Jackson
Chelsea and I part ways in the main lobby with simple expressions of, “See you tomorrow,” and Chelsea’s, “Later.”
One of Knot’s security taxis me back to Little Creek to pick up my truck, and on the drive home, my mind is on Chelsea. I wouldn’t call today a breakthrough, but at least she’s speaking to me on purpose and without attitude. Still, I can’t let go of this nagging sense that her wounds will keep us from moving past where we are.
Captain is in the backyard when I get home. I’m less than enthusiastic about life right now, so I sprawl out on one of the Adirondack chairs to watch her for a while.
Captain brings me her floppy frisbee, dropping it at my feet. I throw it on autopilot, not even watching her race across the grass. The fresh scent of spring carries on the cool breeze but also goes ignored. I should feel some hope after today, but instead, I seem to be talking myself out of trying.
I keep launching the frisbee for Captain, who gives out after seven or eight more throws. She eventually collapses to her bed beside my chair, and neither of us moves until the back door opens an hour later.
“There you are.” Caleb drops into the chair beside mine, stretching out his long legs. When I don’t acknowledge him, he leans forward, waving his hand in front of my face. “Dad? You okay?”
I suck in and blow out a deep breath before answering. “I spent the day with Chelsea for work. I can’t explain why.”
Caleb’s voice reaches an unnatural high when he asks, “What? And?”
“She feels about me the way I do about her,” I answer, monotone.
“And instead of celebrating, you look like someone just died.”
Captain gets up and drops the slobbery frisbee in my hand. I let it roll off my fingers to the deck. “She’s attracted to me but doesn’t want to date. She doesn’t even want to be my friend.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“In a way. Chelsea dealt with bullies as a kid and in college. Apparently, they were the subversive type. She’s got some residual trust and esteem issues. She won’t give me a chance because of what someone else did.”
“Ah. I get it,” Caleb says.
I tilt my head to stare at him. “What do you mean, you get it?”
Caleb shrugs. “Well, I don’t get it, but I understand what’s going on. I’m guessing by subversive you mean something like a Carrie situation.”
Noticing my confusion, he clarifies, “Like the movie Carrie but without all the blood and death. Someone hurt like that will lock people out to protect themselves.”
What he says sounds plausible, but this kid is twenty-one years old. What does he know? “Where the hell are you getting all this?”
Caleb answers with a grin. “I did ace my Psych Two final.”
I roll my eyes and spin the chair to face him. “Okay, Dr. Phil, how can I get through to her?”
Now, my son flounders. “Well, I…”
When his voice fades, I urge, “No. No. Don’t wuss out on me now.”
“I’m not wussing out. I just don’t know how you’re going to take this advice.” He picks up and launches Captain’s frisbee and wipes his slobbery hand on his jeans. “For a class project, we were made to read certain romance novels. They ranged from avoidable, nonstop drama to dark themes, all equally popular. Our assignment was to reconcile the popularity of these books, which counter today’s acceptable male behavior.”
“You read what? Wait, why are you smiling?”
Caleb laughs. “I learned a lot reading those books. You match up just about any woman’s personality to one of those characters and treat her like the man in the story does. You can’t lose.”
I lean back, unsure if I’m appalled or proud. “Please tell me you’re not manipulating women…and using my dog to help you.”
“What? Dad, no! Just listen for a minute. Take someone like Carrie or Chelsea. They bleed for acceptance, desperate for whatever crumbs are offered to them. And what happens? They get shit on. Women like that eventually reach a point, where they won’t accept anything anyone is offering.”
“Then, what is the point of this conversation?”
“This is where it gets controversial. You’re offering Chelsea romance and friendship. Chelsea likely sees it as a trap. Instead of trying to entice her, you should make her have to beat you off with a stick. She’ll eventually let down her guard. That’s when you strike.”
“Strike?” I choke.
Caleb rolls his eyes. “For the love of god, Dad. You dominate her. If she’s had to play at being strong her whole life, I guarantee her biggest wish is to hand over the reins and let someone else lead for a while.”
I’m now shaking my head. “Sorry, kid, but that sounds like a bad conduct discharge and sexual harassment suit.”
“Oh, come on, Dad. I know you’re not stupid. Does the woman object to your company?”
“No, we’ve actually come to a truce. Well, more that Chelsea put me in a box, so I’m no longer a threat.”
“That’s good, or less bad, at least. Okay, here’s what you do. Bullies torture people for two reasons: entertainment or to feel better about themselves. You’re going to pursue her relentlessly, but you’ll have to be embarrassingly over the top about it. I mean, make yourself look pitifully desperate. Kill whatever pride you have.”
“No. Number one, I’ll lose her respect and that of everyone I know. Two, because no means no. We’re back to sexual harassment.”
“We’re not. I’m telling you. This woman is begging somebody to give up something for her. She wants to be worth that to someone.”
Pushing out of the seat, I lean against one of the big timber posts. “I just don’t know. Chelsea isn’t some simpering female. She’s a warrior. There’s no way she’ll accept a wilting flower of a man.”
“Dad, no. That’s not what I’m saying. Let me slow this down for you. If you want Chelsea, go get her. Be yourself but fucking go get her. Let Chelsea and others see you trying and failing to earn a shot with her. Show the woman she means more to you than your pride. She’ll begin to feel safe around you. That’s when you make your move. You’ll know if she’s accepting or not.”
