Full Circle

Claire stood in the International Terminal of O'Hare Airport where passengers arrived from overseas destinations. It was the end of April, and Mac had been deployed seven months. She had been with his parents for five days, having received an emergency call that his father was on the verge of death. Soon after her arrival in Chicago, Mac had called. His orders were up, and he was on his way home. That news seemed to give McKenna Taylor a new lease on life. He would live to see his son another day. Claire doubted it at the time, but here they were. Mac was arriving in Chicago, and his father was still alive.

She chewed on her thumbnail and wondered what it would feel like to see him again. She had taken care to do her hair and put on some makeup, and she was casually dressed up for the occasion. She wore a low heel with her jeans and an oversized sweater that was trendy. Would he look the same as when they said goodbye? She guessed he would. Save for a few lines on his face, he hadn't changed at all in the time she had known him. She watched person after person push through the double doors. Homecomings and reunions, hugs and kisses were happening all around her, and still she waited. She was impatient. The flight had landed nearly an hour ago. She knew he would be processed through Customs, but come on, Claire thought. Don't you think they could expedite that for a man who had put his life on his line for his country?

And then she saw him. He looked different. He had filled out and lost weight all at the same time, if that was even possible. He looked solid and fit. Every ounce was muscle. His face was tanned. Spots of his cheeks were ruddy from the sun. He stood tall and proud, his Marine uniform setting him apart from the rest of the public. His hair had been recently trimmed, and the medals – some of them new – shone on his chest. As he walked, he commanded attention. People turned. A stranger shook his hand. Young boys giggled.

She was in the middle of the crowd and lost sight of him for a moment, and she wasn't certain he had seen her. When she saw him next, he was walking parallel to her. His eyes were scanning the crowd, and she knew he didn't know where to look. He was close enough, so she called, "Mac!" He stopped, searching for the source of the voice.

He turned towards her, and Claire waved. She felt almost shy as they made eye contact. "Excuse me," she heard him say as he began to cross towards her. A ribbon barricade was leading all incoming passengers to a single exit. Instead of following the crowd, Mac ducked beneath the barricade, daring the Chicago Police Department to stop him. People cleared a path for the determined Marine.

He reached her, and Claire tilted her head. "Hey," she said, a faint smile on her lips. "Welcome home," she said and reached for his left hand. He dropped his bag on the floor and, like a man on a mission, he wrapped his other arm around her back and pulled her impossibly close. She stood on her tiptoes and started to wrap her hands around his neck. Then, she couldn't help herself. She jumped. His strong arms had no problems keeping her off the ground, and she clung to him.

She whispered into his neck. "Oh my god, you're here." She refused to let go. "You're here. I can't believe you're here."

"I'm here," he replied quietly. "And I'm not leaving you again. Not ever."

"When did my parents get a new car?" Mac asked, as Claire unlocked the back of the Honda Civic Hatchback.

"Four days ago," she replied casually. Mac scratched an eyebrow, dropping his bags inside. Surely his father was not sitting in a used car lot in the last days of his life. "Their car was …" She shook her head. "It was making a strange noise, and I took it in, and they started talking about four thousand dollars in repairs. New brakes. Something wrong with the exhaust system. The fuel line. I mean, come on," she said. Mac narrowed his eyes, picturing his 22 year old wife taking a car to the gritty repair shop down the street. "I told them to junk it." Mac's jaw dropped. "It was a piece of shit vehicle, Mac," she lightly defended. "It was eleven years old, and no one should be putting four grand into a car like that. So, your mom and I went over to that place on … I don't know."

"127th street?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. Probably," she said. "And we test drove a few and picked one out." Mac ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. "You like it?" she asked, proud as she hopped into the driver's seat.

He eased himself into the passenger side seat and nodded. "It looks fine. It's in good shape actually." Claire nodded, her eyebrows raised in excitement. "How's it drive?" he asked.

"It's great. Your mom loves it." She paused before saying, "It's two years old but it only has fourteen thousand miles. So that's pretty good, I thought. Should last her a while."

