Four
Dave turns into my neighborhood, and I begin running scenarios the same way I would work through a cybersecurity breach.
Every problem has a solution. Every obstacle has a weakness.
Somewhere between the last five to ten minutes, I’ve somehow convinced myself there might be a possibility of keeping Trooper.
I’m not sure the plan would include Mom, considering the woman once threatened to move out because a stray cat slept on our porch and refused to leave for three days.
Mom grew up in the country and thinks of animals as outside creatures. She’s also strict. She was raised to believe children should follow directions, not question authority, and obey the first time an order is given. There’s a perfect way to do things, and it’s always her way.
A smile tugs at my lips.
Mom would’ve made one hell of a drill sergeant the way she thrives on order, discipline, and doing things the right way.
Growing up under her rules wasn’t always easy, but the Army felt strangely familiar because of it.
Compliance comes naturally when you’ve spent your entire childhood learning there’s no room for negotiation.
I glance down at the tiny body curled against me. Trooper sleeps soundly, completely unaware that his future may depend on my ability to outmaneuver my mother.
“You have no idea what you’re up against,” I whisper.
His ear twitches. I stroke the imperfect little heart on his chest with my thumb.
Two weeks. That’s all the leave I have before reporting back to base.
Fourteen days to help with my father’s recovery, figure out what happens to Trooper, and somehow keep my own emotions from spiraling completely out of control.
I look over at Dave. He rests one hand on the steering wheel while the other sits on the console.
His forearm flexes every time he moves; I can’t stop watching the easy way his muscles tighten.
He’s confident in his movements. I imagine those hands tracing the curve of my waist, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of my T-shirt, and I suck in a breath thinking of his touch on bare skin.
My body responds to the fantasy before my conscience has a chance to object. Heat blooms low between my thighs. Stop! I jerk my attention toward the passing scenery. I’ve been home less than an hour, and I’m already imagining my best friend naked.
Charity … you’re home for your father. Get it together.
The thought crashes through the fantasy like a bucket of ice water and the shame of having erotic thoughts of Dave instead of ministering to my father tightens my chest.
I quickly lasso my focus to the view outside my window.
The familiar streets roll past, each one carrying a memory of my childhood.
The corner where we learned to ride our bikes.
Mrs. Donnelly’s porch where every kid in the neighborhood stopped for homemade lemonade.
The little park where we’d spent entire summers until the streetlights flickered on and our parents’ curfew kicked in.
It’s another scent-triggered memory as the first hint of steamed crabs drifts through the window. It slaps me and hooks a smile onto my face. Some people associate “home” with fresh bread or blooming flowers, but when you’re a Baltimore girl, Old Bay seasoning.
We ended every summer around a picnic table covered in brown paper, wooden mallets, and some pointy utensil to dig crabmeat from shells.
Friends and relatives cracked crabs open then argued over who found the biggest lump of meat.
Watermelon followed, the sweet comingling with the savory taste for imprint a Baltimore tradition into our souls. Dave is part of those memories.
“You just smiled.”
His voice interrupts my thoughts. “What?”
“You’ve been staring out the window for five minutes.” His lips slide into that easy grin again. “Whatever you’re thinking about made you smile.”
“That smell. The smell of crabs.”
He laughs. “Oh.”
“Don’t make fun. It’s a Maryland thing,” I chastise.
“I know. Living in Baltimore and not have a reaction to the smell of steamed crabs, is borderline sacrilegious.” His eyes meet mine for just a second before returning to the road.
“It’s just, I didn’t realize until that moment that I missed talking with you about stuff like this.
You remember … everybody talking about whose dad got a bigger bushel haul when they went crabbing.
Then everybody in the neighborhood invited for the feast.”
My heart gives another traitorous little squeeze.
“Not everybody would understand the passion,” I chuckle.
Just then Trooper lets out a sleepy sigh and burrows deeper against me before his tiny body relaxes once again.
Dave glances over. “I think you’re going to keep him.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re not convincing me.”
I look down at the puppy sleeping beneath my hand. “No,” I admit. “I suppose I’m not.”