Chapter 23
Chapter 23
J ones tried to plan, he really did. He sat at the table that night, long after Ribs, Carol, and Victoria retired, hand hovering over his notebook. When he finally took a hard look at what he’d put to paper he saw the word GUNS with a question mark, along with a pretty decent drawing of a mango and banana.
So maybe strategizing wasn’t his strong suit.
Or maybe it was the fact that he was on a far-flung tropical island with limited backup, ammo, comms, and a civilian for a partner. When he thought about the weight of what he’d done—getting Carol into this mess and then sticking the landing by volunteering her to be their bait—he kind of wanted to pick her up and run away. To force carry her to somewhere safe. Because no matter how he spun it, what they were about to do was incredibly dangerous. And every time he tried to warn her about it, she shoved food into his mouth to make him stop talking. Or maybe she sincerely enjoyed shoving food in his mouth. Probably so, but not as much as he enjoyed eating it. He couldn’t remember the name of what she made, something Thai, but it was hands down the best thing Jones ever tasted.
Thinking of it now made his stomach burble with desperate longing. With a quick peek to make certain he wasn’t observed, he sneaked to the fridge and opened it, poking his head inside.
“Hungry?”
Jones spun, emitting the first sound that came to him. “Wamhoobie.”
Carol stood behind him, wearing a nightshirt with a picture of a cartoon horse riding a motorcycle on it. “Did I startle you so badly you made up a new language?”
“No. I was…praying,” Jones improvised.
“To Wamhoobie or for wamhoobie?”
“It’s interchangeable. Like aloha,” he explained, smiling when she laughed.
“But you are hungry,” she clarified.
“I eat when I’m nervous,” he said, tone slightly defensive. Emotional eating was always a sore subject for a former fat kid.
“Same. What did you find?”
He glanced into the fridge. “A frozen hot dog and some mayonnaise.”
“As a chef, I’m afraid I can’t let you eat that,” she said, shaking her head sadly.
“On whose authority can you stop me?” he challenged.
“By the power of Auguste Escoffier,” she said.
He closed the fridge and leaned on it. “I’m a highly decorated former Navy SEAL. What have you got?”
“Weaponized toque and bullet –proof apron,” she replied. “Plus, you know, a lot of knife training.”
“So, what, you’re going to dice me into tiny pieces?”
“I prefer a nice julienne,” she said, shrugging.
“Wow, I’m terrified. I guess there’s nothing left for me but to surrender.”
“Wise choice. And now I must complete the surrender ritual, in which I make you a delicious snack.”
“Your enemies must be so confused,” he said.
“And also well fed,” she added.
“Impossible. I have no food here,” he said.
“Ah, but you only think you have no food,” she said, holding a finger aloft.
“I want to see the magic happen,” he said, his tone holding a challenge.
She took a step forward and paused. “You have to say the magic word.”
Between them his stomach gurgled loudly.
“Congratulations, you guessed it,” she said, taking another step forward. The kitchen was tiny, too small for both of them. Jones skirted around her and resumed his seat at the counter. He earnestly didn’t believe Carol could come up with anything in his empty, lackluster kitchen, but soon she began removing things and placing them on two plates. And when she slid his plate in front of him it looked like something from a photo shoot.
“How?” he said, pausing to stare at it before diving in. That was how he knew it was special, because he was able to pause before the coming gobble.
“The quintessential French kitchen is never without bread, butter, jam, cheese, and chocolate.”
That was coincidentally what she’d arranged for him, a sliced baguette with butter, cheese, and jam and a frothy cup of warm chocolate. She settled her plate beside him and took the adjoining barstool. The silence was strangely companionable until she spoke.
“Why are you still up? Or are you some kind of night owl?”
“I was thinking, going over strategy.”
“What’s our strategy?” she asked.
He checked his notes: GUN, banana, mango. He faced her. “To not die.”
She faced him, holding her chocolate aloft in a little salute. “Solid plan, I like it.”
There wasn’t space for both of their knees. Jones attempted to move aside to make room but soon gave up. Their knees touched now, pressed together like puppy noses. He hunched forward imploringly. “I’m serious here, Carol.”
Carol hunched forward, too, mimicking him. “I know you are, David. That’s what makes it so wholesome.” Her right hand set the empty chocolate cup on the counter. Her left hand slid onto his knee.
He stared down at it, thinking. When was the last time a woman touched him? Two years ago, Angelina Beckworth, a woman his mother set him up with. He had half-heartedly tried to like her, but instead his attention was diverted to a hot woman he met on social media, one who later turned out to be a Nigerian scammer. The other guys, Ribs, Ethan, Ridge when he was single, used to have stalkers. SEAL groupies who would seemingly do anything to marry a guy in special forces. Jones had been the guy they went to for an in with their pathetic antics. You’re so nice, had been the resounding theme of his feedback from the female of the species. Guys he’d known could ignore a woman, cheat on her, forget her name, and still have women beating down their doors. Jones had always treated women kindly, with respect, like a queen. And he was so nice! Nice had come to represent something bad in his mind, so much that he’d become skittish and standoffish, admiring a woman from afar instead of forming any meaningful connection, afraid of the coming rejection.
