Page 97 of Jonesing for a Spy

I close the bedroom door behind me and step into the shower roughly the temperature of molten lava. My skin burns, my lungs fight the stifling heat, and I let my mind wander to the last hour of my life.

And the loss that now haunts me.

Mirren

Ants crawl inside me in military precision. My restlessness has turned to anxiety as the day’s progressed. I don’t know why… only that I’m beyond unsettled.

It’s been forever since this has happened, but my gut is the compass I navigate my life by. If it’s off, something’s very, very wrong.

I paced. I did push-ups until my shoulders ached and my biceps and triceps were burned out. I wanted to go for a run but that’s off the table. I need to get out of this apartment and away from the house. I need something to calm the raging sea inside of me… One I can’t put my finger on, but that churns and roils, nonetheless.

Any chance you’re free? Dinner?

Skipper—Charlie

Been a while since we hit Fat Bottom Grill. Want to go get something coma-inducing?

That’s exactly what I want.

It’ll take me at least thirty. Want me to pick you up?

Nah, I’m good.

Charlie lives out of town by more than thirty minutes. His lead foot has gotten him in trouble more than once. But it mostly gets swept under the rug in Baldwin County. Lots of friends and lots of relationships in the area means he has few consequences for things like that.

Mom and Dad are connected. Charlie is too. I can’t argue its convenience.

I pull my hair up into a high ponytail and put on some lip gloss before throwing on a chunky sweater and beginning the trek to Queenie’s place.

I’ve met the owner a couple of times. She’s a Louisiana transplant and fits in here perfectly. And her cooking is chef’s kiss. Maybe I’ll ask her to teach me a thing or two so I can surprise Strider.

I pass Clary Marice, Vangi, who owns the pharmacy on the corner downtown, and Mona Womboddle on their evening walk. Seeing Miss Clary Marice for the second time in as many weeks reminds me I haven’t been getting out much. I’m sure she’s already noted my presence and within the hour, the town will know the hunter green color of my sweater and whether she approved of my gait as I walked.

Clary Marice and Vangi are chatting it up as they set the pace, while Mona hustles double-time to keep up, her hips a metronome to moderate the walk. Mona is an interesting-looking woman, but that’s a topic for another day.

I make a right onto a side street off the main drag and find the old brick building with its New Orleans-style courtyard lit up with dangling lights. The space heaters give a warm glow, and I immediately want to eat outside. Charlie will be fine with it, or he’ll deal.

I’m in the courtyard, a rich, potent drink in my hand, musing as to what has me so unsettled, because it doesn’t make sense. My period showed. My man is amazing. My job is officially on hold, but the work I’m doing is valuable. My family is healthy and, while meddlesome, they love me well. My knee won’t ever be the same, but it’s as strong as any physical therapist can make it.

There’s no reason to feel antsy. Though I am nearing the anniversary of me washing out of the Army. Could that be it? Are my body and mind grieving that loss without me knowing? I assumed I’d be career military. I made the commitment, signed my ticket, and was in.

And then I wasn’t.

Medical or not, it fucked with my head. Even so, I thought I was past it. Maybe it’s still fucking with me and I don’t know it.

Taking another pull on the cocktail Tom put together for me, I’m hit by how good it is. Not too sweet, a hint of bitter orange, full-bodied whiskey, and a spiced rum to smooth it out. It’s a velvet hammer. One too many of these, and I’ll be poured into my bed and wake with a vise around my brain.

“Hey, Scoot.” Charlie leans down to kiss the crown of my head before scraping a chair across the brick terrace. He grabs my glass, takes a sip from the lip and squeezes up his face. “Frou-frou drinks aren’t my thing.” But the drink must settle, because he tips his head. “But that could be the exception. With a hint less syrup.”

“Right?”

He orders one as the waitress takes our order and leans back in his chair, hands clasped on the table. “When do you plan to tell me about you and Strider?”

It’s the wrong moment to ask because I’m sucking a sip through the straw. Instead of it going down my throat, it’s sucked up into my nose and lungs and sets me off in a coughing fit that damn near makes me puke. I sputter and choke as my brother continues, “Did you think I didn’t notice? Or that I wouldn’t find out?”

I hold up a finger on the hand not covering my mouth.

He simply relaxes back, slightly amused at me asphyxiating on liquor and fruit juice. He accepts his drink from the returning waitress, whose concern is evident when she takes me in.