"What does my dad about think about it?" he asked.

"Oh we didn't tell him," Claire said quickly, shaking her head. Mac arched his eyebrows and turned his head towards her. His jaw dropped at the conspiracy his mother and wife had hatched. She scowled, "He would … Well, you know how he is." Indeed. "Your mom thought he'd want her to get the old one fixed and …" She grimaced a little as she admitted in a whisper, "And we didn't buy American. Don't kill us." Mac laughed a little. Satisfied he wasn't angry, Claire continued, "Your mom needs a reliable car. So that's what we got her."

"I hope you didn't pay full price," Mac said sideways.

"God no," Claire replied. She was insulted that he thought that. "The guy starts with this nonsense about putting numbers on paper and wanting me to slide it over upside down so he could talk with his manager." Mac smiled a little. "And I said 'no way.'" She shook her finger in the air. "I don't negotiate against myself. If he wants our business, he gives us a fair price and stops with the games." Mac chuckled. She shrugged. "I got him to take ten percent off, so we were happy about that."

"It seems like a good car," Mac nodded. They were quiet for a few moments and then he pulled at his lip. He asked, "How is he?"

"Well," Claire replied after a beat. "Today was a good day. Two days ago, though, I thought …" She bit her lip and said, "I thought it was the end. He didn't speak at all. Just lay there in bed. And the breathing thing… Oh, Mac, it's awful." He gave an imperceptible nod. Claire sighed. "But today, it's like … he realized you were coming home, and he perked up. Your mom propped the pillows up, and he even sat up for a while. So it was better." She reached out and squeezed his hand. "Just … be prepared, Mac, because he's … he's dying." Mac squeezed his eyes shut a moment and then opened them to look out the window. The highway flashed by at seventy miles an hour and Claire rest her hand on his leg. "I'm glad you get to see him again," she finally said.

Mac entered the bedroom and looked at Claire laying on the double bed. She turned sideways to face him. Her nightgown gaped open at the chest, but she didn't fix it. Mac guessed she knew. Claire's denim jacket was resting on the back of a wooden folding chair. Mac rest his Marine coat on top. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt first, his eyes never leaving hers. He moved his hand to his tie. Still on the bed but moving to her knees, she flagged him closer. "Let me do that." He didn't need her to do it, but he stepped towards her, eager for her touch.

He swallowed as her hand first rest on his neck, her fingertips caressing it gently. She loosened his tie and pulled the knot free. It slid out from under his collar with a quiet hiss and she draped it on top of his coat. Then, she pulled the shirt out of his pants and unbuttoned it one by one. She pulled it off his shoulders, leaving him in an undershirt. She set it gently on the pile of clothes. She bit her lip and reached for his forearm. A yellow-tinged oval bruise was on top. "What's that from?" she asked, her fingertip tracing it gently.

"I don't know," he said. "We were packing up last week," he said. "Could be anything."

He sat on the edge of the bed and Claire pressed her body against him from behind. He exhaled, closing his eyes as she tucked one arm under his and wrapped the other one over a shoulder. She grasped her hands in front of him and held on, resting her chin on his other shoulder. "Could you talk to your dad?" she asked.

He didn't answer right away and then he nodded. "A little bit. Yeah." He bit his lip and then said, "I don't see him hanging on much more than a day or two." She shook her head in agreement. "He thinks we should go to New York," Mac said after a beat.

"What do you think?"

"I like that job," he said with a nod. He hesitated, though, still chewing his bottom lip. Then he reached for her arm and smiled sideways. "I really don't know anything about being a cop, though," he admitted. She laughed quietly.

He exhaled into her touch and was about to ask if she thought he should take it when she whispered, "Tell me about it."

"About what?" he asked.

"What it was like over there," she said.

"I told you most of it already," he said. "I wrote good letters," he smiled.

"Tell me the rest," she said, not to be dissuaded.

He turned his head from side to side, ostensibly stretching out the kinks. He reached for her hand and she released hers so she could link her fingers with his. He squeezed and then he said quietly, "I don't … I don't want to."