Before he could think it through his hand lifted hers and brought it to his lips. Carol’s lashes fluttered and Jones stared down at her fingers. He had never been that guy, the one with the moves his teammates seemed to naturally posses. In the past every time he’d attempted to ease out of the Friendzone with a woman, she’d eased him back in again. David, you are SO NICE. And SO CUTE. I care about you SO MUCH, too much to ever date you. You’re SUCH A GOOD FRIEND. He had come to loathe those three words—nice, cute, and friend.
“What’s the horse for?” he asked.
“In chess?” she asked, sounding a bit dazed.
“On your shirt.” He pointed to her nightshirt, the horse riding a motorcycle.
She glanced down. “Horse power. It was from Brody. It made him laugh. He’s very funny.” In contrast to her words she sounded sad, or maybe pensive.
“Funny is good,” Jones said mildly.
“Funny is excellent,” Carol agreed softly.
His thumb brushed over her fingers. “Is it enough?”
“I…” she stared at their combined hands, a slight frown puckering her brow. Her attention shifted to the paper he’d used to strategize. “Let me see what you have here.” Slowly she leaned closer, bringing her body in sharp relief with his as she reached for the paper. He caught a whiff of something sweet, something floral, something citrus. Whatever it was, it was a delightful and potent combination. It would have been more natural to lean away, but he didn’t, instead allowing his nose to brush against her hair.
Carol sat upright and studied the paper in serious concentration a minute before turning it to face him. “This is an excellent banana.”
“I guess I’m not so great at strategizing,” he said.
“You’re good at a lot of other things,” she said, setting the paper aside.
He wanted to ask what those things were, but couldn’t figure out how without sounding needy. Carol seemed to view him through a different lens, however, and it was one he liked because he thought maybe it was the real one, the one he liked best.
This time when his hand reached out, it caressed her head. She tilted her face, leaning it into his palm. “I’m sorry I hated you, in the beginning.”
She smiled, her cheek pressing into his open hand. “It’s okay, no one ever has before. It was kind of funny. Sorry I gave you such a hard time.”
“I got you into a terrible mess, with my temper.”
“I don’t mind,” Carol said.
“How can that be possible? This is really dangerous.”
“It’s an adventure. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Someday when I’m old and gray, it will make a good story, how I got snagged into international intrigue because some guy thought I was a spy.”
Jones’s brow puckered. Was that what he would eventually someday be in her life story? “Some guy?” He felt like he’d spent his entire life trying to be more than “some guy.”
Carol, oblivious to his reaction, continued. “It’s no Belarus, though. Apparently nothing can top that as a locale for shenanigans, if Victoria is to be believed.”
“As someone who has been to Belarus, let me assure you that’s not true,” he said.
“Have you really?” Carol gasped.
“Yes,” he said, laughing. “Honestly, there are lots better places. I have no idea why she got stuck on it.”
“She made it sound interesting, I’ll give her that.”
“For the first forty minutes, maybe.”
“Maybe it’s not Belarus; maybe it’s Victoria. Maybe the Victorias of the world can make anything sound interesting.” She sat up, imitating Victoria’s perfect posture and dismissive head tilt. “‘And so I counted ze used coffee grounds, one by one, and named them. Zere was Geraldine, Ernest, Rodrigo…’ You know she could tell that story and some man in the world somewhere would hang on every word.” Carol rolled her eyes, which was a good thing because she missed Jones’s flush. He couldn’t seem to help it, though. Previously, until today, as a matter of fact, he had been that person, the one who would have been content to listen to Victoria talk about something nonsensical and insipid, if only to use the opportunity to bask in her glorious presence. Seen through Carol’s eyes, it seemed as silly and shallow as she described. Why should he waste his time dying for the attention of women who didn’t want to give him the time of day or, worse, would use him and toss him away again?
“I’ve seen women do the same to Ribs,” Jones said, somewhat defensively.
“I feel a little sorry for him,” Carol surprised him by saying.
Jones blinked at her, shocked. “Why?”
“He’s sad.”
“What makes you think that?” He didn’t believe her, he was merely curious. Ribs wasn’t sad. The two of them were tight. If something was bothering Ribs, he’d open up and confess, Jones was certain. Wouldn’t he? Because he knew Jones was there for him, would move heaven and earth to help. Or did he know that? Had Jones ever said as much?
“It’s his eyes. There’s some kind of sadness there. Not despair or depression, just something bothering him that’s making him sad.” As if echoing that sadness, Carol’s lip jutted slightly as she stared at the counter, thinking.
“What about Victoria? Is she sad?”
“Victoria’s a shark,” she answered definitively. “Sharks don’t feel sad. They feel hungry or not hungry. Victoria is hungry, very, very hungry.”
“How do you know these things?”
“The eyes are the window to the soul. I’ve spent a lot of my life looking in windows, I guess.”
