She laughs. First it is a harsh snicker that explodes out of her throat. She smiles and then takes a deep breath, trying to wipe the smile from her face. It creeps back; Marlowe chuckles, and then she bends forward to brace her hands on her knees as she succumbs to a fit of giggles.
Marlowe has learned to laugh at herself. Her thoughts are difficult to derail; she is probably the only woman alive who would surface from a kiss like that and think, "I'm going to be late for my flight." Antics like that have cost her in her relationships. Her brain hustles along its one track like the little engine that could; it takes a falling boulder or a collapsing tunnel to stop her train of thought.
That is why her life consists of a series of false starts, stalls, and wrecks. She doesn't try to make a mess of things; nevertheless, there is always a mess. She lives in her second and third thoughts; she never depends on the first one. The great first thoughts of her life have been things like, "I should marry Nate," and "My parents are going to dance at my wedding." It was only by virtue of second thoughts that she realized her errors. It would be better, of course, if she were more immediate, or if she had some measure of foresight and could see into the future. But because she is short sighted, she takes every step carefully. Her life is a difficult road, but Marlowe Ross can't stop being the kind of woman that she is.
When she catches her breath, she reaches for the phone clipped at her belt. She isn't proud; she can never afford to be. She makes too many mistakes that need to be repaired. She flips open the phone, scrolls through her contact list, and dials Roderick's number.
By the third ring, she realizes that Roderick isn't going to answer; he's somewhere between Atlanta and the west coast, headed to Hong Kong. "Damn it," Marlowe murmurs, snapping the phone closed and pressing it to her forehead. "Damn it!" she spits suddenly, dropping her head back against the front door. She didn't get the number to their hotel. And by the time they reach Hong Kong, Roderick's phone won't have any service.
Roderick won't call her; she knows that. Tamara, Marlowe thinks, but then she stops and shakes her head. She knows better. She has done such an effective job of cutting herself out of the loop that it is unlikely she will hear from either of them until they get back. This then is the price she pays for living in second thoughts. A moment comes and then it passes, and she discovers that she left a man with the kiss of a young god in a photo booth and didn't get his number.
While waiting in line to pay his airport parking fees, that man is tapping his knuckles on the driver's side window, studying a set of four black and white photographs, and frowning. Me pulling Marlowe's hair out, he thinks grimly. Marlowe shoving me for pulling her hair out. Me smiling like an idiot because I pissed Marlowe off. Lucas heaves a breath and pauses over the fourth picture. "Fuck," he snaps, tossing the pictures on the passenger seat as he puts the car in drive and moves up in line.
Silence rules the car as he drives along the highway to his house. He keeps the speed limit in the far right lane; he even slows down behind a pick up truck loaded with mattresses. He can't figure out what he did wrong. He danced with her; she was fine. He hugged her; she bolted. But she apologized, Lucas thinks. I crowded her up against a counter, I picked her up, and she was fine. She kissed me, and then she bolted again. "Fuck," he repeats caustically.
He would know what to think if there was a clear line of logic to follow, if her reactions corresponded to things he'd done that he would usually call mistakes. He knew that he wasn't supposed to crowd women or hoist them over his shoulder like sacks of grain. But he wasn't thinking at the time; he was just acting, and they seemed like safe actions. No - Marlowe seemed safe. She seemed comfortable with him. "But she isn't," Lucas mutters as he turns into his driveway and pulls up next to his roommate's truck. That one thing is perfectly clear: Marlowe is not comfortable with him at all.
In the pit of Lucas' stomach, there is a familiar twist of anxiety. He ignores it as he scoops his bag out of the back seat and strides to the front door. He walks calmly into the house, stops at the glass side table, and checks his messages. And then he takes the stairs two at a time up to his room where he quietly walks in, drops his bag, and shuts the door. Only then does he let the anxiety free; only then does it claw at his gut like a metal hook. He doesn't react; he never does. He just rides it out, knowing that the storm will soon pass.
I fucked up again, Lucas thinks. He can't figure out exactly what he did, but he takes on the blame nevertheless. It doesn't matter now; it's over, and he's tired of thinking about it. He's used to being left. It never hurt so much before because he never cared so much before. Usually, he keeps his guard up; usually, he anticipates the moment when a woman will look into his eyes and say, "This isn't working out." But he knows what it feels like when it's over. This anxiety, this coldness like someone flipped the switch on the sun - this is what it feels like.
There is a knock on the door. "Hey," a gruff masculine voice shouts. Lucas opens his bedroom door and steps out. His roommate, Jay, pauses in the middle of the hall on the way to his own bedroom. Jay wipes his right hand on his shorts and extends it to Lucas. There is a plate full of nachos in his left hand. "What's up? Heard you come in. Just speaking."
"Nothing," Lucas says, stepping forward and clasping Jay's hand. His gaze skates over Jay's tousled hair and attire. His roommate isn't wearing anything except a pair of boxers and socks.
"How was the wedding?"
"Fine."
Jay pauses, waiting for Lucas to elaborate. When he doesn't, Jay sighs and nods his head. "Great." He smirks suddenly like the boy he is inside of his twenty eight year old body. "Marie's here, so. . ."
