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“What…?” Eric says, materializing in the doorway. He completes a hyperfast assessment. “Did he…?”

I nod, but at the same time, Commander Egan jerks his head around, directing a scathing look at Eric. “This is none of your business, asshole!” He almost knocks me off balance with an unexpected lurch, but I lean my weight forward, tightening my grip.

“The hell it isn't!” Eric moves so fast, I can barely discern what's happening. In seconds, he has Commander Egan pulled to his feet, holding his arms in a viselike grip behind his back, a look so cold on his face, it borders on frightening. He hauls him from the room and I hear it when he says in a low, menacing tone, “You touch her again, I'll break your face, motherfucker!”

*   *   *

Footsteps recede down the hallway and I push up to stand, shaking, my body coursing with adrenaline. I pace back and forth at the foot of the bed, focusing on deep inhalations and long, slow exhalations, berating myself for allowing the situation to have gotten that far.

I hear the door close, and instantly, Eric is at my side. He places his hands lightly on my shoulders, looking me squarely in the eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. I just need a minute.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

The bed would be the obvious choice for seating, but I slump to the ground where I stand, and lean back against the wall. Eric sits next to me.

“Everything happened so fast,” I say.

“May I look at your arms?”

I extend them and he holds my forearms in his hands, rolling them back and forth, inspecting them. “That son of a bitch,” he says through gritted teeth.

My eyes widen as I view the bruises swelling on my arms. I knew he was squeezing hard, but …

I look back to Eric and he's trying desperately to control something. He's distraught, worried, but he's angry, too. It looks like he's going to jump out of his skin.

“I'm okay,” I say, but he shakes his head, unconvinced. “Really.”

He lowers his eyes, looking at my arms, gently sliding his fingers across the bruising.

When he finally looks up again, his eyes hold mine as he rubs his thumbs against the backs of my hands. If he's trying to soothe me, it's working. If he's trying to whip my insides to buttercream, it's also working. I wonder if it's possible for someone's eyes to reach into yours, find the heartstrings beyond, and grab them tight. Because that's how I feel. Eric is holding me from the inside.

“I screwed up,” I say. “I should have stopped it sooner. But I kept thinking, this can't be happening. I mean, I knew what to do, but at the same time, I just wasn't prepared.…”

“I wasn't prepared for what I saw either,” he says.

“What you did … your reaction. You were so fast. How did you—?”

“I wish I could explain how that made me feel. I'm sorry. That must have looked—”

He lets go of my hands and leans back against the wall, his shoulder to my shoulder.

As soon as he lets go, I feel like I'm falling, and the sensation is a horrible one. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Anything,” he says.

“Can I…?” I tentatively reach for his left hand with my right.

He grabs it quickly, pulling our forearms together.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Yes. Thank you.”

We sit in silence and I feel the gentle pressure of his fingers against my hand. I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall, responding to his touch with a light pressure of my own.

I keep my eyes closed as I talk. “Thanks. This is helping.”

He moves a hand to my head and I feel his fingers lightly combing my hair away from my face. I open my eyes to watch. He's so careful, like he's making everything right again.

“Okay?” he says.

“Better. Thanks. And thanks for what you did.”

“I didn't do anything,” he says. “I think you had it pretty well in hand.” He tries to smile, but it doesn't turn out quite right. I'd almost say this has affected him worse than it has me.

Maybe I can help get us to a lighter place. “Did you bring something to eat?”

He holds my eyes for a moment longer, then rises and walks to the door, where he dropped a bag when he first walked in.

“I'll get some water,” I say.

I return to the table with bottled water from the mini-fridge and he lays out our meal—steamed rice and roast pork. He splits it onto two paper plates before handing me a pair of chopsticks.

“This is perfect,” I say, hoping to elicit a response.

He offers a tight-lipped nod only.

We eat in silence, and the longer we go, the more worried I become.

“Eric, are you okay?”

He looks at me carefully before answering. “No.”

His gaze shifts to my arm that rests above the table, his eyes roving up and down the bruising. “What are you going to do?” he asks.

“I don't know.”

“Report it to Captain Magruder, of course.”

I consider this for several long moments. “I don't know. I don't want to make this a bigger deal than it is. He was drunk—”

“What? You can't dismiss this—”

“He was stupid, he was drunk, I handled it.”

He stares at me, incomprehension written across his face.

“I handled it,” I say, glad when the phone rings so I can escape his admonishing stare. I cross the room to answer.

“Ma'am, we need you back down here,” T-Bear says. I press the phone well to my ear to hear him through the noise in the background—barked orders, chaotic shouts, muffled grunts.

“No problem. I'll be right there.”

I hang up the phone and Eric is already standing.

“You don't have to do this,” he says. “I'll run to the ship, grab my uniform—”

“I'm fine.”

He shoots me a sharp look at the word “fine.”

“Eric, I can do this.”

I don't wait for an answer, grabbing my uniform from the bed and changing in the bathroom. But when I look in the mirror, I'm shocked. The bruising is glaringly obvious against the stark white of my short-sleeved shirt.

I walk out, Eric takes one look, and his mouth hardens into a tight line. I spy my backpack on the bed and think of a solution, not a navy-regulation solution, but it'll have to do. I fish out a thin black sweater that I threw in at the last minute and hastily put it on.

“Can I walk down with you?” he asks, opening the door.

I nod my assent and we move through a corridor of red and gold to reach the elevators—red and gold carpeting, red and gold wallpaper, red and gold fixtures and frames. Eric stares intently ahead.

It's not until we enter the elevator that he finally speaks. “I need to run to the ship for a minute, but I'd like to come back. It's going to be busy for you tonight, and I don't care if I sit in the shore patrol office the entire time. I'd just feel better that way.”

