Chapter 9
Jordan
It took just one touch of Nora’s soft skin to make me forget about the disturbing vision I had at the restaurant two days ago. Feeling how her body reacts to me, seeing the desire in her eyes, tasting her soft lips, I no longer care about the pictures my sick mind conjures up. She’s in my arms and all mine.
Any trepidation I saw in her before must have been from fear. The same would happen whenever we’d reconnect before my deployments. We’d have fun and give in to each other’s desires until my departure loomed closer. Then, the notion that I might never return would cross her mind, causing her to shut down. She’d let the unknown consume her even when we were keeping our relationship casual, and especially when it was more.
I almost died in the car crash, and I’m sure her reaction to that involved more than fear—anger, hurt, guilt—and I can’t blame her. Dating someone in the military is terrifying. The one at home can go months without hearing from the other, especially if they’re deployed. And there’s no guarantee they’ll return the same person they were when they left—physically or mentally. If they return at all.
For those reasons and because she witnessed the horrors of losing someone to war through Sydney, she fought against us becoming a couple for years. Frankly, I’m surprised she’s acting as normal as she is right now. Must be the pity she feels for my situation. Her closing off will creep in as I heal and my return to the base grows near.
“We’re here,” she announces and turns off the car engine.
I take in the large stone building and grounds within view outside my window. Fall is abundant in the surrounding trees. Red, orange, and yellow leaves litter the ground underneath, but I see nothing to tell me where she’s taken me.
“Your first bucket list trip is about to be crossed off,” she says, tossing open her door and climbing out before I can investigate further. Soon, she’s beside my door with the wheelchair, motioning for me to join her.
My body is still screaming at me for moving when I see the sign by the entrance: Blue Sky Winery. “Are you planning to get me tipsy so we can party right tonight?”
“Not exactly. The restrictions on your prescriptions said you can have up to two glasses of wine occasionally. I doubt you’ll get a buzz from that.”
“Party pooper.”
“Come on,” she says, pushing me toward the entrance. “Partying may not be in the plan today, but we can have a little fun.”
“How is a winery fun if I can’t get drunk?” I ask to get a rise out of her.
“We’re getting out of the apartment and creatively crossing something off your bucket list. Stop complaining.”
“I was really enjoying where things were heading at the apartment.” I lean back to see her reaction as the wheels roll over the uneven lip of the ramp, shaking the chair. I groan at the impeccable timing and resulting electric current now shooting through my torso. “Oww.”
She activates the automatic door and addresses the hostess, who seats us at a table by windows overlooking the vineyard out back. The rows of grapevines seem to go on for miles over rolling hills, untouched by the season. Mountains I’ve seen my entire life whenever I leave the city but never appreciated line the horizon in the distance. The sun shines only on them, casting shadows over the vines.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks, ending my observation of our destination.
I nod and return to my favorite view. “So, sexy tour guide, what do you have planned for us?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
The waitress brings us two glasses of ice water and menus, the latter Nora declines.
“We’ll have the special,” she declares, sending the waitress off to place the order with the kitchen.
“What’s the special?”
“Not telling you. Just sit back and enjoy the surprise.”
To show my appreciation for the effort, I place my hand on the table and wait for hers to slide into it. She hesitates, transporting me back to the moment the vision sliced me in two at the restaurant. It shines another light on everything that’s been different about her lately—the deer in the headlights look she has when I touch her, the distance she keeps, the constant distractions, the delayed time between texts. Other than that mind-numbing kiss this morning, her reactions to me have been off.
Then again, she’s never liked displaying our couple’s status in public. Frankly, I’m shocked her first suggestion was to go out to a very popular, crowded winery…even if it is locatedover sixty miles northwest of Richmond. But that also means no one should know us here. So, the question stands. Why is my hand empty without the warmth of her touch?
Disappointed that nothing’s changed in the PDA department, my hand falls back into my lap.
“Jordan, I…”
The waitress interrupts her excuse (or lack thereof, I’m predicting) by dropping off a sampling of four wines. Each kind, displayed in a dainty decanter on a wooden tray, is a different hue. Then, she adds a set of eight even tinier wine glasses beside it.
“Enjoy the Italian experience,” she says with forced enthusiasm, unaware of the brittle tension between us. “Your charcuterie board will be here shortly.”
“Italian experience?” I ask, muscling up the motivation to climb the wall she’s rebuilt with staggering reinforcement.
“You wanted to drink authentic Italian wine in Italy. This is as close as you’re going to get in Virginia.”
“I appreciate it.”
Her lips roll into a self-aware grin before she selects a decanter and pours a sampling into two glasses.
I follow her lead as she swirls the shot-sized portion of wine and holds her nose to the rim to sniff the fragrance. The deep burgundy liquid smells of sour dirt and my face revolts.
“Come on,” she teases. “It can’t be worse than warm, cheap beer that you’ve happily drunk over the years.”
