My Kind of Love: a Military Romance (Finding Love Book 1) Page 4

  “I better answer that,” she says when her phone rings. “My mom.”

  “All right. I took the master, but—”

  “No, stay there. You’re fine.” And with that, she disappears down the hall and into a room, closing the door behind her.

  Feeling restless, I stay awake most of the night watching crap TV. Micaela never comes out of her room, but through the walls, I can hear her crying. I find myself wanting to go to her, hold her and tell her it’s going to be okay. But I don’t. The last person I tried to help, I only ended up hurting when I couldn’t be the person she needed me to be.

  Micaela

  I wake in the morning to an empty house. My first thought is Ryan must’ve left. But when I walk by the master bedroom I spot his duffle bag on the floor next to the dresser, so he must be around here somewhere. I pad out to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, and while I’m there, make myself a piece of toast. I probably should’ve bought food to make meals with, but I wasn’t thinking. Plus, I don’t really know how to cook, so I’m not sure how well that would go over.

  With a cup of coffee in one hand and my toast in the other, I head outside. It’s March in Venice Beach, so the weather can fluctuate, but today it’s warm, so I sit in the chair and watch the waves crash against the shore while I eat my breakfast and drink my coffee. I’m not sure where to go or what to do. I came here to try to move on. A change of scenery. To give my family a break from worrying. But I haven’t the slightest clue what the hell I’m supposed to do now, and so far all I’ve done is spent the night crying in my room.

  It doesn’t matter whether I’m in Vegas or Venice, my heart still aches. The lump in my throat still remains. Every time I close my eyes I can still picture Ian’s lifeless body lying in the casket—my mom warned me not to look, but I had to see for myself he was really gone. In Venice, my plans are still shattered, my heart is still cracked and broken.

  I move from the chair to the lounger, so I can lie down and get comfortable. I close my eyes and let the sun beat down on my face. The warmth a reminder that unlike Ian’s cold body buried six feet under, I’m still alive.

  I spend the morning doing nothing. I try to write my letter to Ian, but, like always, nothing comes to me. I have no words, no thoughts, no feelings I want to write down. Anything I write will make Ian’s death a reality. My husband is dead and isn’t coming back. The fact is, it’s been the reality for the last fifteen months—I just haven’t wanted to admit it. Which is why I’m here. Only I seem to be doing the same thing here I was doing at home. Tears prick my lids, but I shut my eyes, forcing them back.

  First step, I think to myself, no more crying. I can’t move forward if I keep crying.

  Early afternoon, Ryan returns. He’s dressed in board shorts and flip-flops with his shirt flung over his shoulder. His short hair is wet, and his skin is bronzed from the sun. His body is ripped, from his strong muscular shoulders, to his chiseled chest, down to his defined six-pack abs. He has several tattoos covering his flesh.

  I briefly chastise myself for ogling him, just like I did last night, but then I mentally roll my eyes. It’s not like I’m cheating on Ian, since he isn’t here. I might be stuck frozen in place, unable to move on, but I haven’t completely lost it. I know my husband is gone and isn’t coming back. I know eventually I will have to move on. One day, I imagine I’ll get married again, have a family. I’m only twenty years old. I have my entire life ahead of me—unlike Ian. But the thought of actually moving on makes my heart hurt. The idea of taking a step forward without Ian by my side is gut-wrenching. I didn’t want to have to move forward without him. I was supposed to walk with him, start a family with him. Create a life with him. Like always, my throat clogs with emotion and I have to force the sobs back. I told myself no more crying. I can’t move forward if I keep crying.

  Instead, I focus on Ryan. He’s carrying my dad’s surfboard under his arm. He nods once toward me, and I force myself to smile at him. The smile feels foreign but also good. Like in my own way I just took a step forward. I can’t even remember the last time I smiled. So, yeah, I’m counting the smile as a step forward.

  He steps onto the back patio and sets the board against the side of the house, then goes about rinsing the saltwater off his body using the outdoor shower. When he’s done, he grabs a towel and dries off.

