by Trish Doller
“Shut up.” She laughs and backhands me in the stomach. This is the girl I recognize.
“So, I was thinking, um—movie?” I have no idea what I’m doing. Paige and I didn’t exactly go out on dates. We hooked up. Her house. My house. In the car. On the beach. At parties. With Harper, I’m treading new ground.
“Sounds good.”
“Sorry about the top.” I’d taken the soft cover off the Jeep when I got it home, but now I’m regretting it. “It’ll probably—your hair looks really—good. I mean, not that it doesn’t usually. Jesus, I suck at this.”
“At what?”
“This whole date thing.” I run my hand over my head. “I should have left the top on.”
I’m embarrassed and I’m not sure why. Maybe because she throws me off my game. Maybe because when it comes to Harper Gray, I feel like I have no game.
She leans across the gear box and kisses my cheek. “It’s only hair.”
“Play some music,” I say, starting the engine. Letting Paige choose was always dicey because she has lousy taste. But Harper picks Flogging Molly and soon we’re driving up 41, singing along as if this isn’t a first date, and we get to the movie theater way too quick.
I pull into a parking spot and look over at her. “Your hair is a mess.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, then turns my rearview mirror in her direction and brushes her hair back into place.
“What do you want to see?” she asks as we wait in the ticket line.
“I have no idea what’s even playing,” I say. I don’t remember the last time I saw a movie that wasn’t on the tiny screen of Charlie’s iPod. “I’m up for anything, I guess. Except a chick movie.”
“Action?”
One of the NOW PLAYING posters advertises one about an Army platoon in Iraq and I want to see it. Only I’m afraid of what might happen in the theater. I’m not even sure about seeing an action movie because who knows if the sound of gunshots is going to set me off again? I hate that my options have been reduced to chick flicks and comedies.
“How about this one?” I point to the military film.
Skepticism registers on Harper’s face before she smiles. “Okay.”
It’s good she’s game, but it sucks she’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking. That she even has to think it.
“Popcorn?” I ask, after I buy the tickets.
“Dude.” She looks at me as if I’m out of my mind. “Why would you even need to ask that? Popcorn is a given.”
“One popcorn,” I tell the guy behind the snack counter. “Two Cokes—oh, wait.” I look at Harper. “Coke okay? Or diet?”
“No diet.”
“Candy?”
“Skittles.”
“My favorite.”
Skittles come in some of the MREs and most everyone loves them because they don’t melt in the heat and they aren’t bad luck, like Charms. No one has ever told me why those are bad luck, only that Marine superstition says so.
We pick seats near the middle.
The movie opens with Humvees rolling through the desert, past a small hamlet where a little girl wearing a red hijab waves at them. One of the soldiers waves back and seconds later an airstrike hits the buildings right behind her.
Fuck.
My heart rate spikes.
Fuck.
Why did I think this was a good idea?
Fuck.
I have to get out of here.
“This isn’t going to work.” I stand up and maneuver myself around people’s knees to the end of the row. Down the steps. Out the door. Into the well-lit hallway, where I lean over and try to catch my breath. A few minutes later, Harper comes out of the theater, her arms overflowing with the popcorn, sodas, and candy. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” I say. I take the drinks out of her hands, even though mine are shaking.
She smiles. “I’m a waitress, remember? It’s all good.”
A wave of anger crashes over me. At myself for being unable to control my reactions. At Harper for just putting on a smile and saying it’s all good when it’s not all good. I throw my soda cup at the wall. It bursts on impact, splashing Coke everywhere.
“You’re too fucking nice to me.” I’m yelling at her and I don’t know why.
“What do you want me to do, Travis?” she yells back. “Be mad at you about this? Don’t be stupid.”
I drop down onto a bench, my head in my hands. “I’m sorry.”
Harper sits down and leans against me. Her comfort moves through me from where her body touches mine, and it makes me feel better.
“I should have known,” I say.
“Probably,” she agrees. “We can see something else. How do you feel about monsters?”
