Something Like Normal Page 4

  At a club the first night, Charlie was hitting on this girl from Smith College. She told me her roommate had just broken up with her boyfriend and a kiss from a hot—her word, not mine—Marine would restore her friend’s faith that not all men are assholes. As Charlie’s wingman, I knew there was a better than average chance her friend was a dog, but I was committed and drunk.

  Except she wasn’t ugly. She was beautiful, with dark, hopeful eyes—even though she was trying not to look hopeful—and I couldn’t have been an asshole if I wanted to. She wouldn’t let me do anything other than kiss her—believe me, I tried—but the gods of getting laid smiled on me for the rest of the weekend. Afterward, Kevlar—who failed to seal the deal with every girl he met—called me a haji-lover for kissing a Muslim girl. He spent the trip to Afghanistan nursing a busted bottom lip.

  When it’s over, Paige moves off me and falls back against the bed, gasping for air. My own breath is short and my bones feel liquid. “Jesus, Trav, I forgot how fucking good it is with you.”

  She’s right. It is good. Except when the adrenaline starts wearing off, I hate her. I hate my brother, too. Mostly I hate myself. “You need to go.”

  “Why?” She nuzzles my neck, as if we’re still together.

  “You got what you came for.”

  “Don’t be that way.” She reties her bikini. “You wanted it, too.”

  I shrug. “Fine. Stick around. You and your boyfriend can have breakfast together in a couple of hours.”

  Paige laughs. “You’re jealous. How cute.”

  “I’m not.”

  Thing is, I’m really not. If I feel anything at all, it’s anger—that she hasn’t changed and that all the years we were together were a huge waste of time.

  Chapter 3

  I’m standing on the cracked sidewalk in front of a tiny orange-and-white cottage on Ohio Avenue, wondering what I’m going to do next, when a man comes out the front door. It’s still dark, so at first I don’t think he sees me.

  “Is there a good reason why you’re outside my house at four thirty in the morning?” he asks, resting a travel mug of coffee on the hood of an ancient Land Rover. His keys jingle as he unlocks the driver’s-side door. He surveys my T-shirt, soaked through with sweat under the arms and in the middle of my chest. It’s a long run from my house to Fort Myers Beach—and there’s a bridge involved.

  A little self-loathing goes a long way.

  “Just ended up here, sir.” I don’t have a good answer. After Paige left, I pulled on my running shoes and took off. I didn’t even bring my cell phone. “Wasn’t sure where else to go.”

  “Interesting choice of destinations.”

  I nod. “Not real well thought out, either.”

  He chuckles. “Need a lift somewhere?”

  “I could use a ride home.”

  The porch light flickers to life and Harper steps out, the wooden screen door slapping shut behind her. “Travis?”

  Her feet are bare and she’s wearing little pajama shorts that sit low on her hips and make her mile-long legs go on forever. I have to look away. The last thing I need is to get a boner in front of her dad. “Yeah, um—hi.”

  Her dad’s eyebrows lift, but he sips his coffee without comment.

  “What are you doing here?” She steps off the porch into the small patch of sandy grass, sounding only marginally less annoyed with me than she was earlier. “Haven’t you had enough abuse for one night?”

  Apparently not. “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get some air.”

  “You look like hell,” she says. “Did you run the whole way?”

  “More or less.”

  Her mouth falls open. “That has to be at least—”

  “Seven miles.” They both stare at me, but seven miles is nothing. What’s more interesting is that she knows where I live.

  “Well, o-kay.” Harper’s dad glances at his watch. “I need to get to work, so why don’t you drop me off and then take Travis on home?”

  “Let me go change real quick,” she says.

  Bummer. I kinda liked the pajamas.

  “Nice Rover, sir.” The Land Rover is older than me and except for a CD changer he probably installed himself, there are no creature comforts inside. The windows are crank-operated, the door locks are not automatic, and the spare tire is mounted in the middle of the hood.

  “Thanks.” The driver’s door creaks as he slams it shut. “I bought her when I was in college. Every couple of months I need to replace a part or fix something, but she’s a tough old girl.”