“Nothing is better than beer…warm or cold.”
“This is your wish, remember?”
“Touché.” Draining the glass, the smooth liquid coats my throat. To my delight, it tastes better than it smells.
“I thought we could check off another item on the way home,” she says, reaching for the next decanter.
“Please tell me it’s number six.”
“How am I supposed to know which number it is? I can only recall a few of them.” Her eyes grow wide, accurately guessing I’m up to no good.
“That’s a shame. You would know if you saw it and based on how innocently you said that…you don’t.” I wink and secretly wish for number six to be checked off the list sooner than later.
“Hmm,” is all she says to dignify my comment. “Ready for the next taste test?”
“Sure.”
She moves the used glasses—more like shot glasses on blue twisted stems—aside and pulls two yellow ones out of the box set. “Which flavor would you like to try next?”
“How about the gold one to match our glasses?”
“Perfect.”
While she fills each glass, I’m reminded of the night we met. The three girls—Nora, Sydney, and Denise—had ordered a bottle of champagne to share. Us guys—me, Will, and Benji—ordered the cheapest beer on the menu. Like today, I couldn’t take my eyes off Nora while she expertly opened the bottle and filled the glasses for everyone. She knew exactly how to hold the glass for a smooth pour and when to stop to prevent the bubbles from spilling over. Her tongue trailed over her lips in concentration, sending blood gushing to my other brain.
“I forgot how good you were at that. It only makes me want you more,” I venture, causing her to pause on the way to passing me a glass.
“You think pouring liquids into a glass is sexy?”
“Oh, yeah. But only when you do it. Nothing stands at attention for anyone else.” I nod to the aforementioned, easily influenced brain for emphasis.
“Is that so?”
“Is there anything I do that turns you on?” I’m phishing, but desperate times call for equally desperate questions.
She gave me a long, searching look, and for a moment, I wonder what she’s trying to figure out. It’s not like my feelings for her are a secret, but unfortunately, hers are. After all this time, is she still unsure about her own heart? About me?
“If I told you,” she begins, dropping her eyes, “it would take out all the fun and mystery.”
“Indulge me with one.”
She set those devastating dark eyes on me and grinned. “Your new body turns me on.”
“You like scars, bruises, and broken bones?” Of course, I know what she meant, but I’m curious about what she’ll say next.
“No. Those break my heart.”
Her eyes drift to the wine she’d yet to drink. I miss them on me. I miss the sparkle they had just moments ago before something I said or she thought cloaked them in sadness.
“What then?” I urge, bringing her back to me.
“Your Italian cheese, meat, and fruit board has arrived,” someone, other than our disinterested waitress with a drawn-out southern accent, asks. “I bet you two darlings are ready for some yummy food. Am I right?”
Neither of us darlings jump to answer. Nora’s gaze drops first, and after a long pause, she speaks up.
“Can we get this boxed up instead? We’d like to go enjoy the view and fresh air.” She said it without looking at me, spiking my wandering curiosity.
“Why, of course. The vineyard this time of year is so romantic. Be sure to take the east trail. It has the best mountain views.” She frames the side of her mouth as if the next thing she says is a secret. “And with the surrounding grove, it’s the most private. If you know what I mean.” She elbows Nora and sashays away with the tray.
“The most private, huh? Now, I’m intrigued.” It’s a risk to bring up intimacy, but I can’t help myself. Despite my injuries, there’s nothing I’d rather have than Nora’s naked body on mine…in broad daylight, where I can appreciate every inch of her again.
Her gaze cuts to mine with slight irritation and a sliver of amusement. She enjoys my dick as much as I do, if not more, and I know she’s suppressing the urge to jump me. She had to work extra hard at it this morning. It’s only a matter of time before we both get what we want.
I lean in, ready to get this ball rolling. “Did you know that number six involves a tree? Sounds like fate to me.”
“A tree? Seriously? You’re in—Jordan. Jordan,” she says again. In my head, I’m responding, but hear nothing. She’s right here, but it sounds as if she’s shouting at me from across the room. Is she trying to warn me about something? Am I sitting on an ant hill? With the way my body tingles and stings, maybe I am. Maybe I’m already covered in the little shits. I’d swat them away if my arms would move.
A chair scrapes against the hardwood floor, and that’s where my attention falls, thanks to my muscles letting me down. My head slumps, and then my shoulders. All I can see is four feet, the light of the room fading in and out around us. Her hands land on my shoulders, propping me up.
“This isn’t happening,” Nora complains, missing her usual sass. Fear soaks every letter. “Jordan, listen to my voice. Focus on me, a knot in the floorboard, something. Focus, Jordan, on something outside the darkness.”
There’s a small scar on the ankle bone, parallel to the sandal strap circling her right foot. Three freckles in a line turn the scar into a T. Adorable.
“T fer Taylor,” I slur.
“What?”
