01015 ZULU
Mac's Apartment
Georgetown
Saturday, February 9th —a date that will live in infamy: in 3 minutes 8 seconds Harm will (or should) arrive to pick me up for our first date.
I smooth my hair and skirt, undecided as to whether my hair looks better with the ends flipped out or in. By the time I finish messing with my hair, the ends are doing both. Oh well. I check my appearance again, first a front view, then a side, then what I can see of the back. Everything looks to be in order.
Where is he? He still has 2 minutes and 23 seconds, but does he have to be so punctual? He better damn well not be late either—I don't think I could stand waiting a moment longer than necessary.
In my opinion, I've waited six years on his sorry six already—if he has any brains at all—and if he values his life—he'd better get here soon.
I wring my hands together, trying to measure my steps around my living room into a slow turn about the couch instead of the frenzied pacing my legs want to give into.
Jingo watches each nervous movement of my hands, pondering the absurd behavior of his normally levelheaded master. I can tell by his expression that I am keeping him from a nice snooze, which he will most likely take on my bed or the couch as soon as I'm gone.
"Just one minute and seven seconds until…" Until what? The official new beginning of "us"? The most important date I've ever had? No, I'd better not think about all that. It's a date. A date with Harm, but it's still a date. You've been on lots of dates before, MacKenzie. You've had dinner before with Harm. You've danced--several times—before with Harm.
Yes, but never with the prospect of romance such an attainable goal. This could be the moment you look back on when you tell your grandchildren about you and their grandfather's first date, a little voice inside my head answers.
"It's just Harm," I insist. Jingo looks disbelievingly at me. Or maybe it's just me. "Oh, you're right," I sigh, dropping into a chair. "It's just Harm, the infuriatingly complex sailor I love." Jingo wags his tail. "Just remember only you, me, and Sturgis are aware of that fact, and I'd like to keep it that way. At least for a little while longer." He thumps his tail twice in what I can only guess is a doggie affirmation of his silence.
A knock sounds at my door and I manage to stand on my shaky legs, and walk with some semblance of control to the door.
Harm stands in my hallway with his hands clasped behind his back, dressed in a black suit with a blue shirt and tie. I lock my knees.
"Hey, sailor." He returns my grin with a lopsided one of his own. I feel a tremor in my leg.
"You look stunning, marine," he says and I feel my face flush.
"Thanks, you're not so bad yourself. You clean up real nice," I add jokingly, but my delivery is somewhat stiff.
"Thanks." He leans in and swiftly places a kiss on my lips. I must look surprised because he explains, "I've been wanting to do that since Friday."
I grin foolishly. I could die happy right now—just from knowing he's here for a date with me, and that's all he's been thinking about—and we haven't even left my apartment.
We stand there staring at each other for a few minutes until it dawns on Harm that we'll be late for our dinner reservations if we keep gawking. Finally, he offers his arm. "You ready?" I nod and take it. Harm flashes me another grin, a captivating flyboy smile, but when I look into his eyes I can see it: Harmon Rabb, Jr. is nervous as hell.
*********
"So, what do you think?" he asks the moment we're seated and left with our menus.
"About?" I glance over my menu—he certainly went all out. Everything looks pricey. I steal a look at our patrons and am relieved to see that I'm dressed appropriately for such an establishment. I didn't expect Harm to treat me to a night on the town, which is what it seems this is shaping up like. From what he mentioned, I expected to enjoy dancing to the RnB classics and a nice hunk of meat (the meal, not Harm).
To be fair, he could have asked me to a hoedown, and I still would've said yes.
He doesn't elaborate on his question, merely picks up his own menu and proceeds to look over its contents. "You look real nice, Mac," he says after a minute.
"Thank you," I return. "This is a lovely place, Harm." He nods in acknowledgement.
"I thought you might like it." We're both silent.
"Have you eaten here before?" I ask.
"Once." He seems to concentrate even harder on his menu. I feel a nervous flutter in my stomach as I realize the last time he was here it was probably with some girlfriend.
"Oh," is all I can manage. That's all in the past, MacKenzie. If you're going to make something with Harm you're going to have to let go. I laugh silently at that. "So, what's good here?"
"Well, what I think is good here you would probably classify as rabbit food, or some comparable feast," he says, a smile playing on his lips. "But I hear the filet mignon is to die for."
"How did you hear about this place? It's very…classy," I probe.
"Are you saying I'm not?" Harm raises an eyebrow at me.
"No, no. It's just…not the type of restaurant your average naval commander would dine at frequently."
"Average? Not to toot my own horn, Mac, but I hardly think I'm just average."
"I have to say I am a little bit surprised, Harm."
"About what?" He chuckles nervously.
"This. Dinner. Everything."
"Why is that? You think just because your 'good ole marine Mac' that I would take you to Beltway?"
I laugh. "No. Not that Beltway is such a bad choice—"
"--Yes, the way to a marine's heart is a burger loaded with fat, grease, ketchup and cholesterol."
"Watch it, commander. No, I guess I just wasn't expecting you to go all—you know--I don't know what I was expecting. It seemed for such a long time like such an impossibility that this would ever happen, I'm not sure what I imagined."
"Well, did you think that I was going to tell our children I took their mother to Beltway Burgers for their two-for-one double greaseburgers on our first date?"
I smile embarrassedly, "Harm—"
"And besides, I'm still trying to make up for the Superbowl seats, remember?" He gives me a boyish grin, the lines I have noticed lately around his eyes and forehead smoothing away, leaving a Harm very much like the one I first met in the rose garden all those years ago.
