myself.

“Ok, ma’am-”

“Please don’t call me ma’am.  I hate that,” I say a little more tersely than I had intended.

“My apologies, ma- Ms. Abbott.
 It’s simply protocol,” she says with a professional, yet kind tone in her voice.

I let out a frustrated exhale that transforms into emb
arrassment.  “I understand that; I’m sorry.  Look, is there any way I could talk to someone today?  You see, I’m afraid if I don’t do this now, I’ll never do it and...it’s just really important.”  

I try to stifle the tears formi
ng in the corners of my eyes.  “Crap on a cracker!” I mutter to myself a bit more loudly than I had intended.  Or maybe not.  “Of course this is my luck. Crap. Crap. Crappity, crap crap crap.”

I lose the battle.
 Tears begin falling profusely down my cheeks.

             
Just as I am about to give up and return back to my apartment a failure, I see a man walk out of an office in the back.  He is in the typical working khaki uniform of an officer.  I can’t exactly tell what rank he his, but he has a lot of ribbons and things on his chest, not that I really know what that means either.  As he moves closer toward me, I get the same sensation I got when I first saw the infamous Mr. Yummy at the gym.  An eerie sense of calm fills the room.  This guy is a walking billboard of why men should join the Navy and always wear uniforms.  His crisp, tan shirt has precisely creased lines over his chest, drawing your eyes to the center of the shirt, down the row of buttons, and toward his perfectly tailored pants that hug his quads as he walks.  I can’t help but let out a slight gasp that I hope is only audible to me.  He looks very familiar, but there are so many men with smooth faces and short haircuts in neatly tailored uniforms on this base that sometimes it’s hard to know who you’ve seen where.

Furrowing his brow and looking to me with concern, he asks, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Overwhelmed by emotion and throwing all decorum aside, I groan, “Ugh!  I HATE it when people call me that!”  

Despite the drama I’m creating in this office,
he keeps his professionalism intact.  

“My apologies, Ms.-?”

“Ms. Abbott,” I inform him.  “And please, it was a big step for me to even come here today, and I really don’t even know if this is what I want, but I have...and she said the guy, Elkhead or someone, isn’t here, and-”

Interrupting the insane amount of word vomit spewing out of my mouth, he says coolly, “I’ll be glad to help you out, Ms. Abbott.
 Please take a seat in my office, and I will be in shortly.  Help yourself to the Kleenexes should you feel so compelled.”

Feeling like an idiot, and wishing his office was a hole I could crawl into and never come out, I wipe my eyes and nod in understanding.
 Attempting to give off an air of certainty, I lift my chin and march back toward his office, as if I had intended for things to turn out this way.  

On my way to his office, I stub my toe on a trash can, and it hurts, but I play it off as if nothing happened.

Selecting one of the two leather chairs placed directly across from what is clearly his chair behind his desk, I sit up tall and try to calm my nerves.  Sitting in this random office feels odd.  I try to look straight ahead and not nose around, but I can’t help but scan the room around me.  There are no personal effects of any kind: no diplomas, pictures, challenge coins, or anything that gives a clue into this man’s personality or accomplishments.  Instead, there are lots of books- most of them law books -strewn about everywhere in various states: shelved, opened, closed, book marked.  

In the middle of the desk, I see a large
, leather-bound book that is clearly one of a series open with several yellow pieces of paper from legal pads sitting on the exposed pages.  On those pieces of paper are hand-written notes scratched about the pages, and even more curiously to me, there are doodles in the margins.  Interested in what a Navy attorney doodles as he takes notes, I lean toward the desk to catch a better view.  

As I try to focus my eyes on the small, black ink pictures, I hear someone not so subtly clear their throat, which causes me to jump back and sit up straight in my chair.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Ms. Abbott,” says the same man from the other room whose name tag reads
LCDR J. Ashby
.  He gracefully slides behind his desk and gently closes the book on his notes without taking his eyes off of mine.  I’m beginning to think I know that voice and face quite well. 

Holding out his hand, inviting me t
o extend mine in kind, he remains standing to introduce himself.  “I’m Lieutenant Commander Ashby.  It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms. Abbott.”

Outside of his office, I thought he may have looked familiar to me, but his name doesn’t ring a bell.
 I’m thinking I’m slowly going insane.  I am almost positive I know him, but I can’t think about it for too long since I really need to focus on my legal issues.

Returning the same professional body language, I stand and reach out my hand to meet his.
 Our palms meet and I feel his large fingers practically wrap around my entire hand.  The same sensation I felt with Mick a few weekends ago returns, only intensified by a thousand.  I wonder to myself if this is becoming an epidemic; if just the mere contact with any man is sending sputters of random electrical currents to my heart.  I lift my gaze up to read his face and see the same look of awe and surprise in his eyes.  

“Nice to meet you too,” is all I can force from my lips.
 

