The Distance Between Dreams Read online

  “Sean, is Dad there?”

  “Yea, he’s here. Drinking his coffee. Hold on.”

  I hear muffled sounds. Sean covering the receiver with the palm of his hand.

  “Rick, it’s Everly,” can still be heard as Sean hands the phone to my dad- letting him know who’s on the other end.

  My dad’s voice on the line, “Everly, what is it? Everything ok?”

  I chuckle a bit. I guess an unexpected phone call warrants some worry.

  “I’m fine, Dad. Just about an hour out of Oceanside. Need me to pick up any last minute groceries on my way in?”

  “You’re in Cali?"

  “Yea, I uh…got leave last minute.”

  “Well c’mon; We got the turkey in the oven, and you need to get here before your sister tries to make that awful southern dressing this year instead of traditional stuffing. I don’t care if Sean is from Georgia, she put way too much salt in it last year.”

  I smile at that. “Yea, Dad. Im’ma be there in an hour.”

  “Good, cause I need some good ‘ole fashioned Ryan reinforcements. God knows, I love your sisters and their broods, but sheesh, the only Ryan among them is Liberty.” Liberty is the oldest of my four nieces and nephews. I was introduced to her on her first birthday, July 4th, five years ago, just before I discharged from the Marines. Her wiggling little body and chubby pink face with ineffectual flailing fists was enough to scare me into swearing that I would never have kids. I mean, I guess she was cute, but she was just so dang needy. I was happy to hand her back to my sister when her tiny face scrunched up and she began some pathetic whimpering.

  “Ok Dad. Hold down the fort. I’m coming.”

  We disconnect and I put the car in gear. I take a deep breath and maneuver out of the parking lot. Yea. Family. Soon, I'm pulling into dad’s driveway. I shut off the rental and take another fortifying breath. The family situation is only stressful on my side. Had been since David’s death eight years ago when I made the decision to take his place serving my country in the military. It always hits home how much differently my life could have been had he lived. Had we gotten married and decided to move forward with the American dream; 2.5 kids, mortgage and mini-van. Just like my sisters, who can't understand why after sacrificing a true love at such a young age, I would then sacrifice my life in his name in the military.

  I can’t explain it to them. I can’t explain that I would never be just another survivor. I would be the fighter. I will never stand to be on the sidelines. I will be the one to throw the punches and direct the path of my life. Action instead of reaction.

  I sigh and grab my bag from the passenger seat.

  Pushing open the car door, I walk the path to the front door and have a moment of awkwardness on whether or not I should just walk on in or ring the doorbell.

  Before a decision can be made, the door swings inward and my sister’s annoyed visage appears, her hair flying back from her flushed face in the force of displaced air from her volatile opening of the door.

  On her hip a fat little cherub baby is crying and red-faced.

  “EVERLY. Get your ass in here!”

  The heat in her words is softened by the smile curling her lips and the twinkle in her eyes that looks suspiciously like tears forming.

  Stepping over the threshold she half hugs me with the arm that isn’t wrapped around her child. This brings my face in direct line with baby exhibit A as I lean down to return her embrace. Both my sisters are a bit shorter than me, I was the lucky one to inherit dad’s tall genes. The baby and I survey each other with curious eyes.

  I take a step back and look over the newest member of the family that I have yet to meet. Reaching my hand out, I give Baby A a little tickle and goochie-goochie-goo on his cheek, as this is the sole right of Aunties, like myself.

  But my sister has other plans and is too quick for me.

  “Here, take him. I’ve got to check on things in the kitchen.”

  Before I can protest, she has Baby A thrust out in a weird offering I don’t want to take, but feel compelled to do since his mom seems to be abandoning him to my care. Sneaky bitch. At least he has stopped crying and is just looking at me curiously as I struggle to balance him on my left hip and my bag on my right shoulder. The struggle is real. He’s a fat little turd.

  “Geez, Kinsey, what are you feeding him? He weighs like twenty pounds.”

