Keeping London (The Flawed Heart Series Book 2) (13 page)

We’re fortunate. Because of our rank and jobs, we get our own places. Granted, the room isn’t much more than a box. It’s as wide as my bed; the head and foot of the twin bed touches each opposing wall. To the right of the bed are a small desk and chair. There’s enough space to set my trunk of stuff beside the foot of the bed, and that’s about it. But it beats having a roommate any day.

The first thing I do is pull out the laptop I brought from home. It’s a few years old and enclosed in a durable silver case. I brought it for mission-related work, like writing reports and doing research. But, of course, its most important function will be emailing and Skyping with London back home. Having Internet at this place, which exists in a valley at the base of a section of the magnificent Hindu Kush mountain range, is a feat in itself. I wouldn’t think they could get reliable signals here, but thankfully for me, they do—or at least most of the time. I’ve heard the Internet here is spotty—going in and out throughout the day—but it’s better than not having it at all.

It’s been seven days exactly since I’ve seen London, and sure enough, when I finally sit down in front of my wobbly little desk and log into my Gmail, I find seven emails from London, entitled
Question 1
through
Question 7
.

I open the oldest email first.

To: Loïc Berkeley

From: London Wright

Subject: Question 1—Last Meal

Hey, babe. So, I saw you this morning, which means that you haven’t even technically left yet. But I promised that I would write you once a day, so here I am, writing you.

Let me start out by saying that I already miss you like crazy. Like, I might have turned into a crazy person in a matter of ten hours minus Loïc. Completely insane.
Loco en la cabeza
. That means crazy in the head. It’s, like, the one phrase I remember from high school Spanish. I mean, just the mere thought of you being gone is driving me crazy.

What am I actually going to do when it’s been days or months versus hours?

I’m being a total bitch, right? I mean, you’re the one being shipped off to some Third World terrorist country, and I’m the one sitting here, feeling sorry for myself. I’m selfish. What can I say? You already know that’s a major flaw of mine. ;-)

I know I tried to be all positive before you left. “Oh, it’s just a year! A year is nothing!” Blah, blah, blah. Well, I’m calling total BS. A year is a very long freaking time, and I hate it already.

Don’t take this to mean I’m not going to wait or anything silly like that. You’re stuck with me forever, Loïc Berkeley.

I just recently decided—like, three minutes ago when I started typing this letter—that we should be completely honest with each other while you’re gone. I don’t know if that’s a good idea or not. I could just be speaking out of my ass. But I was thinking that, maybe if we’re open and honest with everything, including our fears, then we can help each other get over them or at least talk about them, you know? Putting your feelings out in the open is supposed to help. Total transparency, right?

So, here I am, telling you that I love you and I miss you and that this year without you is going to totally blow—and you haven’t even left US soil yet! Ugh.

So, question 1, if you were dying—like, let’s say you were about to be electrocuted for a crime—what would you request as your last meal?

My answer is shrimp pad thai from this new place in Ann Arbor. Paige brought home takeout, and I’m telling you, these noodles are to freaking die for. Like, so good. When you get back in a year, we are going there, so you can see for yourself.

I love you so much.

Love,

London

I shake my head, a huge smile on my face. She is one of a kind; that’s for sure. I start typing.

To: London Wright

From: Loïc Berkeley

Subject: Re: Question 1—Last Meal

London, baby,

First, I don’t know what about your email is more disturbing—that it sounded a lot like a Dear John letter (thanks for clarifying that it wasn’t) or that your question involves me dying (not cool, given my current situation). How’s that for transparency? Lol. Seriously, your level of tact, or lack thereof, is kind of a flaw, babe. You’re lucky I love you so much.

And selfish? Maybe a tad, but at the same time, you’re incredibly giving to the ones you love the most. You love fiercely, and that is one of my favorite things about you. You’re intense and real. You don’t sugarcoat anything, and for some odd reason, I find that hot as hell. I love your sass and your humor. I just love you, and I, too, miss the hell out of you already.

A year is a long time, but it’ll get easier, right?

Not much going on here. Just arrived to the base where we’ll be for a while and getting settled in.

Missing you. Loving you.

Cooper says hi, and he wants to make sure you’re keeping Maggie company while we’re gone. He also says that his favorite meal is a big, ole juicy medium-rare rib eye with a side of buttery au gratin potatoes and those cheesy biscuits from Red Lobster.

If you’re wondering whether I asked him for his answer, that would be a solid no. He’s just a nosy dick, who’s reading over my shoulder. Apparently, he can’t even stay away from me for a solid hour. He might be a stage-four clinger. Let’s hope it doesn’t escalate to stage five.

He’s now saying that he’s not a dick, but I’d have to disagree.

As far as my answer to your question goes, I’m going to have to say fish and chips—and not the American version, the UK version. One of the last places I remember my dad taking me to was an English pub in South Carolina where he had to do some business. I drove there with him from Mississippi for a weekend, and we happened upon this pub. It was owned by an older guy with an accent that sounded just like my granddad’s. My dad ordered us each fish and chips, and I remember that being the most delicious meal I’d ever had. I’ve never had fish and chips like it since. Maybe none other can compare because that meal is glorified in my head with extra doses of nostalgia and years of building it up. But if I were dying, I would want that meal again, and I would want it to taste the way it did in my memories.

So, how is this whole question thing going to work? Because, now, I have six more emails to respond to before I can ask my question. So, let’s do this. Feel free to write me as much as you want, but you can only ask one question, and you can’t ask another one until I write back with a question.

So, in a few minutes, after I get done responding to your other questions, I’m going to ask you question 8, and then you respond with 9, so I’ll be even, and you’re odd—in more ways than one, I might add. ;-)

I love you, babe.

Love,

Loïc

I quickly respond to the other emails with my answers only and then type out the question eight email before closing my laptop.

