Mac shrugged off her jacket, let it pool on the floor in a puddle of blue gabardine. Her shoes, navy with three-inch heels, landed against the wall. Halfway to the kitchen, she dropped her purse on the floor, and removed her earrings, clunking them onto the black granite counter. The bottle of Pellegrino, chilled overnight, was waiting. There had been a time when someone else would have poured her the glass and added a twist of lemon, a time when she hadn't curled herself alone into the corner of the sofa.

Fate had one hell of a sense of humor. Even though she'd steeled herself, it still had taken her breath away to see Harm standing the bridge of the Allegiance, dressed in a white shirt with "XO" embossed in the in bold black letters. He looked the same to her, perhaps with more grey at his temples, more worry lines stretching across his forehead, and she thought she detected bags under his eyes. His skin had been weathered, a common symptom of life aboard an aircraft carrier, and she assumed he'd been getting plenty of flight time.

"I can't do this anymore," he'd said to her that night more than nine years ago now. "This isn't the life I want to live."

For years, she'd replayed those words repeatedly, remembering that her response had been calm, modulated. She hadn't quite realized what he'd meant that night, hadn't quite realized the changes he wanted in his life wouldn't include her. There had been other words too, but they'd been lost to time now.

He'd moved out while she was at work. Still she felt his presence in each and every corner of that apartment and when the lease was up, she hired a cleaning service, left the keys on the counter, and walked out. She'd sent Harm her new address, and he'd never responded. Harm was on assignment in Okinawa, Bud had told her, and because she wanted to, she believed it was nothing more than time difference that kept Harm from replying. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and suddenly she realized it had been an entire year. An entire year without Harm. After more than a decade of seeing him, of hearing his voice, of him being the first person she wanted to tell anything, it was jarring to realize just how easily and cleanly he'd removed himself from her life.

This isn't the life I want to live.

But what about me?

Mac tipped her head back, sipped the water. It went down her throat cool, soothingly. She'd done her best to maintain her composure when Harm appeared on the television, and she'd noted with some satisfaction he seemed just as discomfited as she felt. He'd crossed his arms, and only after his first words to her - You look great – had she seen a softening in his features, an ever quick and slight smile on his face. As she'd watched him, she saw some things hadn't changed: the same habit of a slight downward gaze, the way he narrowed one eye when he raised his eyebrow, the crossed arms against his chest, the wide-legged stance.

She'd never imagined seeing Harm again, even though she'd managed to keep tabs on him through the grapevines; the Navy had its share of gossips. She'd resisted the romance of wishful thinking, of imagining their paths would cross once again, possibly at the most importune time. And when fate somehow did intervene and bring them face to face, then what? She couldn't imagine anything he could say to her that would take away the sting of that conversation that had signaled the beginning of the end of their engagement.

This isn't the life I want to live.

Mac stretched out her legs across the length of the sofa. Just get this mission done, she thought to herself. Get it done and then she could move on with her life and away from Harm. But still, she couldn't ignore the way her heart had quickened, that it had been good to see him.

Her glass empty, she rose from the sofa to refill it. She'd told herself little lies over the years. That she was happy, that life was good, that the short-lived romances she had were enough. She liked her job; there was a lot of travel, which satisfied her urge to keep moving. Keep moving, she thought, and maybe the stories she told herself would eventually come true.

Her hand shook slightly as she lifted her glass to her lips. The truth could be stranger than fiction, she knew, but she'd never appreciated it quite as much as she had on this day. It would be too much to expect anything from Harm. And she'd meant it when she told him, "Life at sea agrees with you." It was clear he'd found what he was looking for; she just wished she could say the same about herself.

~ the end