  He goes inside, and then a few minutes later, comes back out, dressed in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, the same flip-flops on his feet. I watch as he walks down the beach toward the pier, realizing he never said a single word to me. I wonder if maybe he’s afraid to talk to me, like he’s scared I might lose it on him. Or maybe he’s just trying to give me my space. Even though he’s been away overseas, he has to know my situation. His parents are best friends with my grandparents, and despite him always being gone, I know he’s close with his, just like I am with mine—or at least was, until Ian died and I pushed everyone away.

  A little while later, I head inside to make myself something to eat for lunch. Ryan bought a shit load of food, but I don’t want to touch it without asking, so I stick to what I bought: a pint of ice cream and a bag of chips.

  After eating enough so I’m no longer starving, I lie down for a nap, but since I haven’t really done anything, I’m not tired, so instead I just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, allowing my mind to wander. When I can’t take it anymore, I climb out of bed to grab a book I brought. When I open the luggage, a small box catches my eye. I’m not sure why I packed it. Maybe I was afraid if I left it at home, it would feel like I was leaving Ian there as well. I open it up and sift through it—something I haven’t done since I filled it. It’s everything from Ian’s and my time together. Letters he wrote me, pictures of us, his wedding band. One day when I was having a bad moment, I put everything into the box so I wouldn’t have to see it. I told myself out of sight out of mind. Obviously that didn’t work.

  Clutching a photo of us laughing and smiling to my chest, the tears fall like a waterfall. My heart aches for Ian, but I’m so tired of hurting, of feeling broken.

  My eyes flicker to the fireplace, and for a brief second I consider tossing it all into there. Lighting it on fire, so I’m forced to move forward. But then I come to my senses. I would no doubt regret that and there would be no way of getting any of it back.

  So, instead, I put the box back into my luggage and, taking the single photo of us, climb back into bed and cry myself to sleep. Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I will try harder to move on.

  “I’ll take that.” Ryan comes out of nowhere and plucks the joint I was bringing to my lips out of my fingers, and flicks it toward the sand. “And I’ll replace it with this.” He sets a deliciously-smelling plate of food in front of me. A scrambled egg omelet that looks like it’s mixed with ham, cheese, mushrooms, and peppers, home fries, perfectly cooked, and sliced mixed fruit.

  Ryan disappears, then returns, juggling two glasses of orange juice in one hand and a plate of food for himself in the other. I grab the glasses from him and set them on the table.

  “Shit, forgot the utensils,” he says, setting his plate down.

  He comes back a few seconds later and sits, handing me a fork and knife.

  “Wow, a man who can cook. What else can you do?”

  “Smoking is not how you deal,” he says, ignoring my joke.

  “Oh, that’s right.” My eyes roll upward. “I’ve heard all about your savior complex.” I lean over my plate of food. “But guess what? I don’t need to be saved. What happened to the guy from yesterday who let me deal in peace?”

  “I was giving you space. The space stopped when you lit a joint.”

  Not wanting to argue, I stand, and Ryan does as well. “Sit and eat.” He gestures toward the food and my stomach, of course, rumbles. His one brow goes up, and I sigh, giving in.

  “Fine, but no talk about how to cope or deal or whatever.” I grab my fork, pierce a chunk of melon, and point it at him, while hitting him with a hard stare
.

  “Fine.” He shrugs nonchalantly, not fazed in the slightest by my glare. “Since we both know you’re not doing either.” He pops a potato into his mouth and chews.

  “Excuse me?” I fork a piece of omelet and push it into my mouth. It’s fluffy and flavorful. A loud moan escapes, and Ryan laughs.

  “Smoking weed is avoiding, not dealing. Not coping. Avoiding.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “No, you’re not,” he argues. “Yesterday you did nothing all day but ate shit food and cried, now today, you’re waking up and getting high before the sun is even up.” Okay, so apparently, even though he wasn’t talking, he was paying attention.

  “Whatever.” I take another bite of my food, and he chuckles.