"Right." Lucas pulls back from the frown that is forming in his lips. Jay has two different girlfriends and one other girl that he refers to as just a 'buddy'. Lucas was caught up once in a near showdown between Marie and the buddy who unexpectedly turned up at the door one Sunday afternoon. "I'm going in. I'll see you later."
Jay raises an eyebrow. "Thought you were on leave until Friday."
"I am," Lucas replies, releasing Jay's hand and retreating into his room. His door closes with a quiet snick.
Jay rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh. "And the cold front's back," he mumbles as he scuffles across the hall in his socks.
Not everyone holds on to their nicknames over the course of their military careers. When the friends from his first tour either left or moved to different bases, when he advanced to captain and his fellow soldiers started calling him "sir," his nickname should have died a natural death. It should have become a fond memory that he packed away in his trunk with his pictures and past honors. Instead, the name is spoken over Lucas like an omen. Only his old friends and his old girlfriends call him Arctic to his face. "You're cold" - that's what the women mean when they say it. "You're untouchable."
"Sir - Good afternoon." Gail, Lucas' secretary, pauses in her typing to look up at him from behind her desk. Gail keeps quiet as she usually does when he first comes in everyday; she watches him, judging his mood.
"Afternoon." Lucas stops in front of her desk and picks up the hefty pile of folders in the inbox. He would frown if Gail weren't staring at him.
"You're not expected until Friday, sir. You don't have anything scheduled until then."
Lucas glances at her and nods. Then he turns his attention back to the folders. There are several stacks of evaluation reports that he has to review and sign.
"Colonel MacAllister called for you." Gail's eyes widen when he looks at her sharply. "I think it was a personal matter, sir."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
Lucas nods again. "Thank you," he says softly before proceeding into his office.
Gail turns to look when his office door shuts softly behind her. "Four words," she murmurs as she turns back to her desk, smiling grimly. "I think that's a new record."
Inside his office, Lucas takes a moment to settle in before picking up the phone. He leans back in his chair and taps his fingertips on the clean, uncluttered desk surface. He was only recently promoted to a private office with a private secretary. In his opinion, it's a waste of resources. He was fine the way he was before with a cubicle that he only visited when it was absolutely necessary. Until a few months ago, he could most often be found in the field in some far corner of the world where it was hot and most of the people around him were bleeding. Now he has an office and a secretary, a clean set of fatigues everyday, and a helmet that he puts on more for example than for safety.
He isn't a full instructor yet but he's well on the way. The pace of the war required some officers to become instructors almost overnight, to learn to teach young pilots the things they needed to know to stay alive in the field. He embraced the task initially, even if it meant that he had to spend his days on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Lucas is grateful, really; he values his life - he knows how high the likelihood of death is these days.
But the machine of promotion is an uncontrollable force; once a man gets friendly with a desk, he's likely to stay there. And there is another force, a high ranking, well meaning one, that hopes to see Lucas behind a desk for the rest of his career. A faint reluctant smile tugs at Lucas' lip as he picks up the phone.
"MacAllister."
"Colonel." A tiny bit of warmth creeps into Lucas' voice as he speaks. Whatever their differences, he loves the uncle that he knows as Colonel Ian MacAllister more than he loves his own father.
"Lucas?" A hiss of static drowns out the general's next words. ". . . to hear from you until Friday."
Join the club, Lucas thinks. "What can I do for you, Colonel?"
"You can explain to me why you put in a transfer request to Fort Rucker. That's what you can do for me."
There can be no argument that Lucas gets his bluntness honestly. "Colonel, the School of Aviation Medicine at Rucker is the next logical step if I want to be an instructor. . ."
"Who says you want to be an instructor? You? I've never heard you say anything like that."
Lucas frowns. "I didn't say that I wanted to sit on my ass in D.C. doing ceremonial flights for politicians either."
The static on the line grows louder when the Colonel falls silent. "Count your blessings that I'm not there to pop your smart mouth, son. You're worse than Eileen."
A smart mouth and a stoic disposition are the only things Lucas inherited from his mother, Eileen. He didn't inherit anything from his father, not as far as he can tell; he couldn't have. His parents never had time for anyone other than themselves.
"How do you like that office?" Colonel MacAllister barks over the line.
"It's nice."
"That's what I thought you'd say. Get used to it. You can't hold off promotions forever. You've got a career to build, Lucas. You can't spend twenty years dicking around with helicopters just for the thrill."
They've had this same conversation at least ten times this year and hundreds of times over the past ten years of Lucas' service. Nothing ever comes of it except for unexpected benefits like the office that Lucas almost hates and his uncle almost takes credit for. "Anything else, sir?"
"No. Call me from your personal line this evening, eight o'clock. I expect to hear that your transfer has been withdrawn. Don't get yourself killed in the meantime. Goodbye."
"Don't get yourself killed" - that is what passes for love in Lucas' family. Stay out of trouble, Lucas. Make yourself useful or get out of the way, Lucas. Quiet, Lucas. Those are the things that he heard most when he was growing up. He wasn't born with the nickname 'Arctic'. But it hangs over him like a prophecy in danger of being fulfilled.