I'm about to disagree. I don't need help. I can do my job just fine by myself. But wait.
He backed off on taking your duty, so you should probably give a little, too, Sara.

“Okay,” I say.

His shoulders visibly relax.

The elevator doors open and we enter the banquet room, now teeming with dozens of inebriated sailors under escort from dozens more shore patrolmen. I spot a group of chiefs, including the translator, clustered in the corner and decide that's where I need to be.

But I stop short.
Wait a second
.
Is that—?

“What is it?” Eric asks, following my gaze to the opposite side of the room.

“I know that man. That's Animal, I mean, Commander Amicus, a pilot in our squadron. I just never expected to see him here.”

When I look back to Eric, he wears a slightly changed expression, one that's hard to read.

“Yeah, I suppose this isn't the likeliest place to bump into someone,” he says. “I'll see you in a bit, okay?”

Eric walks away, and beyond him, Commander Amicus presses through the crowded group of sailors. Both disappear into the lobby.

Strange. I could have sworn I just saw a nod of acknowledgment between the two.

 

21

I walk back to my table in the far corner of the banquet room, breathing a tired sigh as I drop heavily into my chair. It took over three hours to clear up that mess—a barroom brawl, complete with property damage, injuries to civilians, and over twenty sailors sent back to their ships. Ugly. We arranged for reparations to the bar owner, and the translator had his work cut out for him. But in the end, I think we smoothed it the best a situation like this could be smoothed.

Eric times his return perfectly. As he walks toward me, I notice his demeanor has changed. He's more relaxed, at ease. Maybe he just needed some time.

“Hey,” he says, pulling out a seat. “How are you holding up?”

“I'm good, thanks.”

“How did that last brouhaha turn out?”

“It was a tad on the crazy side, but we got it settled.”

I'm so glad he's back. And that reaction surprises me.

“How are
you
doing?” I say.

“Better. Thanks—”

His response is cut short due to high-pitched Mandarin wailing. A large family, a contingent over twenty strong—by the looks of it, grandparents, uncles, aunts, kids—enters the room along with a single American sailor sporting a fresh crew cut and Levis.

“Can you make out what's happening?” I ask.

Eric listens as the group talks animatedly over each other, pointing and gesticulating to the sailor.

“Boy, you're getting all the good ones,” he says.

“What is it?”

“The short story is that this kid is responsible for taking the virginity of that man's daughter and now they're insisting he marry her.”

“You're not serious.”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

I look across the room. Our translator is already en route. “Wanna come?” I ask.

“I'll just watch from here, thanks.”

And so it goes, one crisis after another, Eric sitting in the back monitoring it all. He doesn't seem bothered by any of it. He's not bothered that he's not sleeping. Or that he's spending his night in the shore patrol office. He seems content, even. And though I hate to admit it, it's been nice to finish with each little incident and have him there waiting for me.

By the time we turn over with the new shift at 0700, I'm exhausted. It's been a long night in many respects. After retrieving my backpack from my room, I turn in my room key to the registration desk, and plod to one of the lobby couches to await van transportation back to the pier.

Eric is waiting. He motions me to the side and I practically sleepwalk to get there.

“I know how this is going to sound, but just bear with me for a second,” he says. “You've been up all night, you're dead on your feet, and I thought you might like to sleep in a real bed and not have to go back to the ship. I got a room here and I'd like to offer it to you so you can sleep.”

I furrow my brow in a bone-weary effort at concentration. He has a room.…

“It's not what you're thinking,” he says, putting his hands up. “Please, don't read into this. It's a straight-up offer of a nice bed, that's all.”

“I'm way too tired to argue,” I say. “Just lead the way.”

*   *   *

My eyes draw open with effort, my body heavy from a dead sleep. Paisley wallpaper—red and gold—fills my vision. I stare at it and I remember. I'm in the Harbourview Hotel … with Eric.

I roll over to find him. He sits in a chair in the far corner, his crossed legs resting on an ottoman. The blackout curtains are drawn, the only light coming from a small reading lamp on the end table.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“It's four in the afternoon.”

“Four o'clock.” I rub my eyes. “Are you serious?”

“You were
out
.”

My brain circuits flicker.

“Nine hours…”

“Yep.”

I roll onto my back and rest my hands on my forehead.

“Wait,” I say, rolling my head back to him. “You watched me sleep?”

“I didn't have anything better to do,” he says, lips upturned.

He watched me sleep … for nine hours.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I had no idea I was that tired.”

“Hey, you needed it.”

I raise my arms above my head and point my toes in an all-body stretch. My muscles vibrate to life with a rush of oxygen, then settle, relaxed, as I curl myself toward Eric again.

He looks so comfortable in his observation spot.

And I have a mortifying thought. “I didn't snore, did I?”

“Well…”

My hands fly to cover my mouth. “Oh, god!”

“Joking! I'm joking!”

I shoot him an expression of mock indignation and retreat under the covers. Glancing under the blankets, I realize I'm wearing his maroon shirt and gray shorts. Uh-oh. He never mentioned the fact that I wore these clothes—his clothes—last night. Stands to reason, I suppose, considering the circumstances. But now, well, he's been staring at the evidence for nine hours.

I lick my lips, chalky with sleep. Pushing the comforter away, I swing my feet to the carpet, grab my backpack, and shuffle to the bathroom. I note my uniform hanging in the closet. He must have put it there, because the last I remember, I had thrown it in a heap at the foot of the bed.

I indulge in a non-navy shower, which is to say, a long one—a rare treat during a ship-based deployment. I tip my head back, close my eyes, and let the hot water do its magic, my muscles going limp in the tranquilizing steam. My pores open, my skin breathes, and after several minutes, I start to sway, dizzyingly free of tension.