  “What?” I huff.

  “Nothing.” He laughs, shaking his head and taking another bite of his food. I try and fail to ignore how strong his jaw is. Like, how can a jaw be strong? But somehow his is… “You’re acting your age,” he adds, snapping me out of my ogling. “I haven’t been around someone your age in a long time, and I’m the youngest in my family.”

  Really? He’s like eight years older than me and he’s acting like he’s my dad’s age. I don’t bother responding to his dig, though, not wanting to bury myself deeper.

  We eat the rest of our meal in silence. When our plates are empty, he stands and goes to take my dish, but I grab his from his hand instead. “You cooked, I can clean.”

  He follows me inside. The kitchen is spotless, so he must’ve cleaned up as he went. I set the dishes next to the sink and pour some soap over them, then grab a sponge and begin washing them. Ryan joins me, leaning against the counter, his arms crossing over his chest.

  “How long were you planning to stay here for?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, placing the clean dishes into the strainer. “My mom mentioned it might do me some good to get away, and the next thing I knew I was packing a bag and heading here.”

  “And they don’t know you’re here?”

  “They know I’m safe. I didn’t tell them where I am, but I told them I’m okay and I’ll check in so they don’t worry. I didn’t want them sending anyone over to check on me.”

  “I have to report to the base for my tour in a couple weeks.”

  “Tour?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  Oh, yeah. He’s in the military. I knew that. I nod, a lump the size of a golf ball blocking my throat. He’s going overseas to Afghanistan. Putting his life at risk. The same way Ian would’ve been, had he not—I shake my head, trying to block out any thoughts of Ian.

  “Hey, I got you.” Ryan pulls me into his arms, and it’s then I realize my cheeks are wet with tears. He picks me up and carries me over to the couch, setting me next to him.

  “I’m sorry. You mentioned Afghanistan, and it…”

  “Your husband died in training, right?”

  I nod. “Fifteen months ago.” I swat at my stupid tears and close my eyes, willing them to stop. “I should be over it… moved on by now. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’ve never lost anyone close to me the way you have,” Ryan says. “But I have lost a few men during deployments, and I considered them family. I’m not sure you ever fully get over it, and there’s no set timetable for when you have to move on.”

  I open my eyes and for the first time in a while, I find myself smiling. “Thank you.” When he gives me a confused look, I clarify. “You’re the first person not to tell me it’s time.”

  Ryan nods. “You’ll move forward when you’re ready. You’ll never forget, but one day, when you’re ready, you’ll take a step forward and then another one.”

  “I want to,” I admit, finding it easy to talk to him for some reason. “It’s just…” I take a deep breath, trying so hard to block the tears. I’m such an emotional wreck. “We had these plans, and now, every time I think about them…” I take another deep breath in and then slowly release it, trying to fight the anxiety attack I feel coming on. It happens every time I think about Ian’s and my future.

  Ryan extends his hand and pulls me close to him. His hand rubs up and down my arm, calming me. “Breathe,” he murmurs into my ear. “Just breathe.”

  His voice is commanding yet soothing, and I find myself doing what he’s telling me to do. A few minutes later, I glance around and realize, between his touch and his words, I made it through my attack.

  “I’m going to take a walk over to the pier. I saw your dad has some poles and chairs in the garage. We could pack a lunch and go fishing. What do you say?”

  Without giving it thought, I nod. One step forward. “Yeah, sure. That sounds good.”

  While I get dressed in a pair of leggings, a racerback tank top with a sports bra underneath, and a pair of tennis shoes, Ryan packs a cooler lunch and grabs a couple poles and chairs. He’s dressed in a pair of loose khaki cargo shorts and a black T-shirt that stretches across his chest. I take the cooler from him, so he can carry the poles and chairs, and then we set off down the beach. The water is choppy today and I get lost in my thoughts and the sound of the waves crashing. Walking with Ryan is nice. He doesn’t try to make forced conversation. He’s simply content walking together in silence. And it’s not awkward silence either. It’s comfortable, and it makes me feel relaxed.

