I arrive at work feeling unsettled. It was awkward after Harm and I talked, so much so that both of us came to the silent decision to part company rather than spend the night together, only to wake the next morning alone—and feeling even more awkward because of it.
I glance into Harm's office wondering why, even with Harm's penchant for being late; he's over twenty-two minutes behind schedule.
"Can I help with something, ma'am?" Tiner's voice jolts me out of my wanderings—literally and figuratively. I'm about one and a half steps away from plowing into the copier. In fact, Tiner appears to be bracing for impact.
"Ahem, uh, yes, Tiner. Have you seen Harm, er Commander Rabb?" Dammit, why do I have to sound so guilty? I call him Harm—it's okay to call him Harm, it is his name after all. We've worked together for seven years. It's perfectly acceptable—expected even—to be on a first name basis with a long-time coworker.
"No, ma'am. The commander hasn't arrived yet."
"Really?" I say unable to moderate the interest in my tone. Fortunately, Tiner doesn't seem to notice.
"No, ma'am. Admiral Chegwidden would like to see him before court, too."
"Oh, uh, well, I'll uh, catch up with him later, then." I pivot quickly and skid to a stop as the rounded corner of the copier lies but an inch from my hip. Shaking the hair out of my eyes, I change direction as nonchalantly as possible and escape to my office.
**********
"Sir!"
"Not now, Tiner, I'm late for court and Captain Sebring's going to have my ass," I reply, not breaking stride. The object here is to get in and out as quickly as possible.
"Sir, Admiral Chegwidden would like to see you as soon as you get out of court."
"Great," I mutter, wondering if it was the usual stuff I did to piss off the man upstairs or if it was something different.
I toss my cover onto my desk; grab a file from my inbox and about face to slam into Tiner.
"Tiner," I say in annoyance. Tiner rubs the bridge of his nose.
"Sorry, sir," he replies.
"Step aside, Petty Officer," I order, figuring I have roughly three seconds to make it up a flight of stairs and down two hallways before Captain Sebring finds me in contempt.
"Yes, sir." Tiner takes a precise step to the left and I blow past him, risking one quick glance at Mac's office before forcing my mind to the circumstances at hand. I can see her head bent over her desk, presumably reading a brief or making notes on her next case. I've been wondering about her and our situation all night, but unfortunately I can't afford to focus on it now.
*********
Apparently I won't be able to focus on it later, either. Not 'til much later, anyway.
Lieutenant Michael Addison decided he couldn't wait until next weekend—when I could possibly have this mess sorted out with Mac—before he decided to hop on the next bus to Felonytown.
And so the admiral put me in the next available motor-pool car to figure out how to knock him down to Misdemeanorville, or perhaps, God willing, the idyllic and balmy Letter-of-Reprimand-City. Given Lieutenant Addison's cooperation so far, I hope he likes the harsh climate of Guilty-on-All-Counts-Bay.
At any rate, once again one of us has left "us" in relationship limbo and, as usual, that one is me.
How typical.
Mac would say how convenient, but I swear I'm not running. Well, figuratively speaking, I amend, as I slow down to the cool-down phase of my five-mile run.
Besides, if any one of us has a foot poised to sprint, it's Mac. I think I've made it clear that I'm willing to pursue this relationship past its infancy. I can't figure out what exactly is eating away at Mac about it. It would seem that concerns about how a relationship would affect work would be the anxiety factor. And I admit that it's worthy of concern. But somehow I think something deeper is bothering Mac. She really only started freaking out that day in the office. The day after we got back from Nantucket. Then it was like a switch was flipped. Never mind that nearly a month prior to consummating our relationship, we were flirting like crazy anywhere we damn pleased to at JAG. She wasn't worried about anyone finding out about "us" then, when, personally, I think the stakes were much higher.
Ugh. I'll never figure this one out.
Why I bother even trying to make sense—especially of Mac's behavior—is beyond me. I've never been especially good at reading Mac, a couple of lucky guesses notwithstanding. That I've been dead on with a few assumptions these past few weeks only proves miracles Ido/I happen.
However, from this point forward I think I'm living on borrowed miracles.
I shake my head in wry amusement, the action causing my vision to blur slightly. It's then I realize the pace I've been pounding out. I slow to a stop and stand, hands on hips, for a moment while I catch my breath.
Why does my age seem like it's catching up to me with a vengeance? Wasn't I just thinking that my new relationship with Mac was making me younger? Of course that was when things were good, everything running smoothly. That was in Nantucket.
Maybe that youthful version of me staring back in the mirror Iwas/Ithe afterglow.
**********
I should have known.
In typical fashion, one of us puts the brakes on our careening relationship train—in this case, me.
How ironic.
And, in typical fashion, something—or, in this case, someone—does something to set it rocketing off again.
That someone was, of course, the admiral, though I doubt he had any idea of what he was potentially setting into motion by sending me to Norfolk to assist Harm on a case.
Since that night in Harm's apartment, we haven't spent more than an evening together. Dinner here, a movie there, a couple of cases to discuss in between. It's been nearly two weeks of cautious kisses and benign touches, Harm respecting my desire to take things a bit more slowly while I come to terms with our newfound relationship.
Frankly, it's driving me nuts. Since when did he get so agreeable, anyway?
