Page 12 of The Forgotten SEAL (The Real SEAL #1)

Carina looks off over my shoulder, her amber eyes filled with an emotion I can’t quite pinpoint. Her eyes are so beautiful. They shine with so much, but sometimes I don’t think she uses them to see . She uses them to hide from everything that resides behind.

“I want to be the person I thought I was. It’s hard, though, because I’m terrified.

Not because I’m fearful of him. I’m fearful of what he’ll do to any progress I make.

I’m afraid to start making a new life if he’s going to take it away again.

I’m not sure I’ll be able to come out on the other side of that.

Not again,” Carina says. Her gaze flits to mine and holds.

She grins. “I’m sorry for talking your ear off.

Didn’t you have news? Probably better than mine. ”

“This is way more important than my news, Carina. I’m happy for you.” I pick up a strand of her lighter hair that lies on her shoulder. She keeps her grin as she watches my hand. “Nothing is going to happen. He’s not going to hurt you again.”

“What if I’m not strong enough, though?”

“Strong enough to what? You left him. That’s the hardest part.”

Carina sighs and takes my hand in hers. Her gaze stays on the red, scarred skin of my hand.

“What if I’m not strong enough to stay away from him?

I know he’s going to try to get me back.

I don’t know if I’m strong enough to tell him no.

Isn’t that sick?” With her thumb, she rubs the skin between my thumb and forefinger .

I capture her thumb with my thumb. “I see the woman who you think you aren’t. You’re more than capable of handling this with ease and strength. You have support, you have a plan. You are strong enough.”

She coughs, removes her hand from my grasp, and folds her hands in her lap. “I hope you’re right, Smith. God, I hope you’re right.”

Giving her my biggest smile, I say, “I’m almost always right, Carina.”

She presses her lips to the side. “Somehow, I believe that,” Carina says, folding her hair from one side to the other. “Thank you for listening to this mess. I know that’s not in your job description. You’re a good friend to me.”

Somewhere in between email exchanges and interviews, we became friends. The kind that you can tell anything to. The kind that lasts a lifetime. I’m sure of it.

“You’re writing my story. I have to be good to you. What if you kill me off?”

She laughs, and a genuine smile graces me with its presence. I can’t help but laugh in return. The fact that true happiness exists in this day is confusing.

A small dog runs over to pick up a red ball that’s landed at our feet. “I want a cat,” Carina says.

“Because you saw a dog?” I ask with a chuckle.

She smiles and waves at the owner, who is several yards away calling for the little fuzzball. “No, I’ve always wanted a cat, but Roarke is allergic.”

Of course he is. That fucker is allergic to life. “You can have seven cats now. If you want.”

“Ha. Ha,” she says, a sarcastic grin pulling her lips. “The writer with seven cats. You’re trying to bury me early, aren’t you?”

I don’t respond. I just watch her in this peaceful moment. It helps ease the Megan pain buried in my chest. It’s like even my heart knows what my mind has forgotten.

Carina leans her head back when a stray sunbeam finds its way through the tree branches.

It lights her face beautifully. She hums. “I was thinking last night when I obviously couldn’t sleep.

With the pace of my thoughts, it was never going to happen, and I realized something.

You know how in horror novels, sometimes right in the middle, there’s this really great, warm chapter to break up the gore? ”

I grunt in agreement even though I don’t read horror novels. I watch her pink lips as she opens to speak again.

Her head falls to the side, and she looks at me. “You’re my warm, fuzzy middle chapter.”

The sentiment steals my breath.

“In the most proper, platonic, friendly way, that is,” she tacks on the end.

I want to tell her that it doesn’t have to be that way anymore, that even Megan knows how I feel, but somehow bringing my feelings into this conversation seems dirty and wrong.

I don’t want to sully this moment with anything.

Carina is opening herself to me, and in response, my entire heart is grateful. That’s enough for now.

I laugh. “Of course. In that proper horror novel way,” I reply.

She shakes her head.

“I should tell you a story. I’ll tell you my news another day.”

She sits up straight, excited. “That’s a great idea. I’ve written a couple chapters already. I couldn’t hold back any longer. Greenleigh is in the building. Whenever you’re ready.”