  “If you ever need a hand…” I stop, feeling like a moron and sounding like a suck-up.

  “You know your way around an engine?”

  “Some.”

  He nods. “You’re Linda Stephenson’s boy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” It’s interesting that he mentions my mom and not my dad. Like maybe there’s another person in this town who doesn’t think the sun rises and sets on former Green Bay Packer Dean Stephenson.

  “You can call me Bryan instead of sir,” he says. “It makes me feel old.”

  “Yes, si—” Old habits die hard. “Okay.”

  “You used to be such a little douchebag.” He’s one of those older guys who can use a term like “douchebag” without sounding like one. The same way he can get away with wearing a Meat Puppets T-shirt and not look as if he’s trying too hard. Anyway, given that the last two things I did tonight were get punched by his daughter and have sex with my brother’s girlfriend, I’m pretty sure I still qualify as a douchebag.

  “Yep. I sure was.”

  Harper reemerges from the house, this time wearing the same jeans and blue T-shirt she was wearing at the bar. As she climbs into the backseat, I turn around to look at her and notice Elvis Costello’s face on the front of her shirt. So cool.

  “Hey, I forgot to tell you last night,” Harper’s dad says, glancing briefly in the rearview mirror at her as he backs out of the driveway. “But I reconnected online with an old college friend of mine. She’s thinking of coming for a visit.”

  Harper rolls her eyes. “My dad discovered Facebook.”

  “What do you do that you have to be at work so early?” I ask him.

  “I do the morning show at Z88.”

  “Wait. You’re Bryan of Bryan and Joe’s Morning Z?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “I used to make my roommates listen to your show on the Internet.”

  He laughs. “And they still speak to you?”

  “Are you kidding? They loved it. You should be syndicated.”

  The Morning Z is the perfect show because they don’t pretend to know everything when they’re talking about stuff, their guests aren’t lame, and they play more music. Everyone I know listens to that show.

  “We’ve talked about it,” he says. “But that brings pressure we aren’t sure we want.” He glances at me. “You know, if you ever wanted to come talk about Afghanistan…”

  I imagine telling all of southwest Florida how Kevlar used to jack off to a picture of Wonder Woman—the cartoon, not Lynda Carter. The thought makes me chuckle. “I’ll think about it.”

  A few minutes later, we’re at the radio station. Bryan invites me in for a tour, but I turn him down. It’s been a long, strange night and I feel like I might be tired enough to sleep without pills. “I should probably get home.”

  He disappears inside the building and Harper takes over the driving. “Are you hungry?” she asks, turning onto Daniels in a direction opposite from the way to my house.

  This is not a question I expected. I’m not especially hungry. I’m exhausted and I can still smell Paige on my skin. Except I think Harper is asking me to spend more time with her. This might make me a glutton for punishment, but I don’t want to refuse. “Starved.”

  She pulls into the Waffle House out by I-75 and we sit in a booth by the windows. After ordering a couple of All-Star breakfasts with eggs over easy and bacon, Harper looks at me. “Why are y
ou here?”

  I stir my black coffee with a spoon, just to do something with my hands. “I guess I wanted to apologize. I was stupid when I was fourteen, and clearly I haven’t made much progress since.”

  “Do you think an apology is enough?” she asks. “Do you know how many guys grab my butt or say disgusting things to me because they think I’m the kind of girl who enjoys that? I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never been to the prom. I’ve never even been out on a real date.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Paige…” She blows out a sharp breath, as if even saying the name is an effort. Paige has that effect on a lot of people. “Paige Manning slept her way through the senior class, including your brother, while you were gone, and I’m considered a slut. But do you want to hear the best part?”

  I don’t. I feel bad enough as it is. Harper leans across the table, her face only a few inches from mine. Close enough I can see the sun freckles scattered on her cheeks and nose. Close enough that if I thought I could get away with kissing her without getting punched again, I probably would. “I’ve never slept with anyone. Ever.”

