Authors: Anne A. Wilson

Hover (42 page)

I imagine the feel of wet sand in my toes, small wavelets rushing around my shins. I envision walking farther out, the feel of the water lapping against my thighs. But as I near that point of dropping my head underneath, the scene goes fuzzy, like static on an old TV.

“Here, we can turn down this street to get to the beach,” Eric says.

“Hold on a second.” I walk closer to the newsstand we just passed, bending to read the headline
: US LAUNCHES MISSILES AT IRAQ.

“Do you have fifty cents?” I ask.

Eric hands me the coins, I slot them in the machine, and pull out a copy of the
Honolulu Star-Advertiser.

My finger moves down the page as I read.

By Emerson Dryer

Special to the
Star-Advertiser

Yesterday, the U.S. military launched twenty-one Tomahawk missiles at targets in Iraq. White House officials said this was a firm and commensurate response to Iraq's plan to assassinate former president James MacIntyre in mid-March.â¦

I lower the paper, not wanting to read any more. I don't want to remember this. I don't. Especially not now. Not strolling hand in hand with the love of my life in Waikiki Beach.

I find the nearest trashcan and toss it in.

“Hey, I don't blame you,” he says. “Besides, our attention needs to be focused on that.” He points across the street to the beach and the crystal blue beyond.

Gulp. My hand tightens around his.

“It'll be okay. I'll be with you.”

Arriving on the sand, we drop our backpacks. The dress comes off, revealing the suit underneathâone piece, mind you.

Eric takes my hand and we walk to the water's edge. “You lead,” he says.

Normally, walking in the water or even wading in a pool isn't a problem for me, as long as there's no danger of submersion. But it's different this time. The memories flood back. Struggling to free myself from the harnessÂ â¦ the helicopter pulling me underÂ â¦ gunfireÂ â¦ blood in the waterÂ â¦

“Sara?” Eric says.

I look up.

“You're cutting off my circulation.”

I look down and his hand is white.
Yikes
. I take a deep breath and slowly release some pressure.

“Honestly, I don't know how you did what you did,” he says.

“I don't have the faintest idea.”

“You found a way, though, didn't you?”

Normally, I would have chalked it up to that same cosmic deity that comes through for me every two years when I step into the helo dunker. But maybe, just maybe, I've had the power within me all along.

And this is an encouraging thought. The power withinÂ â¦ I have this.

I have the power to make peace with the water. With what happened nine years ago. With Ian. I even have the power to forgive myself. And with this power, comes freedom. Freedom to live, love, work, and be feminine, be me. I don't have to hide, or shut part of myself off, or become someone else. I have the power within to chart my course, to live my truth, and move forward.

And so, I step forward, gingerly at first, pulling Eric behind me. The warm water rushes around my feet, just as I imagined it would. I scrunch my toes, wet grains filling the gaps. A few more steps and my knees now wiggle in that funny way that objects do when viewed underwater. Eric moves alongside me.

“Not bad,” he says. “I can feel my fingers even.”

I still have the wherewithal to elbow him in the ribs. A good sign.

“How about a few more steps?” he suggests.

I continue forward, the water rising along my thighs, touching the bottom of my suit, encroaching my waist. My grip tightens and I look up, met with an encouraging smile.

A few more steps and the water covers my chest. I stop, my breathing getting shallow. “I think we're good.”

He turns to me, pulling me to him, and wraps me securely in his arms. “I love you,” he says, before kissing me so passionately, sparks are surely flying from my head.

I finally break away, coming up for air. “If this is your strategy for helping me deal with where I'm standing right now, it's working.”

“Glad to be of service.” He says, drawing me to him once more. His lips find mine, and his hands, slippery in the salt water, slide down my back and move around my waist. He pulls our hips together.â¦

Oh, my goodnessÂ â¦

I push away, breathing hard. “I thinkÂ â¦ hotelâ¦”

“I agree,” he says, swallowing.

We share anticipatory smiles before turning to wade to shore. He reaches for my hand and we move slowly against the resistance of the water, attempting to get our breathing under control.

Once ashore, I pull my towel from my backpack and shake it out, but something flips from it, landing lightly in the sand. I start laughing as I pick up a box of condoms.

“What's so funny?” he asks.

I show him what I have in my hand.

“You're prepared!”

I reach into the bottom of the inside flap of my backpack and pull out two more boxes. “I have eighteen.”

His eyes grow wide. “I can see that,” he says, looking like he's won the lottery.

“Hong Kong. Well, you remember. You couldn't leave the ship without taking them, right? I'd forgotten I had them. But eighteen? Isn't that ridiculous? I mean, seriously.”

“Well, let's see, we're going to be here for what, four days? EighteenÂ â¦ yeah, that sounds about right.” His grin is a wide one.

“Honestly, you and Emilyâ¦”

After dressing, we begin the half-mile walk along the beach to our hotel. Hand in hand we stroll, blending into our surroundings perfectlyâthe couple that ambles along idly on romantic holiday.

I breathe in deeply, relishing the moment.

But the muffled ringing jars me from my reverie.

Eric slides his backpack off his shoulder, unzipping the side compartment. “Just a second.”

Phone in hand, he carries on a mostly one-sided conversation. “Okay,” Eric says. “Yeah. Yeah. Fuck. Okay, yeah. All right. Okay, got it. Yep, next flight.”

He sighs, putting away the phone and taking my hand. We start to walk again.

“What was that?” I ask.

“
That
was our orders to return to the GulfÂ â¦ immediately.”

I stop and turn to face him. “What?”

“New intel. New threat. New mission.”

“For you?”

“Yes, but for you, too. Apparently we're a package deal now.”

“What?”

“They want us both back ASAP. Stupid, too. The mission's not even time critical. They're still in the planning stages.”

I look at him, crestfallen.

“I told them we'd be on the next flight out.”

“But that's in a couple of hours,” I say. “The C-9 that dropped us off was returning late this afternoon.”

He takes both my hands in his. “Yeah, too bad we missed that flight.”

“But, we still have timeâ”

“I mean, what could we do?” he says. “I got the call, we were several hours out on a sailboat with no way to return in time for the departure, so we had to take the next flightÂ â¦ which is tomorrow evening.”

“Youâ¦” A smile creeps across my face.

“Hey, your badass boyfriend isn't stupid.”

But my smile quickly fades, replaced with a sigh. “Is it always going to be like this?” I ask, the resignation in my voice clear.

He moves his hand to my cheek, his thumb brushing softly against my skin. “You mean like this?” He pulls my head closer, his lips forming around mine. His arms encircle me, drawing me to him until my body is molded to his.

The sand is getting hot.

I pull back just slightly, nodding, in answer to his query.

“Then absolutely, yes,” he says. “It will always be like this.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anne A. Wilson
graduated from the United States Naval Academy and served nine years active duty as a navy helicopter pilot, which included deployment to the Persian Gulf. The Naval Helicopter Association named Anne and her crew Helicopter Aircrew of the Year, an award given for search and rescue.
Hover
is her debut novel. You can sign up for email updates
here
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