She doesn’t take out her tape recorder this time, just a small notebook and a hot pink pen.

She presses it between her lips as she waits for me to begin.

I decide on a funny story about my very first deployment as a SEAL.

It’s when Moose and Henry became my best friends—when the brotherhood everyone talked about was defined.

It involves cigars, sunburns, a wrecked four-wheeler, and a video camera.

I tell her about the surreal quality that lingered around me during those months.

I was finally doing what I’d dreamed of doing my whole life—of what men across the world die to do.

Everyday motions seemed that much more important because I was contributing to an effort bigger than anything I could think of.

All of those months of trials and training—Hell Week, SEAL Qualification Training (SQT)—were being put to use.

I was prepared for anything. I can’t describe the feeling of pride that happens when preparedness meets talent, knowing the caliber of men surrounding me.

All of it was surreal perfection, albeit dangerous.

Carina scribbles down her notes furiously as I keep talking.

She asks so many questions. They aren’t superficial questions, either.

She wants to know what I was thinking when so-and-so happened and why I made a certain choice.

She forces me into this introspective atmosphere that stings with reality.

Her whole demeanor changes when we talk.

Gone is the meek, mild-tempered woman. She’s replaced with a voracious, hungry woman.

She’s sharp-tongued and holds nothing back.

Carina isn’t scared when we’re talking. She’s merely herself.

“You remember all of those details from that long ago? It’s so strange. Your amnesia,” Carina remarks.

I’m thankful for the memories I’ve kept, but a lot of times they’re just a reminder of everything I’ve forgotten. Megan. My stomach flips. I have an honest-to-goodness bout of dizziness.

Sighing, I hang my head down to regain my wiles. “I’m lucky to be alive. That’s the fact we need to focus on.” I blink several times to clear my head. “Do you believe in a higher power, Carina?”

She seems taken aback by my question. “Of course,” Carina replies, waving her hand to the side. “Look at this.” She lays a hand on her chest. “And this,” she says, gently laying her fingers on my exposed forearm. “Why do you ask?”

“I have to believe the things I’ve forgotten were meant to stay that way.

When I think about it, I feel guilty, so I’ve come to blame someone else.

I may never remember, or I could wake up tomorrow and have every single memory come flooding back.

I chose to believe I have no control in that.

Someone or something larger than life has a hand in that choice.

I’m okay with it. So, yes. I remember those details because I was supposed to. ”

Carina shakes her head and slides her notebook back into her bag. “I don’t know if I believe in it that much. I understand why you do, though.” She sits up straight, tucks her golden locks behind one ear, and narrows her eyes. “It’s easy to blame anyone other than yourself.”

With one sentence, she’s torn a hole in my defense.

I can’t blame myself because I can’t remember.

But I should be to blame. For pushing Megan away inadvertently.

For trying to get our old relationship back for too long.

For spending more time rehabbing my career instead of my engagement.

I am to blame, and I’ve realized all of that is okay. I take her hand in mine. “Thank you.”

She smiles and looks away. “I have no idea what you’re thanking me for, but you’re welcome.

I should be the one thanking you. You gave me enough to write into the wee hours of the morning.

” I release her hand, but she doesn’t move it away from me.

I do see her quick gaze dart around us every once in a while.

Her gaze flicks back to the little dog. She smiles.

“Don’t be afraid, Carina. You’re safe. I’m proud of you. I’m here for you.” I also tell her that there’s no way he would recognize her with her new hair.

She doesn’t think the joke is funny, but she does tell me she’s shopping for a new car this afternoon with Jasmine. She is trying to disappear without disappearing.

“You can’t be there for me,” she says, stopping mid-sentence. Carina closes her mouth and looks away. “You can’t.”

“Of course I can,” I return.

She sighs. “You don’t live with me, Smith. No one can keep me completely safe twenty-four hours a day. There’s vulnerability in merely living. I’m sure it will get better with time,” she says, swallowing. “But right now the last thing I feel is safe.”

I nod. With a hammering heart, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’ll live with you.”

“What?” Carina asks, voice loud.

I shrug. “I’m not allergic to cats.”