  “I’m—”

  “I know.” She falls back against her side of the booth, her eyes locked on mine. “You’re sorry.”

  The waitress slides our plates onto the table and Harper looks away. Silently, I dig into my hash browns, wishing I knew how to make things right. Charlie would know. In New York City, he said sweet things to girls that made them smile and go all soft-eyed. Even though I pulled my share, I lacked his finesse.

  I look up and Charlie is sitting beside Harper on the bench, his arms hooked around the back and his body so close to hers, I wonder why she doesn’t feel it, doesn’t see him.

  “We fucked up good, didn’t we, Solo?” he says.

  I just stare at him as he reaches across the table and—just as if we were back at infantry school—snatches a strip of bacon from my plate. It doesn’t levitate in midair, and beside Charlie, Harper crunches a bite of toast, unaware that there are three of us at this table.

  “I mean…” Charlie folds the whole strip of bacon into his mouth and chews for a moment. “I’m dead and you’re seeing things that aren’t really there, and we have no one else to blame.”

  “We should have told somebody about the kid,” I say, and Harper looks at me.

  “What?” she asks.

  Charlie turns his head to look at her and I see the gash in the side of his neck, the skin torn open, and dark dried blood crusted around the edges.

  My stomach churns and the fork clatters as it hits the plate. I bolt for the restroom, barely making it to the stall before I puke up eggs and bacon. My eyes burning and nose dripping, I stand in the stall—holding on to the walls to keep from falling over—until the heaving stops. My mouth tastes sour and my heart is beating too fast.

  “Travis, are you okay?” Harper pokes her head into the men’s room as I’m splashing cold water on my face. For a split second I hate her for seeing me this way, but it’s not her fault my brain is playing tricks on me. No, I’m not okay. I’m losing my fucking mind.

  “I need to go.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She looks confused and I can’t blame her. First I hit on her in a dive bar. Then I showed up outside her house in the middle of the night. Now I’m in the men’s room of the Waffle House, where I just flushed away my breakfast. “I’ll, um…” She looks at my reflection in the mirror and I can’t tell what she’s thinking. “I’ll take care of the bill.”

  “I’ve got it,” I say, but the door thumps closed behind her. I pat my pocket, but it’s empty. Just as well she didn’t hear me. I forgot my wallet, too.

  We don’t talk on the drive to my house. At least not until she pulls the Land Rover into the driveway.

  “Feeling better now?” Harper asks.

  I can’t tell her I saw Charlie, that back there in the restaurant he talked to me. Because what Marine—what person, really—wants to admit his brain is scrambled? What girl is going to want to date that guy? “I guess. Thanks.”

  Despite my weirdness, though, something has changed between us. Like she got out of her system what has been festering since middle school. I don’t think she hates me anymore. Or else she thinks I’m pathetic and feels sorry for me, which is not ideal, but still an improvement over hating me. “Hey, Harper, can I ask you something?”

  “Okay.” Her expression is guarded. Wary.

  “You could have brought me straight home, but you didn’t,” I say. “Why?”

  She doesn’t look at me, just stares straight ahead through the front windshield. “I have to go. I’m going to be late for work.”

  I don’t press the question as I get out of the Rover. Her non-answer is enough for now. “I’ll see you later, Harper.”

  My mom is alone at the kitchen island when I go inside, her hands curled around a cup of coffee. She gives me a tired smile, then glances at the clock. “Have you been out all this time?”

  “Sort of.”

  Used to be she’d try to ground me for staying out all night. Now she doesn’t even ask where I’ve been. Her eyes are ringed with sadness. “Coffee?”

  I’m so tired I can barely see straight, but I guess I can stay up a few minutes longer with my mom. I scrub my hand over my face. I need a shave. “Sure, thanks.”

  She reaches up to the open cupboard and I notice she’s not wearing her rings. They’re lying in the soap dish at the edge of the sink, which is odd. She takes them off when she washes the dishes, but she always puts them right back on. She fills a USMC Mom mug with coffee and slides it to me.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She nods with her head down, so I can’t see her face, but when she looks up there are tears in her eyes. Shit. This night is never going to end. She wipes her nose with a tissue. “Your dad didn’t come home last night.”