Resting my head on her shoulder, I relax for a bit while section by section my body is reconnected to my brain. It’s dizzying, but better. Energy follows sensation in my feet, legs, arms, and finally torso, allowing me to sit up.
“You have a natural tattoo on your ankle.”
◆◆◆
Thanks to a host of reasons I don’t care to rehash, Nora and I do not cross number six off the bucket list during our stroll. But that’s okay. I’m still upright and able to experience something new with my girl. A moment worth capturing for a lifetime.
Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I wave her over for a photo. She must feel sorry for me since it takes only two pleas to get her to agree, begrudgingly, of course. The woman hates selfies more than PDA and making her step out of her comfort zone when it comes to us is my favorite pastime.
As we make our way back to the car, I swipe through the photos of her leaning over my shoulder and smiling. The sun’s rays highlight her face and hair like the angel she is to me. I hold up the phone to show her my favorite shot.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, in case I haven’t already said it today. The brain is a little foggy these days.
We load into the car minutes later, and I dig into the charcuterie sitting on my lap in a to-go container before we back out of the parking space.
“How is it?” she asks, eyeing me with interest. We both skipped lunch—thank you embarrassing episode—and the lot of salty meats, crackers, and flavorful cheeses is calling to us both.
“Heaven,” I answer with a moan. Snagging a piece of smoked gouda from the lot, I hold it in front of her mouth. She takes it with her teeth and merges onto Interstate 81.
“To where are we heading next, my beautiful tour guide?”
“What number, obviously not number six, is climbing a mountain?”
I stare at her like she said something ridiculous, which she did.
“What?” she asks with an indignant smirk.
“Have you looked at me lately?”
“I got a pretty close view this morning.”
“What makes you think my ailing body can climb a mountain?” I toss a grape into the air, catch it in my mouth, and chew while she continues to revel in her grand scheme.
“I didn’t say we’d need your body for this task.”
“That’s a shame. But how else are we—” And then I see it—the wayfinding sign for a scenic mountain drive.
“There are about a dozen different places we can stop along the climb to the top to look out at the valley below.”
“Clever.”
Halfway up, we pull into a parking spot at an overlook. Since we can see everything through the windshield, we don’t bother dragging my heavy ass out of the car. In this area and time of day, it’s the valley’s turn to be in the sun’s spotlight. The nearby trees showcasing their fall colors and the bluish-gray rolling mountain chain in the distance, is so breathtaking I can’t take it in fast enough.
“Do you know why the Blue Ridge Mountains have that bluish hue?” she asks.
I take another look at them. Surely, I’ve heard the reason, yet it doesn’t populate. “I don’t remember. Why are they blue, beautiful tour guide?”
She swallows and looks away before answering. And when she does, her voice is oddly guarded, “They look blue because of a chemical the native trees release. It scatters blue light from the sun and makes them look like a kindergartner painted them.”
“That’s right. It’s all coming back to me.” It wasn’t. But who’s keeping track? “What other trivia do you have in there?” I nod toward her head, and my right hand begs to run its fingers through her silky hair. She curled it this morning, and knowing she fixed her hair for today contradicts the retreat I felt from her at the winery.
“Well, did you know that the Blue Ridge Mountain chain is one of the oldest in the world?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yep. They started forming millions of years ago, before dinosaurs.”
“Well, I guess I should have paid closer attention in Virginia History class.”
She smiles. “Yes, you should have, but I didn’t learn that in history class.”
“Whew. I was regretting all the time I spent ogling at Marsha Blakely across the aisle.”
“Marsha, huh?”
“Red hair, blue eyes, sweet, popular, the kind of girl who volunteers for school events. She was homecoming queen our senior year.”
“Hmm. Sounds like the exact opposite of your current type.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s my current type?” I ask, then raise a hand to prevent her from answering. “Let me describe her. She’s strong. Takes no shit from anyone, especially me. She has the softest skin—the kind I can’t keep from touching to make sure she’s real. Her eyes are like melted chocolate. I could lose myself in their depths all day. Her smile lights up any room. But when that smile is because of me, I feel like the luckiest man in the world. This girl is my past, present, and future. The only one I will ever love.”
She stares at me, her mouth dropping open in shock or to say something that won’t form. I’ve never hidden how I feel at any point in either our friends with benefits or exclusive relationships. How can any of what I just said be a surprise? I’m not one to hold back. I go after what I want, and like her, usually, I say what’s on my mind.
I shift as much as I can in my seat, expecting her to collapse into me to hide how much my words affect her. Instead, she throws open the door and stalks to the edge of the overlook.
Speechless, I watch her lean over the railing, her head down as she breathes deep. I’d give anything to go to her, hold her, and take back whatever I said to upset her. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what that is. Her commitment issue is old news. But shouldn’t hearing someone confess their love be a happy moment? It made me happy to say it.
She’ll come around. I’m not worried. You don’t throw away a connection like ours—something that strong, that electric, that all-consuming. And when I’m healed, I’ll start working on convincing her of that forever part.