Duty(33)

But, that means I'm running late to get my weekly shopping done, and the post commissary closes in a half hour. More importantly, though, my fridge is pretty much empty, and unless I want dinner to be either Burger King drive-through or a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, I need to get a move on.

Thankfully, shopping for me is pretty easy. I always put my shopping list on my phone. It's the best way to make sure I don't forget it. As I go through the spice aisle, I'm thinking about my platoon. We've got a field training exercise coming up next Monday, and I want to make sure things are smooth. It's not my first ride with these guys. The Regulators are truly my platoon now, if not for much longer. I've already heard the rumors that when I’m promoted in a couple of months, the countdown's going to begin. I’m most likely going to be rotated to another unit for an Executive Officer position. I expect it’ll happen in the next six or seven months. That's about normal.

The promotion will be nice, even though leaving the Regulators behind kinda sucks. Not that I live wild and crazy. I have no idea how some of the other single guys do it, but the extra money will be good to sock away for a rainy day. I don't plan on staying in the Army unless I want to serve. I don't want to be one of those guys who serves because he needs a damn job. That isn't what service means.

I'm so focused on everything but shopping that I don't see the other cart as I come around the end of the aisle, and we end up crashing in a jumble of steel wire and it sounds like a few broken eggs in the other cart. “What the . . . hey, watch it!”

I look up at the same time the other person does, and I feel time stop. The face is the same, perfect and heart-shaped, her blue eyes still so intense, the eyes that have haunted my dreams for three years.

“Lindsey?”

Lindsey blinks like she's seen a ghost, and I get a chance to look her over more. She's in her ACUs, and I notice that pinned in her rank tab are the three stripes of an E-5 Sergeant. A quick glance to her right chest tells me something else, too. She's still single. The name tape on her uniform still says Morgan, and she's not wearing a wedding ring. My God, she's beautiful, and I can't believe it. “Aaron?”

“Mommy, that hurt!” a small voice says, and it's my turn to blink, stunned, as I see the little boy in the seat of the cart. I didn’t even notice him at first. His head is just sticking up over the rim of the cart. The commissary has special carts for people with kids. The seat is low enough that a child can be put in there without being too high in the air, I guess to prevent falls. “What happened?”

“W–ah–mah,” Lindsey says, stuttering for a few seconds. Finally, she takes a deep breath and looks down at the child, whom I can't get a good view of yet. “Sorry, buddy. Mommy kinda ran into someone.”

“Can I see?” the kid asks, and I'm still feeling stunned. She's a mother? When the hell did this happen? “Mommy, I wanna see!”

Lindsey nods and picks him up, and I see that it's a little boy, with blond hair like his mother. “Lance, this is A . . . Lieutenant Simpson,” Lindsey says. “We knew each other before you were born.”

“Hi, El Tee!” Lance says, waving. He's cute, maybe a big three or a small four, and he grins cheekily. “You gotta check your lanes!”

“Check your lane, huh?” I ask, smiling at the military speak. “I see you've been studying your lingo. Know any running cadences? I could use some new ones.”

“Nope, Mommy won't let me learn those yet,” Lance says, smiling. He turns to Lindsey and gives her a hug. “Can I go look at the popcorn?”

“Stay on this aisle,” Lindsey says, setting her son down. Lance waddles his way down and squats in front of something, intent on his choices. Content in her son's safety, Lindsey turns and looks at me, still looking surprised.

“Hi . . .”

“Hi,” I return, still feeling like I'm back in plebe boxing and just caught a blindside shot to the head. She's still so beautiful, and it feels like my heart is beating a thousand times a minute. “When did you get to Bragg?”

“Just about a month ago,” Lindsey says, self-consciously tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. It looks like she still wears it long. It's pulled back into a regulation bun, for the most part, except for the one strand that escaped when she hugged Lance.

I clamp down hard on the handle of my cart in order to not reach out and grab her and pull her close. My hands twitch, my heart aches, and I’ve never hated the uniform more than I do right this second. “Lindsey . . .”

“I know,” Lindsey says, smiling a little. There's so much I want to say, but the bar on my uniform is stopping me, just like the chevrons on hers are stopping her. “By the way, you broke my eggs.”

I look in her cart and see the dripping carton, and I feel heat fill my neck. “Sorry. I was thinking about Monday. I've got a training exercise to do. I wasn't really looking where I was going.”

“No, probably my fault,” Lindsey demurs, her smile still dazzling. “I was listening to Lance. He was telling me about his new friends at the post daycare center.”

“Well, can I help you replace your eggs at least?” I ask. “It's been a long time, Lindsey.”

She looks like she's about to say no, biting her lip, and I understand. The damn Blue Line. It's stronger than even the Gray Line. “Come on. It's been almost four years.”