  She has stepped back away from us and clasps her hands underneath her chin. The tears are real now, and she is smiling a weird wavering smile and crying at the same time.

  “I’m so happy to see you!”

  She gives me another half hug and we repeat the precarious dance we did before in reverse.

  “And little Sean just loves you!”

  Right, this is little Sean. I probably should make sure I don’t want to Freudian slip and call him "baby exhibit A" when I reference him.

  She turns and makes a break down the hall to the kitchen.

  I slide my bag off my shoulder and let it fall to the floor. I go to follow my sister and find a safe place to deposit this baby. He now has drool coming out of his mouth, and it’s making a wet spot on my leather jacket. Not cool.

  Before I can pass the living room on the way to the kitchen though, I am waylaid again, this time by a little terrorist known as my niece, Liberty. She comes running and screaming out of the living room and wraps her arms around my legs in an effective stopping maneuver.

  “AUNTIE EVERLY! AUNTIE EVERLY! AUNTIE EVERLY!”

  Her father and my brother-in-law, Brent, is right behind her though, and quickly scoops her up while I awkwardly pat her back.

  “Liberty Bell, give her some room. Hey Everly.”

  He gives me a one armed hug and kisses my forehead.

  “So good to see you.”

  I repeat the same back to him. Then the flood of hugs and greetings really commences. My father, Admiral Rick, my sister Kelly (married to Brent) and my other brother in law, Sean bring on the hug receiving line. Then while Kelly finally takes little Sean from my arms, I get to give a proper hug to Liberty, Trevor, and little baby Emma, almost the same age as little Sean.

  My sisters are two sides of the same coin. From their physical appearances, dark hair, dark eyes (like my mother) to their nurturing personalities and even their life timelines- getting married and popping out kids in tandem almost. Liberty was the oldest at five, then Trevor at three and a half, followed by Emma at a year, and finally little Sean at eight months.

  A distinct fart noise comes from the vicinity of little Sean’s diaper.

  “Eww gross.” This from Liberty who knows exactly what such a noise means. My dad claps his hands once.

  “All right, let’s break this up and give Everly some breathing room.”

  Everyone disperses from the living room as dad puts his arms around my shoulder and hugs me again.

  “So good to have you home, Everly.”

  It’s good to be home. Even when home stresses you out and puts your heart and emotions in a blender on high speed.

  4

  I settle into my seat on the plane and wait for the rest of the passengers to board even though there aren’t that many. My 1900 flight out of San Fran had one layover in Atlanta where I switched planes. I’d be arriving at four in the morning on Sunday. My day to catch up on some Z’s and fold some laundry. I lean back against the headrest and shut my eyes while the handful of other passengers shuffle down the aisle and take their seats.

  Thankfully, because this is an airline that doesn’t assign seats, and a late night connection, I was able to get a prime window seat and the peace that comes with not being bumped every ten seconds.

  A presence stops at my row. I slant my eyes open and see a man placing his bag in the overhead compartment above my seat. His shirt rides up a little to reveal the tiniest sliver of muscled flesh and a deliciously tiny happy trail that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. It’s been too long if I am salivating over this barest glimp
se of a stranger.

  I raise my eyes to his chest; it is impressively broad, clothed in a scrumptious faded green Henley. I close my eyes shut and turn my head forward hastily before he catches me staring. His weight drops in the aisle seat of my row and his scent wafts my way. Warm, clean masculine scent. I half smile to myself and feel a warm blush come into my cheeks as I imagine grabbing whoever this stranger is and having my way with him.

  “Hey, Ryan.”

  My eyes pop open. Mr. Aisle seat with the very happy trail is none other than Senior Chief Eric Broussard. My CO.

  SHIT. FUCK. SHIT. FUCK.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  He smiles at me as he leans over the armrest, his shoulder leaning in my direction. Bringing with it his delectable scent in a warm cloud of attraction.

  “Chief Broussard.”

  This is the sum total of my eloquent and loquacious dialogue. My brain is too busy trying to process that the object of my momentary desire is none other than my CO. And that now he is sitting next to me for the next hour and half.