I sit stunned, staring at the man next to me. “You learned all this in two psychology classes?”
Caleb’s boyish grin reminds me he’s still just a kid. “That and a little practical application.”
“Captain’s going to need therapy for watching all the shit you’ve pulled, isn’t she?”
Caleb stands and props a hand on my shoulder. “You can do this, Dad.”
“You forget this woman carries a gun,” I grumble.
The hand on my shoulder becomes a friendly shove. “Hey, I’m ready for a stepmom. You know, two Christmases and all that.”
I wristlock my son, bending him over. “You’re a pain in the ass, and you already get two Christmases. Now, is there something you wanted, or did you just come to shrink my head?”
“Actually,” he grunts. I let him up, and Caleb lowers his head, looking through his eyelashes. “I came to borrow Captain.”
Throwing my hands up, I complain, “Oh my god, lady-killer. You’re going to put me in the ground or jail. Get out of here. Have her home by ten, or your ass is toast.”
Caleb pulls a leash from his pocket and calls Captain. He clips onto her collar and starts for the back gate. “See you later, Dad. If you want any good book recommendations, let me know.”
The half-kid half-man walks away with my dog, leaving me to process the strangest conversation I’ve ever had. Either the kid’s crazy, or I am because after thinking about it for a while, I go inside to get my phone.
I usually text my friend instead of calling, but I don’t feel like waiting for a response.
The call rings twice before Bastien answers. “Why do I get the feeling I won’t like what you have to say.”
“Don’t be such a princess,” I grouch. “I need a favor.”
Bastien grumbles. “If it were anyone else, I would have already hung up. I still might. What do you want?”
“If you and the missus don’t have plans tonight, I want you to have Chelsea meet you for beers.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
And here’s where it could all go south. “I need an in.”
“You need an… What the hell is this? High school?” Bastien roars.
I’m basing this whole strategy on my kid’s hypothesis, so I answer, “Something like that.”
Bash doesn’t say anything for a bit. I’m this close to begging when he finally responds. “Look, man. You’re my best friend, my brother, but I don’t have the patience to play matchmaker between you and Chelsea. Especially since she despises you.”
“She doesn’t. Even Birdie says so, remember.”
At the feminine murmuring in the background, I presume she’s confirming my claim. “Fuck,” Bash mutters. “You should know I’m only doing this because Birdie’s making me. I’m going to laugh my ass off when Chelsea doesn’t show. You’re buying the beers either way.”
“Deal. Oh, and don’t tell Chelsea I’m coming. I’m not asking you to lie to her. Just leave me out of the conversation. And don’t invite anyone else. Wait. Invite whoever you want.”
“God. I’m beginning to get a headache. I’ll text you after I get my head examined.”
Bastien hangs up before I can thank him. Honestly, I feel bad for the guy. I would have told me no.
I spend the next half-hour pacing the floor, waiting to hear back about tonight. My phone pings with a new message, and I nearly rip my uniform, trying to get the damned thing out of my pocket.
Shit! It’s a political spam message. Either I or the phone is about to crack when it vibrates again. Finally, it’s from Bash. Seven thirty. Same place.
I shower, change, and drive to the Taphouse over an hour early to eat and do some homework. The waitress removes my dinner dishes when I finish and blanches when I ask for a drink menu. My team and I are here so much that Margo and the others know our drink orders by heart. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
“I’m allowed to try something different,” I answer.
Margo has just returned with the requested menu when Bash and Birdie walk in fifteen minutes early as requested. “Um. What are you doing?”
I look up from the menu to Bastien’s side-eye glare. “I’m trying to decide what drink I want.”
Bastien lifts Birdie’s hand to his forehead. “Con enculé,” he barks. “If you’re trying to punk me...”
Bastien Laurent’s French cursing is usually entertaining, but not when it’s aimed at me. “I swear, I’m not. Just sit down, shut up, and act normal.”
“Yeah. Like you’re doing?” he tosses back.
Birdie lifts onto her tiptoes and kisses Bastien’s jaw. “Hey, big guy, let’s sit down, and you can buy me a drink.”
The badass former SEAL melts looking into her eyes. Bastien kisses Birdie’s nose and smiles. “I’ll do anything you want, Petit Oiseau.” Gesturing to me, he says, “But that asshole’s buying the drinks.”
Margo walks up again, carrying an ultra and a cider, the lovebirds’ usual. She sets the bottles down, pointing my way with her elbow. “What’s wrong with him tonight? He’s acting weird.”
“Who’s acting weird?”
I look up as Chelsea drops into the seat next to mine. I’m stunned that she hasn’t shied away, so Bash chimes in, all too pleased to answer. “This idiot. He must have swallowed too much water during his morning swim.”
I flip him off and look at the waitress without reacting to Chelsea. “Margo, I think I’ll try a mojito, a cosmopolitan, mai tai, amaretto sour, and an espresso martini.”
Her jaw drops, and I helpfully place the drink menu on her tray. The woman is so stunned that she walks off without taking Chelsea’s order. I’m met with bizarre expressions when I return my attention to my friends.
“I think you broke Margo,” Birdie says, chuckling.
Bash taps on the side of the head. “Forget Margo. What the hell is wrong with Pin?”
I shrug and finally direct my attention to Chelsea. “I didn’t feel like a beer, and since you don’t like beer, I thought we could both try something new.”