“What about my eyes? What do they tell you?” He tipped his head, awaiting her inspection. She leaned closer and he caught a whiff of whatever good smelling thing was on her. Whatever it was, he liked it. The thing that frustrated him about Carol was that he couldn’t easily identify the feelings she gave him. It wasn’t lust, that much he was certain. It felt more precious than that, a tiny flame in need of nurture and protection. But what would be the point of a flame? It could only be doused when she went away. Jones wasn’t certain exactly what he was looking for, but he knew what he wasn’t, and that definitely included someone unreachable and far away.
When Carol took both his hands in hers, it was hard to remember. The little flame burst to life, spreading from his fingers to all the other parts of him, calling him to action. He needed to…to what? What was the thing all his molecules wanted him to do whenever he was near her? He didn’t understand, and that lack of understanding left him frustrated and wanting.
Carol tipped her head and leaned in, studying him from very close by. Jones sat perfectly still, afraid to disrupt the moment, hoping an answer would come to him about what to do next, until he waited too long and she sat back, letting go of his hands.
“Your eyes try too hard to hide the truth of who you are,” Carol said.
“You sound like a gypsy. What does that mean?”
“It means there is more to you than people realize, much more, but you keep it hidden.”
“Why?” he asked, heart thumping with the truth of it. Was he so transparent? How did she know such things?
“You tell me,” she urged.
“I guess if you don’t put yourself out there, you don’t get rejected,” he said.
“Rejection is painful,” Carol agreed.
He wondered if she was thinking of her father just then. They had this unfortunate thing in common, and maybe that was the thing Jones couldn’t put a name to. They shared a sympathetic understanding, each realizing what it meant to be pushed away and disregarded. In Jones’s case, he’d taken all his former fat kid angst and turned it around, becoming a fit Navy SEAL with an enviable pedigree. He wondered what Carol did with her rejection.
“You know what I think?” he blurted.
Carol’s answering smile became wry. “What?”
“I don’t think you’re as nice as you pretend.”
“Of course I am,” she argued.
“No. I think you want to be nice, you try to be nice, but deep down you’re kind of a troublesome spitfire. Much more like Gum Lady than Sweetie.”
“People don’t like troublesome spitfires. You didn’t like the troublesome spitfire.”
“Maybe I was wrong. And maybe you grew on me. And maybe you made me laugh, when you weren’t making me crazy,” he said.
Her nose wrinkled and her arms crossed over her chest. “That was an awful lot of maybes, David.”
He touched his finger to her wrinkled, turned up nose. “You’re pretty cute, Carol. And I didn’t say maybe.”
“What about you?” she countered.
He smiled. “Am I cute?”
“You know you are,” she returned, reaching out to boop his button nose, too. “If I’m going to lean away from the niceness, you have to lean into it. Stop fighting it. You’re not some macho meathead. Face it, you’re nice .”
“You take that back,” he said, pressing his hands over his ears.
“No, because I love it. Too few people are genuinely kind in the world. Why would you pretend to be anything else?”
“It feels like I should be so much more, like I should be the hero.”
“Someone who can take what the world dishes and remain softhearted is a hero.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” he said. On the other hand it would be a relief to stop fighting it, to stop pretending to be someone he wasn’t. So he was a nice guy. And women like Victoria didn’t want nice. There were other kinds of women in the world, women like Carol, for instance, who saw the value in niceness.
“You should. I’m always right,” she told him.
“What if I unleash the full power of my niceness and it doesn’t work out? What then, Carol?” He was half-teasing, half sincere. How much rejection could a person take in a lifetime?
“Then we run away to Belarus and start over,” she declared, tone solemn, and it was so unexpected he guffawed and pulled her into a hug, pressing his mouth to her shoulder to stifle it.
Carol returned his hug, resting her head on his shoulder as her arms circled his waist. “David.”
“Yes, Carol.” His head tipped, resting on hers, and it was nice. Cozy, but also that something else, that little unnamed spark that made him feel sort of fizzy and disoriented ever since they met.
“It’s nice to be nice,” she said.
“It’s going well so far,” he agreed, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Why did she smell so good? Was it the food? Her skin? Some kind of lotion he could buy and keep on his nightstand for sniffing emergencies?
She eased back slightly. Her face was near his and slightly tipped to make her inspection. “I should…I should go to bed.”
It felt natural for his hand to cup her face, his thumb skimming her throat. Carol was adorable, and that was how Jones responded to her, as if she should be adored. “I should…” he began, but had no idea how to continue because he had no idea what to do in the moment. He felt as though he stood on one side of a chasm. On the other side was the next place he needed to go, but he couldn’t see it, and he had no idea how to get there. So he remained standing at the edge, peering over.
Carol paused, as if waiting for him to continue, to take the next step. When it became clear he either couldn’t or wouldn’t, she tipped forward and kissed his cheek, a soft skim of full lips that left him fighting a full-body shudder. “Good night, David,” she whispered, breath blowing warm in his ear.
“Carol, wait,” he whispered, but too late. By the time he opened his eyes and reached out a beseeching hand, she was already gone.