He's back in fine form, the unflappable aviator/lawyer ever present in his every breath with exception to an occasional wink, a fleeting smile, or the even rarer caress, new romance at JAG is pretty much seemingly nonexistent.
Outwardly, things between Harm and I appear as they always have: like there's something going on between us.
It would be nice if that were completely true.
I've done everything I can think of to rouse a little interest out of Harm.
Hell, that outfit I wore last Thursday should have at least had him chomping at the bit. But then again, controlling his emotions is something Harmon Rabb, Jr. does better than anyone. And there's no one he keeps a tighter lid about than me.
Why does he have to be so damn good at it, though?
Work's gotten in the way. Harm's been bouncing all over Virginia and headquarters, and with Bud gone, everyone's workload has doubled.
I guess I can't blame Harm's reluctance to accept any invites from me. Right now all my behavior is probably confusing the hell out of him. And possibly having him re-think pursuing a relationship with me.
A sliver of anxiety flitters through me, but I push the feeling aside, deciding to dwell on safer, easier topics than the mess with Harm.
I heave a sigh and adjust the vent in my navy-issued loaner car, wishing said infuriating sailor was beside me, discussing theories or telling jokes, or doing his near-daily whine about my choice in music. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to create my own mental diversion. Ah! I know something that will occupy me. Those songs and that message I still have to decipher.
I rack my brain, trying to think of one of the samples of lyrics. Obviously I would benefit greatly from a web-based lyrics search engine, but as I'm in the car I'm going to have to research the old-fashioned method.
I concentrate hard on recalling any string of words from any of the clues, but at most I can only pull together a handful, and to be honest, I think they're just one or two words from a number of lyrics, not just one. Well, no matter. Maybe I can piece together the next lyric by trying to figure out the main message.
Hmm. What do I have pieced together? Not a whole hell of a lot on a hell of a lot, a sarcastic voice answers.
I ignore the double meaning and focus on the task at hand. IAs time goes by, love is all round…something something something…Sarah…/I Hmm, I think there was "Girl" in there somewhere.
Oh, hell. I don't have anything that will help me.
*********
On Route to Norfolk
22 Minutes later.
The only problem with being alone with your thoughts is you're forced to consider them…and worse, what they might mean.
I have been trying, with moderate success, to keep any rumination about my anxiety about Harm at bay. Work helps greatly in that pursuit, keeping me occupied with both important and mundane factors to consider.
Driving in a car, however, leaves you with nothing but your thoughts. No matter if you're the driver or not. There's only so much attention to focus on the road that's really necessary. And singing along with the radio only goes so far, too.
And trying to conquer Harm's lyric challenge is a bust without the clues. And without a computer with Internet access.
So. That leaves said thoughts and fears and anxieties to surface abruptly to the top of consciousness, with nothing to hinder its buoyancy.
And what was rocketing to the surface was my newfound fear of "us".
Why am I so scared of "us"?
What will happen if I acknowledge an "us"?
If I admit to it, if I admit to needing, wanting, being vulnerable; ultimately, of being human and a fragile one at that?
It's been a long time since I've allowed myself to be that fragile—that open. With Harm, I've been Imore/I open, but I can't recall when I allowed myself to feel as deeply as I do about Harm freely. That weekend in Nantucket was probably the closest, and it was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.
Perhaps, a long, long time ago, when I was a little girl, I was a little more carefree, and naïve, but then I grew up. When you love someone, you're really putting yourself on the line. I know it shouldn't be thought of that way, but it's the description that comes closest to how I feel.
I feel like if I admit to Harm that I love him—or accept an admission—that we have reached a point of no return. You can't undo what's been said. You can't sweep it under the rug or let it fall, or pretend something was vague and misconstrued. It's there, bald face and defiant, daring you to deny it.
This is something I'm not going to be able to sweep under or tell myself to forget; it's something that's out there that can never be taken away.
Likewise, if we go public with a relationship, then you can't pretend nothing ever happened; save face if it all goes bad.
I can't decide if I feel this way because of Harm's history of failed relationships, or mine.
I'm scared things won't work out, because of all my worry, they might not, because I keep fixating on our relationship falling apart and me being left once again with nothing. I don't think if this doesn't work out that I can pull myself together like I have in the past. There's way too much of my heart invested in it.
I have to admit that I need Harm. I Iknow/I I need Harm. I Iknow/I I love him. But what is doesn't need me as much as I need him? What if one day he changes his mind?
Hell, my mother broke what should be an unbreakable bond with a child and deserted me, never to look back until years later. And where is she now?
IWho's to say Harm won't do the same? /I A little voice inside my head rasps out quickly, before I can clamp down on the thought. I Ihate/I that little voice. It's an ugly one that has haunted me for years, since I was a young girl.
It's the same voice that never lets me believe in myself. Never lets me believe I deserve the success and happiness that I have damn well earned.
So I'm scared. Chances are Harm's a little scared, too. That doesn't mean he's going to catch the first jet to Keflavik. Though maybe under usual circumstances he would.
Don't think that, MacKenzie. He's not going anywhere. If he does, you're going to find him and kill him.
Being in love with someone means taking a chance. Taking a chance that yes, maybe, despite what you might be lead to think, they don't feel the same way. That things won't work out. But there's also the chance that they do and they will.
I can't let that little voice win.