"I may forgive you for the seats," I announce magnanimously. "I'll let you know after this evening."
********
We dance for a while, taking a short break for a slice of German chocolate cheesecake (me) and a cup of coffee (Harm).
Afterwards, we take a late night stroll around the mall, sticking to safe topics such as the weather, Jingo, or Sergei. It feels--not like an evening spent with a very close friend—who knows me better than anyone—but rather like a blind date. Both of us seem a bit unsure as to what to say, what to do, what behavior is appropriate for us now. I almost laugh out loud when I think of our current dilemma compared with our behavior in the office as of late. At JAG, we seem to have little problem bending—oh who are you kidding, MacKenzie?—breaking the rules to accommodate our flirtatious behavior and our raging hormones.
Here we are on a damn date, and the only action I've experienced thus far is that kiss—in retrospect, that little tiny peck on the lips Harm gave me when he arrived at my doorway.
I'm a marine for crying out loud—I can handle some action. I crave action. I have half a mind to jump Harm right now and remind him who he's dealing with.
Whoa. Where did that come from? Calm down, marine. You don't have to prove to the masses (or at the very least, Harm) just how long it's been since a guy showed some real physical interest. Damn. How long has it been? Oh, please, not since Mic, not since…Christ. Wasn't that last year?!
Jesus. Okay. Deep breath, marine. Okay, you know a year…a year isn't bad.
In some cultures.
And you've just been careful about putting your heart on the line too quickly—you didn't want another Mic fiasco. Nothing wrong with that.
No, what you really didn't want was another Harm fiasco. You've spent the past, oh, ten months, waiting for him to get his head out of his ass and realize his feelings for you.
Calm, calm. He has. I think. I mean, we're here on this date. We're pursuing this relationship we've always wondered about having. I glance at Harm, wondering if he's noticed my reticence, but he's babbling on about something Sturgis said.
It's time to take charge, marine. Semper Fi. Do or die. I reach for the lapels of Harm's jacket and wrench him around to face me. I jerk the collar towards me, pulling his head down to my level, and then I don't stop kissing him until my lungs are burning with the same intensity as my lips.
When we finally come up for air, our short puffs of breath visible in the cold night air, I realize one of Harm's arms has found its way around my waist, while the other is draped loosely across my back, his fingers playing with my hair.
"Am I boring you, marine?" he tries to ask nonchalantly, but his short pants give him away.
"A little. I guess I'm just not much in the mood for conversation." I flex my fingers over his chest and get another firm grip on his coat. He beats me to the punch as he pulls me tight against him. Damn, this man kisses good.
We pull away and start walking again, our pace just noticeably faster than before. I slip my arm through Harm's, a nervous fluttering taking root again deep within my stomach. Harm's answering smile does nothing to alleviate the sensation.
I think the same question is on both our minds: when it comes time to take me home, then what?
********
Eventually, after a circuitous stroll back to the car, our evening out comes to an end and Harm takes me home. My feet are killing me by the time we reach my apartment. Two hours of dancing and then a stroll in new, unyielding 3-inch stilts are enough to cripple me for the next two weeks. My discomfort, despite my best efforts otherwise, is evident with every step.
"You gonna make it, Mac?"
"Yeah," I moan. I fumble for my key. Harm produces his and opens my door with a flourish. That numbs the pain a little. We stand awkwardly, both of us unsure what to say or do next.
God, we're pathetic. Think, MacKenzie, think. You can tell him you had a nice time. Too trite, even if it is true. You can invite him in for coffee—a-ha! There you go. You used to do that all the time anyway.
"Coffee?" I ask, smiling at my brilliance, and my handsome partner.
Harm looks unsure.
"Um, it's not too late?" He asks uncertainly.
No. He's been here later than…is it really 2:30?! Well, he's been here later than that. I tug on his sleeve, indicating he should come in. "Of course not. I won't be able to sleep for hours anyway," I blurt out. Harm grins conceitedly as I give myself a mental shake.
I roll my eyes at him, and hobble towards the kitchen. Halfway there, I fling my heels off my feet. Harm ducks as one whizzes by his head. He carefully replaces the stack of paleontology books the other one knocked down.
"Uncomfortable shoes?" He asks, smirking.
"Two out of three isn't bad," I mumble. Louder, "Make yourself at home."
"Mac," he says in that tone of voice that demands attention. I stop and turn.
"Sit down and let me get the coffee. Your feet must be killing you." Normally, I'd give him a whole spiel about how I'm a Marine, and that I can, despite my temporary near-paralysis, make something as mundane as coffee, but my feet really are killing me, and if I limp enough to the couch I'm sure I'll get a nice foot massage from Harm.
Sure enough, as soon as my six hits the cushion, Harm bends down to take one of my ankles. "Here," he says, tugging gently on my foot. I lean back and place both of them in his lap.
I groan in pleasure as he begins to knead and twist my foot and toes. After about ten minutes, he switches to my left. Despite my earlier declaration, I find my eyelids growing heavier by the minute.
God, I'm tired.
I choke down a yawn and, instead, focus on Harm.
"You can stay here, you know, tonight," I murmur sleepily. He says nothing, just twists my foot between his expert fingers. A moment later I feel his arms around me, and his lips pressing a kiss against my cheek.
********
The next morning I awaken to an empty bed. I'm still dressed in the skirt and blouse I wore last night, the covers tucked carefully around me. I feel eyes upon me and when I look to find whom they belong to I come upon an anxious Jingo, thumping his tail hopefully.