  Once we get to the pier, Ryan buys some bait and then we find a spot that isn’t too busy to set up our chairs. He puts the bait on both our lines and then casts them into the water, making it all look so effortless, while I sit in my chair and watch. He sticks the poles into the holes and has a seat next to me.

  “Do you go fishing often?”

  “First time,” he says with a laugh. “I looked up how to do all that online.” He shoots me a sexy wink and my insides tighten, the air knocking out of me.

  “I’m not usually one to sit around,” he adds. “But your dad told me I should spend some time doing nothing.”

  “Wow, my parents are just full of advice.” I laugh humorlessly.

  “They mean well.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “So, what do we do now?”

  “We wait.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, and then, all of a sudden, the pole he placed in front of me starts to bow. “Oh! I think something is happening!”

  We both hop up from our chairs. Ryan grabs my pole and reels in whatever it is that’s been hooked. When he brings it over the railing, I spot the fish. A real fish. A cute, innocent, silver fish. And it hits me… We’re fishing… for fish! It’s wiggling in fear—its tiny mouth open, practically begging to be saved.

  “Oh my God!” I shriek. “Help it!”

  Ryan’s eyes go wide. “What?”

  “The hook is in its mouth!” I rush over to the poor little fish who’s squirming, most likely in pain. “It’s hurt, Ryan! We have to help him.” Ryan stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, but I ignore him, my entire focus on saving this poor little fish. Carefully, I unhook the hook from his mouth. “It’s okay, little guy. I got you. You’re going to be okay.” I quickly toss him back into the water and watch as he lands with a tiny splash, disappearing into the abyss.

  I grab the pole that’s still in the water and reel it in. “No more fishing.” I hand the pole to Ryan, who’s looking at me like I’m crazy. “Those poor fish don’t deserve to be hooked and reeled in for our entertainment.”

  A slow smile creeps up on Ryan’s face, making his dimples pop out.

  “What?” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head, his amused grin widening. “You’re just… kind of fucking adorable.”

  Great, he thinks I’m adorable… like a damn child.

  “What did you think we were doing when I mentioned fishing?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug a shoulder. “I wasn’t really thinking about it, until you reeled in that poor, helpless fish.”

  Ryan laughs, and his strong shoulders shake. “Okay. So, no fishing…”


  “No fishing. It’s not nice.” I glance around, eyeing all the people who are fishing on the pier. Those poles aren’t just poles, they’re weapons, threatening to hurt and kill all of the sea life.

  “You can’t stop all these people from fishing, so don’t even think about it,” he says as if reading my mind. “Why don’t we go for a walk and sit on the beach.”

  I shoot the people fishing a stink eye. “Fine, okay.”

  Ryan takes the chairs and poles, and I grab the cooler. We find a secluded spot, but instead of sitting in the chairs, we opt for sitting in the sand.

  After a few minutes of watching the waves come in, I say, “My major was marine biology.”

  “Was?”

  “I had a semester left to get my AS… my associate’s in science,” I explain.

  “I know what that is. I have an engineering degree.”

  I whip my head around, looking at him with new eyes. “Really?”

  “What? I can’t have a degree because I’m in the military?”

  “No, I just didn’t know you went to college. Ian…” At the mention of his name, I stop for a second, but then force myself to continue. “Ian enlisted.” He bypassed going to college to enlist directly into the Navy SEALs.

  “I did too. But I took online classes. I wanted a degree I could use one day, as well as in the field. I’m a combat engineer.” He takes two bottles of water out of the cooler and hands me one. “So, you were majoring in marine biology?”

  “Yeah, the plan was for me to apply to the University of San Diego and to Scripps for an internship. I want to study marine life. I find it fascinating.”

  “What made you want to do that?” He twists the top of the bottle and brings it to his lips. As he swallows the water, his Adam’s apple bobs, and I find myself squeezing my thighs together. Why does everything he does have to be so damn masculine and sexy?