Page 41 of The Forgotten SEAL (The Real SEAL #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Carina

She called me. I didn’t answer, so Megan left a voicemail.

The boot camp class was practically empty today, and it’s a good thing.

I was angry. Angry that when I finally tried to move on and had gone a few minutes without thinking of Smith, her call reminded me of everything I try to forget.

I’m fooling myself to think anything will take his memory away.

The voicemail she left was vague, only that it was important that we meet up to talk.

I text her that she can meet me at a café in Gaslamp in ten.

There’s no way she’ll meet me on such short notice. It’s my hope anyway.

The drive to the coffee shop I’ve been writing in is a short distance from the gym and from my house.

It just opened back up a couple weeks ago, and it’s always quiet.

Most people still stay home as much as possible.

Those with full-time jobs have returned to them, and sometimes I forget 9/11 happened.

It’s only a brief memory lapse, though. So much has changed.

The way society functions is warped completely, and not for the better.

There are metal detectors everywhere, and there are still checkpoints along freeways and state borders.

Airlines are so strict that it’s almost quicker to drive wherever you need to travel.

Civilian militias have formed in backwoods communities and even in some large cities.

Our borders have been closed since the attack, and families have been separated all this time.

The news still plays constantly, but now stories of Americans trapped in other countries trickle into the mainstream.

It’s sad, but it’s reality. The television in the café is playing such a story right now.

My phone buzzes when I take a seat by the window.

It’s a guy I’ve been seeing, confirming our plans for tonight.

It’s the fourth date and he’s expecting to get laid.

My friends approve of him, but it’s not quite right. Nothing will ever be just so, though. Smith ruined that. Our relationship clogs everything.

Taking a sip of my iced black coffee, I open my laptop and start writing an outline for the next chapter I’m working on.

It’s a thriller, something completely different.

I almost didn’t even want to give my heroine a love interest, but Jaz threatened my life, and when it’s all said and done, she knows what’s going to sell.

A blonde approaches in my peripheral vision, and I know who it is before I glance out the window. She still has the it factor. The thing that draws attention from men and women alike. Men want to love her, and women want to be her.

She sees me and waves. It’s a small gesture that doesn’t line up with the scowl on her face. She bypasses the counter and heads straight for my table. “If I thought you would actually show up, I would have changed,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I came from the gym,” I explain.

Her hair is glossy and has grown back in. Makeup can’t hide her scars or the rough, red, uneven skin, but it’s easy to not notice it. “It’s important.”

I eye her bare ring finger.

“Obviously,” I reply, closing my laptop and folding my arms on top of it. “No coffee. This must be really bad.”

“An attorney called the house attempting to schedule a meeting with Smith about your book,” Megan explains.

I feel her staring at my face as she speaks. I keep my gaze focused out of the window.

“He mentioned that you wouldn’t be at the meeting.”

I nod. “It’s for the best if I’m not there.

I’m confused. Why are you upset? We live in the same city, and I’m doing everything I can to avoid Smith…

and you.” I contemplated moving away, setting up shop in some Pacific Northwestern town.

Somewhere I could wear rain boots every day of the year and drink chai tea and do yoga and sleep outside if I felt like it.

A place I could start over away from everything in my past. “I’m not ready to move yet.

I will, I think. Eventually.” That way Smith won’t haunt every corner and every single favorite place in this city.

Living in the house is bad enough, but I haven’t been able to return to Balboa Park either.

Megan untucks her hair from behind her ear so it hides the side of her face.

I have to look away. “He says I’m supposed to plan the wedding, Carina.

He reassures me a million times a day that he’s excited and can’t wait to get married to me.

Every single night he stares at the ceiling, oblivious of everything and anyone around him.

It’s not bad memories either. It’s you. You live in my house.

You live inside him. It doesn’t matter if I marry him. He’s owned by you.”

My breath hitches. This is unexpected. Smith didn’t count on Megan rebelling away from his master moral plan. “Does he know you’re here?”

“Of course not. Do you know how jealous he’d be if he did know?

