22He studies the number on the buzzing cellular device in the palm of his hand. He doesn't recognize the number, and he immediately wonders if it's her. He presses the phone to his ear.
"Rabb," he responds, trying to keep his cool.
"What are you doing?" The voice on the other end questions.
"I am in the middle of the ocean, Webb. Why do you ask?"
"With your life?" Clayton responds.
"Why are you calling me, out of the blue?"
"To tell you that you are being a complete, and total idiot," Clayton replies, emphatically.
"I don't feel that I need a lecture from you."
"I would like to shake you, but luckily I am not currently in your vicinity."
"What is this about?"
"I'm just so entirely fed up with the two of you."
"There is no two of us," Harmon reminds him.
His voice cracks, "And that is the problem. You both run anytime you get close enough to connect. It has to stop. Twenty years later, and the two of you are pulling the same damn stunts. One of you shows up, and doesn't say what is on their mind. The other one waits for something to be said. Nothing is said, and you both get nowhere. Man up, Rabb. Do you want to live the rest of your life as a pirate?"
"A pirate?"
"Your only mistress is the sea. That seems to be your long-term relationship. Do you really love it more than you love her?"
"What does any of this have to do with you?"
"I am here. I see her regularly enough to know that neither one of you is ever going to move on with anyone else. I am tired of seeing someone that I care about carry pain around every single day. Any time I see you, I see the same damn thing. You are broken because the piece that makes you whole is typically halfway around the world. At what point are you going to overcome your ego, and just be honest with her? What do you really have to lose? You can retire. Hang it up, and just be happy."
"What if she can't forgive me for my mistakes?"
"You will never know if you don't try."
"What am I really supposed to say to her? Huh?"
"I would start with the truth."
"I don't know how to be anyone else."
"Do me a favor, when you go out to the flight deck next time, shove the old Harmon Rabb off into the ocean. She is never going to tell you that she needs you. She doesn't want you to resent her. She doesn't want to carry the burden of knowing that she is the one that clipped your wings. Mac is never going to give up what she thinks that you love most."
"This isn't it," he says softly.
"You need to tell her that."
"Why are you intervening on her behalf?"
"I'm not. Don't tell her that I called. In fact when we disconnect there will be no proof that I did. I am doing this on behalf of those who can't speak for themselves. Call Mac, tell her the truth."
"On behalf of those who can't speak for themselves? What is that supposed to mean?"
The phone goes silent. Harmon carefully scrutinizes his phone. There is no trace of the call on his phone. As he sits in his rack he wonders why someone who is not in his fan club would try to smooth things out between he, and the love of his life.
It's Saturday afternoon, and she finds herself procrastinating to the nth degree. She kneels in the flower bed in front of her house weeding. The breeze has started to pick up, so the air has a slight chill to it. She wears a USMC hooded sweatshirt as she removes the weeds from the earth. Her hair is secured in a ponytail. She avoids going in the house to sift through the internet, and select baby items that Clayton has suggested she research before purchasing.
The entire process seems overwhelming, and exhausting. She tries to push the thought from her mind, as she takes her frustration out on the weeds in the dirt at the front of her home. For a moment her minds drifts to what her home will look like in coming years. For a brief second she thinks about a swing-set in the backyard. The one she had believed would never come to fruition. A jab to the side shifts her into the present. She hears tires rolling towards her drive.
Living at the end of a dead end street has conditioned her to expect people frequently turning around in her driveway. She doesn't think twice about the car, until it stops in her driveway, and the engine turns off. Mac turns towards the vehicle. From her position, kneeling on the ground she can't determine who is inside the black SUV with tinted windows. She places her hand on the holster tucked beneath her sweatshirt. As she rises from the ground the driver's side door opens. She furrows her brow as she watches a familiar figure step out.
"What are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you too, Mac," he responds as he removes his aviator shades.
"I didn't mean to offend you. I just expected that you would be in the middle of the ocean somewhere."
"I took some leave," he admits.
She nods, "Why are you here?"
She finds that he is uncomfortably close. Not that she is uncomfortable with him, but that he has encroached on her recently expanded bubble.
He exhales, "I am tired of having unfinished business."