  His hazel eyes are piercing into mine, but there is this definite crinkle at the corner of his, his little smile still in place.

  “How was your family, Ryan?”

  I take a deep breath and look down at my lap.

  “Very good, sir.”

  One flight attendant closes the exterior doors and another begins demonstrating the necessary pre-flight safety spiel. I pretend to listen while ignoring the strained awkwardness in the space between myself and the man one seat away from me.

  As the plane begins its taxi to the runway, Broussard leans back in his seat and stretches his legs out in front of him. Seemingly dismissing me.

  I take a deep breath. Maybe the flight won’t be so bad if we can just ignore each other.

  I drum my fingers on the armrest.

  Just as we reach altitude, Broussard turns towards me again.

  “So what exactly is your story, Ryan?”

  He’s not smiling anymore. His brow is creased in a question. Whether he really cares or not I can’t guess.

  Should I trust him? He is my commander, I know should I win myself into his graces, things would be smoother between me and the team. No. I shake my head. I’ve had too many run-ins with egotistical macho men to play nice.

  Men who think the only place for a woman is in the kitchen. Maybe not literally…but I know his type.

  “I have no story…sir.”

  It comes out snarky even though I didn’t mean it to have an edge. Guess my inner hate fire just slipped out. His facial expression changes into command mode. Straight set lips, slightly clenched jaw, flat eyes.

  I flash back to my teenage rebel years when my father used to do the same thing to me after I had done something or said something that was a reflection of my ‘bad attitude.’ An answering rebellious energy unfurls in my belly. I clench my fist and look away from him out the window.

  I hear him shift in his seat.

  “No story, huh? Just a cutthroat G.I. fucking Jane?"

  I don’t look away from the window. His words are nothing I haven’t heard a thousand times over.

  “I’ll give you props, Ryan. Every test you’ve taken so far, you’ve passed. But real life is not a test. There are lives depending on you. Not just mine. And not just your team’s.”

  I focus my eyes away from the outside blackness and on the reflection of his face. His whole body is leaning over the middle seat. Arms crossed on the armrest. His expression serious. The low light of the cabin and the hum of the engines have created a reluctant intimacy- we are in our own pocket of space, never this close before and probably never this close again.

  “Every life you give or take is a rock thrown into a pond. The ripples of that life resonate out and crash against each other. There’s repercussions that you just don’t fucking understand.”

  I let his words wash over me. I turn back to face him. I unabashedly stare into his eyes. At his impossibly long eyelashes narrowed in disdain. His eyes are sharp, scrutinizing and captivating.

  “That’s where you are mistaken, sir. I do understand.”

  I turn forward and reach under my seat pulling out my iPod from my messenger bag at my feet. I plug the ear buds into my ears and turn on some Florence + The Machine.

  Annoyance is trolling in my gut. Every man I’ve ever come into contact with in the military has had a chip on their shoulder about a woman in their workplace. Some are openly against it. Some passively aggressive. I’ve brushed it off a million times. It hadn’t fucking mattered. I’ve proven myself again and again. I can do it. Not because I am an uber-feminist, a lesbian, a man-hater, or just a stone cold bitch.

  I can do it and am doing it because I made a fucking promise.

  And it fucking mattered.

  5

  Broussard

  I watch her plug in her ear buds and turn away from me a last time.

  FUCK. I hate it when women play the silent game.

  There is nothing that annoys me more or quickly cripples my resolve. Thank god this is a short flight.

  Pushing the seatback to recline, I study Ryan in my peripheral vision. Her short hair in wild disarray. I don’t even know if this artfully created or just messily happenstance.

  Her long legs (I know they are long because she is five-ten according to her file- but I’d seen them in shorts too) are encased in worn jeans, maybe dark once, but now an indigo blue, with white-worn seams. Gray t-shirt and black scarf. Her breasts rise and fall with her measured breaths. Shit! Should I even be noticing her breasts? I hastily adjust my line of sight. Her feet are in worn cross trainers. The bag at her feet, simple black fabric, nothing different about it…. except a Boston Red Sox cap clipped around the strap.

