Beyond the Point(87)

Hannah punched him in the arm. “Don’t be an ass,” she laughed.

“But I’m so good at it.” Tim looked up at the sky. “I think it’s supposed to storm today,” he said.

Indeed, the sun hadn’t yet come up, or if it had, it was covered by a mass of dark gray clouds. In the distance, a roll of thunder pealed loudly. Hannah’s sister used to tell her during intense thunderstorms that it was just God bowling. Thunder was the roll of the ball, the lightning a signal that he’d hit a strike. Apparently, God always hit a strike.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Hannah said ironically. “What in the world will we do all day?”

HOURS LATER, THEIR bodies feeling light and connected by invisible strands of energy, Hannah shook her head and slid the cross charm on her necklace from side to side. They dressed, ate lunch, and then watched a cheesy movie on the Hallmark Channel before scrounging through the kitchen to put together dinner.

Tim had found an old game of Scrabble in a closet, and opening a bottle of wine, they sat near the windows overlooking the rain and the ocean, smiling at each other and placing individual letters in a row.

“No.” Hannah pointed at the word Tim had just played on the board. “Quid is not a word.” Taking a sip of wine from her glass, she remarked, “Squid, maybe. Not quid.”

“It’s a word,” argued Tim. “I’m telling you.”

“Use it in a sentence.”

“Easy . . .” Tim squinted his eyes and a little wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows, like it always did when he was thinking hard. “I bet you a hundred quid that quid is a word.”

“Look it up,” said Hannah. “You think you’re so smart.”

And he did, running a finger down the page of the dictionary they’d found on the shelf next to a stack of John Grisham books. Tim sat back, smiling, as he read out the definition.

“It says here, ‘Quid: One pound sterling. Or, a lump of tobacco for chewing.’” He replaced the tiles where they were meant to go. “Triple word score. That’s forty-two points.”

“This is the worst game ever invented,” Hannah said. “You’re destroying me.”

“You’re not too far behind,” he lied. “Just, a couple . . . hundred points.”

Hannah set down her glass and looked out the window. “I wish it weren’t raining. I feel like we deserve perfect weather, every single day we get together. Don’t you think?”

Tim inspected her face, put his glass down on the table, and then stood up and took his shirt off.

“What are you doing?” laughed Hannah. “You’re not done beating me.”

“Come with me,” he said, offering her his hand.

“Out there? It’s pouring!”

“We can do this the hard way or the easy way,” said Tim as the dimple appeared in his right cheek.

Hannah crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. Her husband—it still felt so funny to say that, to think it!—her husband was crazy. And accordingly, he grabbed her waist, hoisted her over his shoulder, and carried her out the door into the rain.

“Tim! Put me down!”

He did, and in moments, they were both soaked through, the water piling up on their eyelashes. He grabbed her hand, and together they ran down to the shoreline.

“Take off your clothes!” Tim shouted as he pulled off his own.

“Tim!” Hannah instinctively looked around, even though she knew for a fact there was no one else on this beach. “We’re going to get struck by lightning!”

“Don’t be scared!” he shouted, running toward the water. She could see his outline through the rain—round shoulders, thin waist, and white butt—all in perfect contrast to the gray water and sky. As she hesitated, the rain began to slow, and the sun’s heavy rays began peering through the clouds from behind the house.

“I married an idiot,” Hannah said to herself and the rain. But as she was saying it, she was pulling off her clothes, tentatively at first, and then quickly.

“Come on!” shouted Tim from the choppy surf.

And soon, she reached him, their bodies touching under the surface, their mouths touching above. All she tasted was salt.

SIX DAYS LATER, they stood outside of the security line at Jacksonville International Airport, trying to say goodbye. Like he’d done so many times before, Tim held Hannah’s face in his hands and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. He was wearing board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray T-shirt, while Hannah, on the first leg of her flight back to war, was wearing her full combat uniform. Her hair twisted in a bun, rucksack full and snug on her shoulders, she felt encumbered by the weight of it all. Of this moment. Of the future. For once, Tim didn’t try to put it in perspective.

He pulled her into his chest. “I’ll leave you a perfectly clean house. When you get home, it’ll be spic-and-span.”

“Leave Avery a key,” said Hannah, angry that she was using their last few moments together to discuss logistics. “Just in case.”

“Okay.” He squeezed tighter. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Hannah said, her voice small and choked.

“I’ll see you soon,” Tim offered. “Write me. Call me. We’ll figure it out.”