Claire turned her head and pressed her lips against his neck. Then she whispered, "Tonight? Or ever?"

He shrugged, replying, "I don't know. For now." He hesitated before asking quietly, "Is that okay with you?"

She shrugged in return. "For now." He nodded and squeezed again. "Have you ever missed anyone so much you ached inside?" she whispered after a beat.

"Yeah," he replied, turning on the bed. "I have," he said. He adjusted her so they were face to face and he ran his hand through her hair. "I missed this," he said. "Your hair," he explained, running both hands through it now little by little. "It got so long," he said. "And it's straight now," he commented.

"I blew it out today. For the occasion." She laughed quietly and Mac used his thumb to rub at her cheek.

"You look …" He paused and said, "Older?" She narrowed her eyes, unsure if it was a compliment. "I don't know," he smiled. "Maybe just … confident and … strong." His voice trailed off and he repeated, "You're so strong. And beautiful." Claire's lip quivered, and he shook his head. "Hey, hey, hey," he whispered. "Don't cry now."

"I tried so hard, Mac." He furrowed his brow. "I tried to be strong every day and never let myself think about what could happen to you. And I wanted to do everything I could do to make things easier for you, because … I didn't want you to worry." The tears kept flowing. "It was so hard," she said. "And I told you I wasn't scared, but I was. I was scared."

"You did fine," he reassured, his hand wiping at her tears. "Claire," he said quietly. She sniffled and he repeated, "Claire." She took a deep shaky breath and he pulled her face to his. He kissed her nose and then her wet cheeks and then her mouth. He said simply, "It's over." He nodded, reassuring her. She breathed out. "It's over, babe. I'm home now."

Mac sat on the single step at the edge of the concrete patio and looked into the night. In the Middle East, the sky was midnight blue with sparkling stars. Here in Chicago, it was tinged orange all night, an unfortunate result of light pollution. There wasn't much about the Middle East that he missed. The night sky, though, was one thing. He remembered writing Claire about it and being disappointed at the description on paper. He couldn't convey what he saw.

His mother slept with his father in the den, so she had given up the master bedroom – and the double bed – for the newlyweds. Mac had left Claire naked in his parents' bed, a truly disturbing thought if he let himself go there. Two hours ago, he wasn't thinking about that, though. Instead, he was rediscovering how brilliant sex could be with his wife. He knew it was over just a little too fast for Claire, and it was a bit more cathartic for him than her. Frankly, he was a little embarrassed at what seven months of missing his wife could do to a man. Still, she only wanted to be close to him, and as long as she had the chance to inspect every inch of him - he had told her he was fine - she didn't seem to mind. There would be time to make it up to her.

He wore a sweatshirt that he had left behind. It seemed Claire had worn it and it needed a good wash. Still, it smelled of her, and it comforted him. When the April wind blew, he was cool, but otherwise he was comfortable. It felt good to be outside without sand blowing in his face. And what was it his dad always said? Fresh air is good for you. It might be below zero, Mac recalled wryly, but it was still good for you.

Things came to him now. Little sayings or quirky habits his dad had, and he realized how good a man his father was. Is, Mac corrected himself. He was still breathing in that bed. Barely, Mac knew, but he was alive. Maybe another day or two. The men had talked today, briefly at least, and he had said some things that Mac had waited a lifetime to hear: You did good, son. That meant something. She's a good woman. That was important too. His father encouraged Mac to go to New York, even extracting a promise out of him. Mac knew that was a decision that he and Claire needed to make together, and deathbed promise or not, it needed more discussion. At that moment, his father hadn't been thinking about his mother living alone in a Chicago bungalow. That responsibility had already transferred to Mac, it seemed. Still, it was nice to know his father wanted the best for him. And really why had Mac ever doubted it?

Mac pulled a full pack of cigarettes out of the front pocket of the sweatshirt. He unwrapped them and tapped the pack until a cigarette came out. He reached in his back pocket for the lighter. Two flicks and it ignited. He breathed in as he lit. It was the first one in twenty-four hours. He had told himself he was quitting and didn't allow himself a single one the entire time he was in transit. Still, the duty-free shop in the Frankfurt Airport displayed them prominently, and the frugal Midwesterner never could pass up a good deal.