“Dude, seriously. We’ve basically just been on each other’s asses for the past week, and you don’t want an hour to yourself?” I look to Cooper, who’s sprawled out on my bed, looking at the ceiling.

“Nah.” He sits up. “I was bored,” he says as way of an explanation.

“Didn’t you want to write to Maggie?”

“I’ll write her when we get back from dinner. We’re eight and a half hours ahead, so that makes it nine thirty in the morning there. She’s working today. She’s not going to have time to check her emails until she gets off at seven tonight, her time. Right?”

I nod. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“What are the chances you suppose they’ll be serving authentic English fish and chips and excellently prepared rib eyes?” he asks as we exit my room.

“I’m going to say slim to none.” I chuckle.

“Damn, I’m hungry for a good steak now, thanks to you,” he huffs.

“Well, it was your dumbass that insisted on being nosy.”

“Eh, true. What can I say, Lieutenant Berkeley? I miss you when we’re apart,” he says with a voice rich in mock adoration.

“You’re an idiot.” I laugh.

“I plead the fifth. But, seriously, this food had better be edible, or it’s going to be a long-ass year.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

We walk in comfortable silence the rest of the way to the mess hall, which is a few blocks from our living quarters. Thoughts of London fill my head with each step.

One week down, and fifty-one more to go.

London

“I want to reach into the computer and hug him—my wounded, brave, sexy warrior.”

—London Wright

The red digital numbers on my bedside table shine brightly in the dark room.
Noon
.
Wow, I was out
.

It seems like a minute has passed since my head hit my pillow at three a.m. Paige and I went out last night to celebrate a new account she was given at work. Apparently, it’s a hugely successful client and a detailed project for them to give to someone who’s only been with the company for several months.

I don’t understand all of Paige’s marketing lingo, but the bottom line was that it called for a celebration. The Friday night bar scene in Ann Arbor didn’t let us down, and I actually feel pretty good for how much I drank.

I roll out of bed and pull open my dark curtains to let in some light. Every branch of the tree outside my window is covered with snow. Actually, everything outside is covered in a blanket of white. We must have gotten a good eight inches or so overnight. I’ll agree with Loïc; winter can be so beautiful. I just wish it weren’t so cold. A momentary pang aches in my chest because Loïc missed the first big snowfall of the year. Then again, I suppose he’s going to miss them all, isn’t he?

I’m sure if he were here, we’d already be dressed in snow gear and out sledding or skiing or some other torturous event like that.

Exiting my room, I’m met with Paige in the hallway, and by the look of her bed head and puffy eyes, she just woke up as well.

“Did you see it snowed?” I ask.

“Yeah, so pretty,” she says with a yawn.

“I need coffee,” I say as I head into our kitchen. “French vanilla?”

“Sounds good.”

I grab the bag of vanilla-flavored beans and grind up enough for Paige and me, and I start the pot.

“Oh! We have Mexican leftovers!” I practically cheer as I peer into the refrigerator for something to eat for breakfast.

“Oh, yes!” Paige yells behind me. “Why is it that Mexican food tastes so good after a night of drinking?”

“I don’t know, but it really does.” I pull off the cardboard tops and place the aluminum tins of goodness into the toaster oven to warm.

After a few minutes, we take our coffees and warmed leftovers to the dining room table.

“What do you want to do today?” Paige stuffs her mouth full of some rice.

“Well, I desperately need to finish my Christmas shopping. I’m glad that I sent Loïc a care package last week because, at this rate, he’s not going to get his Christmas package until mid-January.”

“Are you kidding? At only eight days away, your family will be lucky to get their presents on time.” She chuckles.

“I know. I’m so behind, but I really don’t want to be out driving in this snow. That’s, like, a guaranteed accident right there.”

“I bet there are some online stores that still offer rush shipping,” Paige offers.

“Good call! Let’s online shop today and then start a new show on Netflix,” I say through a mouthful of chicken fajita.

“It’s a plan.”

After we’ve finished eating, I make myself presentable, meaning I wash my face and brush my hair and teeth. I quickly throw on a winter coat and some boots.

“Where are you going?” Paige asks when she sees me leaving the house.

“I’m going to go take some selfies with the snow, so I can email them to Loïc. He loves that crap.”

“So, you’re going to pretend to be out, enjoying the winter wonderland, when, in fact, you’re going to be out there for less than two minutes?”

“Exactly,” I beam, pretty proud of my plan.

“You’re crazy.” Paige chuckles to herself before taking a sip of coffee.

“Hey, I’m not going to lie to him, but if he assumes that I’m being outdoorsy, then who am I to tell him differently?” I shrug. Turning, I head out the front door.

After a minute and a half, I’m back inside. “I’m going to be in my room, emailing Loïc and then shopping. We can start our show in a couple of hours, okay?”

“Sounds good. I’m going to catch up with our favorite celeb BFFs,” Paige says as she sprawls out on the couch with a stack of this week’s gossip magazines.

Once in my room, I start up my laptop.

I’m thrilled when there’s an email waiting for me. Loïc’s been able to write every day since he arrived at Bagram. He’s warned me that some of his jobs will take him away from base for a few days, so he won’t be able to write then. But, for now, he can.

To: London Wright

From: Loïc Berkeley

Subject: Question 14

Hey, babe. To answer your last question…HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO ANSWER IT? Lol.

I can’t possibly pick my favorite time having sex with you. Yes, the closet at the benefit was HOT, so that’s a good choice. But there have been so many! Lake Michigan? The Mexican restaurant? The countless times in your bed? Shower sex? I mean…how am I supposed to choose? Seriously? They’ve all been perfection. You know my favorite thing in the world is being inside you, baby. Hard, fast, slow, rough, wet—I love it all.