Page 50 of Better Late Than Never

It was a challenge, getting him reasonably comfortable for the X-ray. He was sore all over, and naturally, the area I was X-raying was tender thanks to the sutured wound. I managed to get three good, clear images, though, and I sent him on his way.

From the looks of the X-rays, he’d been lucky. His doctor had been concerned that the horn and the resulting fall might’ve fractured or chipped a bone, but everything was intact as far as I could see. If there were any concerns about soft tissue damage (beyond the obvious), he’d have to go off-base to one of the Spanish hospitals.

Something told me his sore ass wouldn’t be his biggest problem in the coming weeks. There was no hiding an injury like that from his chain of command, and I’d seen people go to Captain’s Mast for less. A corpsman I used to work with had spent two months on restriction and had her pay docked because she’d let herself get excessively sunburned. Another had been disciplined hard for getting alcohol poisoning, both because it compromised his readiness for a few days and because he’d been underage. On my first combat deployment, another corpsman and I had helped a Marine hide the fact that he’d sliced his hand open playing with a knife; we’d seen it happen, stitched him up, and solemnly told his superiors that we’d watched him trip and accidentally grab on to some razor wire.

Taking a horn through the butt cheek and getting knocked around during the running of the bulls? There was no hiding that, and God help him if the base CO found out about it, which he probably would.

This patient was going to be regretting his life choices for a little while. His ass needed to heal, and he’d probably be on restriction and lose some pay. He wouldn’t get a Good Conduct Medal, and it would take several years longer for the stripes on his dress uniform to turn from red to gold. If he didn’t have a pattern of bad behavior, that would probably be the end of it. I’d seen plenty of careers come back from a hell of a lot worse.

If I got caught fraternizing with Connor—with Lieutenant Commander Marks—the fallout would be far more dire. It would’ve been anyway, but I knew for a fact we had a CO who liked to be a hardass about doing things by the book.

I dropped into my chair at my desk and swore into the silence of my office. I needed to get the hell over him. It was just sex. It was just a one-time thing, and we’d both known it. We’d wanted to make it count, and we had, and there was nothing left to do but move on like adults who valued the careers we’d worked for all this time.

I couldn’t have him. End of story.

The sooner I accepted that and forgot about him, the better.

* * *

As much as I was struggling to concentrate on anything that wasn’t Connor, I did at least have something to look forward to that evening. About once a month—or, well, usually less often than that—I FaceTimed with my parents back home. Not as often as I would’ve liked, but they were the West Coast was nine hours behind Spain and they traveled a lot, so it was challenging to schedule calls.

After a light dinner, I settled on my balcony with a glass of wine. From here, I had a gorgeous view of the ocean and Playa de Cruz del Mar, a popular Chipiona beach. The pale sand was crowded with people soaking up the sun and playing in the water; they still had a lot of daylight left, and the most brutal heat of the afternoon had eased considerably. I loved the view, and I loved that my balcony was situated just right to be in the shade during the hottest hours. It was a great spot for my calls with my parents, too, especially since my mom always enjoyed seeing the gorgeous view.

And they should be calling soon, shouldn’t they?

I checked my phone. It was a few minutes past 1900, which was our agreed upon time. I put the phone back on the table and sipped my wine as I gazed out at the beach. They were busy these days; I joked that retirement had them running around more than they ever had while working and raising three kids. For all I knew, they were on their way home right now after visiting with friends or attending one of a million classes they took at the local art center, senior center, and any other place that could keep them busy.

So… I could wait. It wasn’t like this was a terrible imposition, sitting out here on the balcony with some good wine.

I was kind of twitchy, though, and it took a while to put my finger on why. Though I usually enjoyed the peaceful solitude of my balcony, it was bugging me tonight. For reasons I couldn’t quite pin down, it felt less like solitude and more like… solitary confinement? Was that it?

No, that was a bit dramatic. I wasn’t confined or being kept away from anyone. If anything…

I sat up as the piece clicked into place.

I wasn’t being kept away from anyone, but no one was exactly volunteering to be here.

I didn’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t have a lot of friends. My family was on the other side of the world. My neighbors didn’t speak English.

And I’d recently had a taste of intimacy, even if it had just been sex and conversation, with someone I absolutely couldn’t have. Connor’s absence made perfect sense, but it sat like a grain of sand in my shoe—irritating and unavoidable.

Deflating against my chair, I sighed and reached for my wineglass again. It was empty already, so I went back inside to refill it. As I settled back into my chair and took a sip, I reminded myself that I could still go out tonight. I could hit a nearby club, or connect with a local on the app. Once I was done chatting with my parents, I could go out and do something about this obnoxiously lonely feeling.

Speaking of chatting with my parents…

I checked my phone again. 1932.

Okay, that was odd. They could be late sometimes, but not usually half an hour late. Not unless…

My heart sank again, adding to this funk I was in. The only time they’d been more than ten or fifteen minutes late was when they’d forgotten.

With my good mood draining away, I opened my text app and sent my folks a message.

Hey, are we still on to FaceTime?

Then I let my phone clatter onto the table, picked up my glass again, and drained it. I knew the answer already. I could feel it to my core. I honestly hoped they didn’t try to make any excuses this time, because those hurt a lot worse than when they just forgot. It was usually something about being out with the grandkids, or one of my siblings dropping by or… something. Something that they thought was a perfectly reasonable explanation for missing my call. And the explanationswereperfectly reasonable.

I just wished they understood how much it hurt to hear all the different things that could pull them away from our rare phone calls.

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