"I was looking for you," Claire's voice interrupted. "The bed was empty." He glanced backwards and she was pulling a cardigan sweater tight around her body, two bottles in her left hand. "You want a beer?" she asked, holding one out.

"I'd love one," he nodded, reaching back. He balanced the cigarette in his mouth and twisted the cap off before he set the bottle on the patio. He reached for hers and did the same maneuver a second time. They clanked bottles in a silent toast and each took a long swig. Claire didn't comment on the cigarette. He appreciated that.

"Can't sleep?" she asked, sitting on the patio beside him.

"Jet lag," he replied. She nodded and pulled the sweater over her knees. Her hair fell in her face and she ran a hand through it to pull it back. He resisted the urge to touch it again. She had already teased him once about being obsessed with it. She didn't mind though. In fact, he was quite certain she liked it. She gestured towards the cigarette. He arched his eyebrow and she nodded. She wanted to share it. Mac handed it to her and she took in a long, deep inhale. She handed it back to him as she released the breath slowly, a plume of smoke rising into the night. "Good?" he smiled.

"It would be better if it was pot," she deadpanned. Mac chuckled a little. He himself had never tried the drug. He guessed his wife had. After a beat, she asked, "Do you want to be left alone?" He tilted his head quickly to make eye contact. She was just asking, he saw, and she didn't mind either answer. She had found him alone, so she was checking if he wanted to remain alone.

"No. Stay," he said. "But I'm in a quiet mood. Maybe not the best company."

"We'll see about that," she muttered, sliding her head under his arm until his hand holding the beer was sitting on her shoulders. He laughed through his nose. He already felt better. "So," she said cheerfully. "I have news." He arched his eyebrows and waited. "I have officially been rejected at every grad school I applied to, except for Chapel Hill."

"In North Carolina," he stated.

"Correct."

"They don't know what they're missing," he replied, squeezing her gently.

"That's sweet of you to say," she said, "But I did really bad on the GMAT. I probably should have picked some safety schools."

He shrugged a shoulder, and took a last inhale of the cigarette. He released the smoke as he said, "You set high standards. Nothing wrong with that."

"Except I didn't get in," she said. He handed her the remainder of the cigarette and leaned over to press smoky lips against her temple. He still believed in her. "Anyway, if you don't want to retire," she began. Mac furrowed his brow. Despite what he had told his dad, the decision was all but a done deal. He was merely waiting for the right moment to speak to Claire about it. "I'm saying, if you want to stay in the Marines," she started again quietly, "We could make it work with Chapel Hill." She finished the cigarette and dropped it on the patio, putting it out with her shoe.

He bit his lip and then shook his head. She tilted hers, confused. "No. I'm not interested in you living three hours away," Mac said. She smiled a little. "If you want to go to Chapel Hill," he said, "I'll get a job there." She arched her eyebrows. "I don't know what I'd do," he smiled, "But we'd figure it out."

"Truth is, Mac," she confided. "I don't want to go to Chapel Hill."

"So let's not then," he said simply.

"I don't really know what I want. I wanted U of C or Columbia so long that it's hard to think of anything else."

"Yeah," he said with a nod, lifting his beer. He took a long drink and then suggested, "I think we focus on geography then. I have job offers in Chicago and New York. You seem to like either place."

"But what about the Marines?" she pressed earnestly. "Because I could live at Camp Lejeune with you." Mac rolled his eyes and chuckled a little. "Do you think you'd ever get relocated? Like to Japan? Or Germany? Because that could be cool."

He stood up with his beer and wiped a palm on his jeans. He took a step into the yard and looked outwards. "What about Qatar? Or Iceland? Is that cool too?" Claire met his questions with silence. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I … I think I'm done," he announced quietly. "It's been a good run, Claire, but it's time to try something else." He took a long sip from the bottle and Claire joined him. "I like that job in New York, and your family's there," he said logically.