  This is curious. A safer topic than her breasts for me to puzzle over. Her father, the Admiral, is based in California. I rack my brain trying to remember if he is originally from Boston. I don’t think so. Her mom? No. Shit. It is her boyfriend. She has a boyfriend.

  I let the conclusion wash over me. At first I am in disbelief. She is so stubbornly independent, and cantankerous, who would date her?

  I would. The realization hits me with the same effect of a nuclear bomb going off.

  I would date her. I am attracted to Ryan. Everly Ryan. I take another eyeball liberty over her.

  No. I am not. She’s a subordinate. Just another one of my team. I feel responsible for her life. A life that is tenfold more difficult to protect as part of my team just from the sole fact that she is a SHE.

  That’s what I’ve been feeling. Protective.

  I breath deep, and exhale a sigh of relief. Yes. Protective. This makes much more sense than jealousy and attraction.

  I sneak another glance at her. She has her eyes closed. Head leaned against the window. She’s softer this way. Almost vulnerable.

  She seems a thousand years younger than me. I do the mental calculations in my head. I’m thirty-three. She’s twenty-seven. Six years. Luke’s almost six.

  She could’ve given birth to Luke…

  The idea flies into my head with disturbing ramifications. My thoughts are now churning a hundred miles a minute.

  She could be a mother. But she is a soldier. She would’ve been twenty-two when Luke was born. She had been in boot camp for the Marines if I remember correctly from her file…when I was at Luke’s birth with my then wife, Miranda. I clearly see a picture of Miranda in my mind’s eye, swollen with Luke as she met me at the airport when I was returning from a deployment. Only Miranda’s face of ecstatic joy begins to blur, turning into the face of Everly Ryan with bad attitude and sexy full lips.

  A dinging interrupts my daydream.

  “Please return your seats to the upright position. Our captain has just informed me we are making our final descent into Norfolk Regional. The time is 4:36 AM Eastern time, our conditions are favorable.”

  6

  Ryan

  The next day’s four-thirty AM
comes with a massive headache. Shit. It was like I drank half a bottle of tequila last night. Rolling off my bunk, I slip on the socks and running shoes that I keep right next to the bed. I always sleep in my running clothes. Not because it’s extra motivating or cuts down on my getting ready time. I am a really hard sleeper when I feel safe and it takes a good thirty minutes for my brain to start to function after I am “awake.”

  A quick swipe of tooth paste across my teeth, and some combination moisturizer sunscreen on my face and I am ready to go.

  As I jog down the stairs of the barracks, my stomach feels even rockier. My body feels tired. Ugh, this will make the next thirteen miles fantastic. Must be an emotional hangover from the holiday weekend. Usually I do a warm up by jogging to the long way round to the rendezvous point, but today, it feels like too much work, so instead I take the shortcut between buildings to get to our office parking lot. Some of the team is already there doing stretches and they gave me nods of hello in the predawn darkness.

  I reach down and touch my toes. My vision swims. I lean up quickly. I start to sweat, even though it is only about forty or so degrees out.

  The rest of the team shows up, some in their vehicles, some on foot.

  Broussard, I noticed, had come in his jeep; he does a silent and quick head count, then he is off. The rest of us fall in behind him.

  I am middle of the pack like I usually am for the first four miles. My headache is pounding in time with my feet on the pavement. When Broussard leads the group off the pavement and through a hiking path that would take us through the woods then to the beach before we make a return loop, I feel that strange pooling of saliva in my mouth that is a precursor for vomiting. I fall behind Reed and tamp the feeling down.

  I will not puke. I will not puke. I will NOT puke.

  I chant it over and over in my head in disbelief. I hadn’t even made it seven miles and am back of the pack; T-Rex just passed me for crissakes and he is always last of the group. I have never been last before. That shameful feeling spurs me on, even though the sweat on my forehead is clammy and my insides are shaky. FUCK. Is this run over yet?