” She scoffs. It’s a high-pitched noise made out of annoyance.

Rubbing her hands together, she says, “I can just see his face when I tell him where I’ve been.

He’ll pretend to be mad, but then he’ll ask me questions.

Not because he’s curious, but because he’s addicted to you, and like a junkie, he wants any piece of you he can get. I’m not an idiot.”

“Why do you stay? If you know…then why?” My mouth is dry. “You’re not an idiot, Megan.”

She motions to her face and body. “Look at me. Even if I didn’t look like a burn victim poster child, my heart has always belonged to him.

When he came to me and told me he remembered, I thought it would go back to the way it was before.

You have to understand because you know him—I had to give it another chance.

He’s been my love for my whole life. That’s not something you let go of easily.

You fight for the important things in life.

Giving him another chance was my weak attempt at fighting for us. I didn’t anticipate one thing.”

“What?”

“That what he feels for you doesn’t even touch what he felt for me at the height of our love.

” Her eyes turn down in the corner, and she covers her mouth to hide a sob.

“Competing is exhausting. We have years of memories, and your months with him are enough to take me out completely. He lies to protect my feelings. He doesn’t think I know.

I’m not sure how he can be so oblivious. He’s pining. He’s broken.”

I brush away a tear with my pointer finger. The news in the background barks out a warning about the militia staging a protest in DC. They have guns and signs. I take in a breath. I can’t focus. “What do you want me to do? I’ve moved on. I’m done. He made his choice.”

“You don’t love him?” she asks. “Tell him then. In person. That you don’t love him.”

I close my eyes to try to block out the background noise.

I can’t understand what she wants, and the things she’s saying are confusing me beyond belief.

Megan presses her lips together in a firm line.

It reminds me of Smith. The way one half of his face is perfect and the other half is marred by scars.

Megan’s face looks different than his, but it has the same feeling. Beautiful destruction.

“The meeting. You want me to go,” I say. This has to be why she began the conversation with it. When she sniffles and then nods, I go on. “He won’t believe me.”

“Because you do love him.”

It’s my turn. “It doesn’t go away. I will tell him I don’t love him.

That he needs to move on with his life, but you need to plan for this to go badly.

The last time I saw him…” I explain, trailing off.

I didn’t mean to go this far, but now that I’m here, I might as well be honest. “He said a lot of things.”

“Oh, god. I knew it. How am I supposed to get over him again?”

When I do, I’ll let you know, I think.

“Don’t. Live with it. I’m done. I’ll contact my attorney and let him know I’ll be there. It’s to sign the final paperwork for the book and movie options and his percentage shares. If he approaches me, I’ll tell him anything you want me to.”

“Thank you,” she whispers. “It won’t be enough.

That’s my fear.” She is so self-conscious it’s hard to be around her.

The way she fidgets and looks down. It reminds me of the woman I used to be.

That’s the real reason I want to get out of here as quickly as possible.

That, and this new information about how sad Smith is.

I think deep down every woman wants to know her ex is miserable after a breakup.

They say nice things such as wishes for their happiness, but it’s a surface truth.

Because if their ex is happy, then something must be fundamentally wrong with them and how they conduct their relationships. Humans are selfish to the core.

“This is hard. It’s hard for everyone involved, but you have options. You’re beautiful despite what you see in the mirror. You are the same person. You have so much going for you that any man would be lucky to have you. Smith has to see that.”

She shakes her head. “I have to go. I’m glad to see you doing so well,” she says.

I look down at my sweat-soaked workout gear and smirk at her, raising one brow. “Thanks, I think. Sometimes you have to ask questions. Even hard ones,” I explain. “It goes along with the communication clause, you know?”

I hope she knows what I mean. If things are as bad as she says they are, nothing is saving their relationship.

After she leaves, I call my attorney and schedule the meeting for the soonest available.

The thought of seeing Smith sends butterflies to my stomach, and my core clenches.

I wonder how long he’ll have this hold on me.

“Forever,” I whisper.

Opening my laptop, I write a scene between my characters. They fight and yell, and then they make love. For a moment, I feel better.