  “What the—? Why? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I called his cell, but he didn’t answer.”

  Something is not right here. “Mom, what’s going on?”

  “He—we haven’t been getting along very well this past year. And, I don’t know, maybe it’s my own fault.”

  I move to her side of the island and put my arms around her. It’s hard to be affectionate with her—and not only because I’ve been away so long. I’m not used to this. She collapses against my chest, her words and sobs spilling out together in a flood.

  “While you were in Afghanistan, I went a little—well, I went a little crazy,” she says. “You have no idea how afraid I was for you. I was on the Internet until all hours of the night, talking to other Marine parents and googling your name to make sure you were still alive. Whenever I saw a news article that said US troops had been killed, I was terrified the doorbell would ring and someone would tell me you were dead. Then they’d release the names and I’d cry with relief that it wasn’t my son and then cry more because it was someone else’s son. I was obsessive about keeping my cell phone charged and I checked it a million times a day so I wouldn’t miss your call.”

  Mom wipes her eyes, but she can’t stop the flow of tears. “I was so worried about you that I didn’t pay attention when your dad started staying later at the dealerships. At least, that’s where I thought he was.”

  This is not her fault. It’s mine.

  “He’s having an affair,” she says.

  We’re all assholes. Me. Ryan. Dad. All for the same damn reason, even if what motivates us is different. Me being here, comforting her, isn’t absolution.

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  Mom sucks in a snotty breath and pulls back. “No. It’s okay. I didn’t mean—” She smoothes her hand over the damp spot on my shirt. “I didn’t mean to put this on your shoulders. God knows you’ve got enough on your plate.” She looks up at me. “Travis, have you been fighting?”

  “Not exactly. Long story,” I say. “Have you slept?”

  She shakes her head and gestures toward a to-do l
ist lying on the island. Grocery shopping. Cookies for the cheerleader car wash/bake sale. Dry cleaner. I crush the list. “Sleep first. And Dad can pick up his own dry cleaning.”

  Mom’s eyes go watery again. “You’re such a good man, Travis.”

  If she knew the pain I wanted to inflict on my own father, she’d know I’m not even close to being a good man.

  “Go get some sleep, Mom.”

  I finally reach my own room and collapse on the bed—too tired to think about Dad or Harper or even that the mattress is too soft. If I have any nightmares, they’re gone before I wake up again.

  Chapter 4

  There’s a ceiling fan revolving slowly overhead and I wonder why I smell oatmeal cookies. Then it hits me again that I’m still in Florida, and I wonder if the remembering will ever become second nature. I glance at the clock. I’ve only had a couple hours of sleep, but I’m wide-awake.

  I swap my skivvies for a pair of swim trunks and go out to the pool. Most of us lost weight in-country. Because even though MREs are high in calories and designed to sustain a person through the day on just one or two, they can’t replace what you lose hiking around in 110-degree heat with eighty pounds of gear on your back. I was almost always hungry. But just because I can stand to gain a few pounds doesn’t mean I want to get lazy and fat on leave.

  I’m about five laps in when I see a shadow at the edge of the pool. I surface and find my dad standing there wearing a pale blue golf shirt and matching plaid Bermuda shorts.

  “Hey, champ.” He sounds like a tool. Champ is an old nickname from when I was still drinking the Dean Stephenson Kool-Aid. He alternated it with sport, tiger, and killer. I guess the latter is the most accurate now, but they all come off as used-car-salesman phony. We’re not buddies because he’s deemed me worthy again.

  I hang on the edge of the pool and wait for him to say whatever it is he wants to say, my eyes pinned to his. His Adam’s apple drops as he swallows nervously and I feel a surge of satisfaction. For so long I was afraid of him, but now I’m bigger and stronger. “What do you say we go hit the gun range?” he says. “Get out of your mom’s hair so she can get ready for tonight’s dinner.”