After what seems like a hiccup in time, Lieutenant Commander Ashby releases my hand, and while the radiant warmth remains, I can’t help but miss feeling the source of that heat.
 I open my mouth to speak, but it suddenly feels dry and I cannot seem to speak.   I know exactly who he is.  It’s Mick, the guy that I gave my bra to and my dance partner a few weeks ago.  He must not recognize me, but who would?  I don’t have on any make-up, I’m wearing glasses, my hair is in a ponytail, and my eyes are red and swollen.  Maybe he does recognize me and doesn’t want to admit it since I probably look like a scary creature compared to the person he’s seen before.

He looks up at me with what appears to be fascination as his eyes smile
, and I can see the slightest hint of smile lines around them.  Just that little bit of emotion and seeing tiny lines made from smiles past showing themselves on his face makes the temperature of my cheeks increase.  It is a bit ironic that the same man I’ve been lusting over is now the attorney to whom I’m going to have to explain that I want a divorce.  I decide to play it cool.  Maybe he won’t ever realize it’s me, and I can get out of here.  Quickly.

He gestures toward the chair, “Please, sit down.”

I slide into the chair trying to use my legs that currently feel like Jell-o.  I try to give my most convincingly confident smile and look at ease, although I am anything but.

*****

McCrary

A
s the seemingly very familiar Ms. Abbott bends down to put her purse on the floor, I take a peek at her exposed thighs.  Her legs are lean and muscular; I noticed them as I was walking to Lewis’ desk to ask her a question.  Those legs actually made me stop what I was doing and take notice.  She clearly works out.  I wonder what other kind of physical activities she enjoys.  She’s hot in her plastic frame glasses that sit on her natural face.  Allowing my mind to wander into a scenario where those legs are sitting on my shoulders and in other various positions, I snap back into consciousness and remember I am at work.

“Ms. Abbott…”

Her ponytail slides to the side, I get a glimpse of a tattoo that looks a lot like the one…

“Marta?” escapes from my mouth.

She sits up abruptly, looking surprised, and suddenly it all makes sense.  I knew I liked her voice and accent as well as her facial features.  I thought she looked a lot like the woman I met as
Marta
, but today she looks a lot different.  Plus, she’s in loose clothes.  I don’t know how I missed it before, but when I’m at work, my brain tends to stay in professional mode.

“Mick.”

“The very same,” I reply amused.

She creases her brow and grins at me.
 “Okay, I know why I gave you a fake name since we have to use stage names to keep skeezy people from finding us in public, but what’s your excuse?” she scolds me as she gestures to my name tag. 

I can’t get over how stinking adorable she is when she’s trying to be tough.

“It’s not a fake name,” I reassure her.

To prove my point, I pull out a business card and hand it to her.
 She looks down at the small piece of cardstock in her hands and runs her fingers along the textured letters that read:

LCDR J. McCrary Ashby, JAGC
, US Navy

“Ummm...Lieutenant Commander J. McCrary Ashby, JAGC, US Navy?  That is quite a mouthful.”

My smile brightens as I hear her recite my name and credentials from my business card.
 I’m actually a little impressed that she read over it and remembers all of it so quickly.  Most people just glance at it and shove into their purse or pocket or someplace where it will get lost until they truly need something.  

“I go by Mick, which is short for McCrary.”

Enjoying the light in her green eyes and thinking about
mouthfuls
, I am taken out of my inner thoughts when she asks, “What’s the J short for?”

“Johnathan.
 Johnathan McCrary Ashby,” I enunciate every syllable as I say it.  I know it is a long name; moreover, it’s a bit unusual that someone use their middle name, but it is a family surname.

She lifts her eyebrows and her mouth forms an
O
shape.  “Oh wow...  You didn’t have a hope in the world to have any street cred, did you?” she says, clearly thoroughly amused.

Street credit is the last thing I’ve ever tried to get.
 I am white, upper-class, suburban through and through.  But still, I think she is very witty, and she’s quite sharp.  

“I suppose it’s a good thing that attempt at a career in MCing didn’t pan out.”

Smiling the sweetest and brightest smile, she says kindly, “I really like that name-
McCrary
; it’s unique.”

I haven’t gone by McCrary in as long as I can remember.
 I never liked John or Jay, and since high school, most people have called me by my last name anyway.  Still, hearing her call me by a name no one else uses for me makes it seem somehow special.  Plus, I kind of like the formality of not shortening my name.  

“You should totally see my business card.
 It’s a doozie as well.  I don’t have any on me right now, but I promise, you will laugh.  I might rival you on the number of letters that are in my name and title,” she challenges with a mischievous smile, still not looking directly into my eyes. 

Curious and happy to finally be learning more about the woman I spent a great deal of
a Saturday night trying to unmask, I ask, “What’s the nature of your business?”

Her eyes light up as she explains, “I am a Certified Personal Trainer.
 I have a bachelor’s degree in kinesiology, and I currently work as a Fitness Specialist at Bloch Arena, here on base.”