"But your mom will be here," she countered. "By herself."

Mac ran a hand over his mouth and nodded slowly. He paced in a small circle, his face tightened in concentration. Occasionally, he sipped at his beer. "I worry about her," he said at last. "How's she gonna take care of this place? What if she gets sick?" She nodded. They needed to live in Chicago; Claire knew that. But then Mac smiled at her. "But I'm home. And you're graduating. It's our time now. And if you agree," he said, gesturing towards her. "I think New York is what we should do." Claire approached him and rest her hand on his cheek. She looked in his eyes and appraised him. She was asking him if he was certain. "I'm sure," he said quietly. He reached up and placed his hand on top of hers. He squeezed gently.

"You know every ounce of your body is hard," Claire whispered. She ran her hands over his bare chest and down to the top button on his jeans.

"I can think of some dirty responses to that," he teased, his eyes sparkling.

She laughed as Mac pulled her closer. "I gave that to you, Mac. Don't think you're clever." She had put drawstring pants on for sitting outside. His hands found the loop on the inside of them. "Still, I'd like to hear them," she teased, popping the button on his jeans.

"You would, huh?" Two sets of hands didn't fit and his were bigger so Claire lifted hers above her head and arched her back a little. His eyes were dark as he untied the string and leaned over to her ear and whispered, "I didn't know you liked it that way. I thought you were sweet and innocent and all that."

She squirmed at his words but kept up the banter. "Sometimes I'm good," she said, bringing her arms around his neck. She kissed his lips with an open mouth and then shimmied out of the bottoms with his assistance. "But you should know by now that's all bullshit," she grinned, showing off her risqué panties. She turned to walk away, giving Mac a show.

"Christ, Claire," Mac said from right behind her. He hooked his thumbs in the black lace but left them on, leaning over and kissing her neck. She reached down and grasped his hands on her hips. "You saved these for round two?" he whispered, tugging her close to press his body against her.

She grinned at the sensation. "You are such the Alpha male tonight." She stepped away and turned towards him, pulling her tank over her head.

"Seven months, Claire," he replied, stepping towards her to help her get rid of the garment. "That's what happens."

"What are you talking about?" she retorted. She pretended to look at her watch. "It's been three hours."

"Too long," he replied, closing the gap again. She squealed as he backed her onto the bed. She fell backwards, her legs hanging over the edge. He leaned over her and ordered, "Shhhh. My parents are downstairs. Right below us."

"Ew," she said. "This bed's noisy too."

"Then you are going to have to be very quiet and still," he teased, finding her hands.

He held her hands above her head and she felt his body settle on top of her. She wiggled her hands a little, knowing she couldn't free herself from his grasp unless he released her. He let go quickly, and she leaned down to unzip his jeans. "Get these off," she ordered.

Mac reached up with his index finger and placed it on her lips. "Shhh…" he repeated. She furrowed her brow and looked at him skeptically, wondering if the desert had left him with some weird kinky shit that he was trying to address. She opened her mouth and he shook his head. He said, "I want to say something." She smiled and gave him a coy look. His thumb brushed under the lace on her hip, and she waited.

He stared in her eyes and stopped moving. He slowed the entire pace. He ran a hand over her hair and down to her shoulder. He slid his hand down until his thumb brushed across her breast. She exhaled with desire, and he smiled. He kissed her neck and then his lips brushed across her chin. Then he whispered in her ear, "Lay still. This time it's your turn."

Upstairs, a couple was eager to recover lost time. A wife lay in her husband's arms, basking in the intimacy of rediscovery. Her feet were between his. Her head was tucked under his chin. She lay across his chest and spoke. He nodded. She laughed. His hand traced circles on her back. He was there, the gesture said, and he loved her.

Downstairs, a couple longed for more time. A wife slid next to her husband, holding tight to the last moments that he would share only with her. Her arm lay over his chest. Her head was tucked under his chin. She whispered. He was silent. His hand was still, but she felt his fingers move on her arm. He was there, the gesture said, still there, and he loved her.