She points across the hallway to the theater, where an animated kids’ film is playing, and raises her eyebrows. I look around. We’re alone. No one to catch us if we switch theaters. I grin. “On three—”
Harper laughs, but we don’t sneak. We just pick up the snacks and walk into the other theater. The previews are still playing, so we haven’t missed anything. We try again, picking seats near the middle.
The tension in my body is gone as I reach over the armrest and take Harper’s hand in mine. “Thanks.”
She doesn’t look away from the screen as she smiles. “Shut up and eat your popcorn.”
But she also doesn’t let go of my hand. Even when the movie is over.
Chapter 8
A couple days later I awake and find myself unable to get out of bed. Literally. I can barely lift my arms and legs beneath the sheet, and it feels as if something is holding me down. Panic spreads through me and I wonder if this is some new thing wrong with me. It’s not bad enough my brain plays tricks on me, now my body isn’t cooperating?
“Mom!” I call out. I can’t reach my cell phone or even push off the covers.
My bedroom door swings open and a deep voice says, “Your mama can’t help you now, boy.”
Jesus Christ, I think I’m dying.
I lift my head and C. J. Moss is standing in the doorway with Kevlar doubled over laughing in the hall behind him.
“What the fuck did you do to me?”
They come giggling into the room and I hope whatever they’ve done is not duct-tape related. That will hurt. Kevlar strips off the sheet with a flourish. Crisscrossing my body is a network of a couple dozen bungee cords, holding me in place. I want to be pissed, but I can’t, because Kevlar has this high-pitched giggle that makes it impossible not to laugh.
“I thought I was having a fucking stroke,” I say as they free me from my coated elastic prison, making them laugh even harder. “What are you doing here?”
“I was bored.” Kevlar packs a pinch of dip while I pull on a pair of shorts. “So I called up Moss over there and said, ‘C. J., my man, it’s time for a road trip.’”
Moss rolls his eyes. He doesn’t talk much. Of course, you don’t really need to talk when Kevlar won’t shut up. I can’t even imagine that road trip.
“So we jumped in the truck and here we are,” Kevlar says. “Let’s have some fun!”
“What time is it?” I peek between the blinds. “Jesus, Kenny, it’s still dark outside.”
“I choose to see it as a preemptive strike on the day.” He rubs his hands together like he’s starting a fire. “C’mon, Solo, time’s a-wastin’.”
“What do you want to do?” I yank on a T-shirt and start making my bed.
“I say we—” Kevlar starts to speak, but Moss clamps a hand over his mouth. “I want to go deep-sea fishing,” he says. “I remember you talking about that, Solo. I want to catch fish.”
“Done.”
“I was thinking more like hot girls in bikinis and body shots—oh, hello again, Mrs. Stephenson,” Kevlar says as my mom comes into the room. We really haven’t talked much since Dad moved back home, and I feel uncomfortable around her again. I don’t want things to be this way between us—she was really cool for a while—but I don’t think she wants to hear what I h
ave to say. And vice versa.
“Thanks for aiding and abetting their mission, Mom,” I say. “They strapped me to my bed with bungee cord.”
She laughs. “I came up to see if your friends will be spending the night.”
“Thank you for your generosity, ma’am,” Kevlar says. “But we’ve already booked a room down on the beach.”
“We should probably get going,” I say.
“Where are you boys off to at such an early hour?” Mom asks.
“Fishing.”
“Oh, that should be fun.” The enthusiasm in her voice doesn’t match the sadness in her eyes. “Will you be around for dinner?”
“We’ll probably go out.”
“Okay, well, be sure to take sunscreen.” She follows us down the stairs, and when I shut the front door behind us, it feels like the day we left our outpost in Marjah. There were dogs that hung around our camp and even though we weren’t supposed to feed them, we did. When we left for the last time, this one white dog with black spots on his ears stood there looking hopeful—as if maybe we wouldn’t leave. That’s how my mom looks now and it makes me feel bad.
“Can we get some breakfast?” Moss asks as we pile into the Jeep. Kevlar calls shotgun.
“We can stop somewhere,” I say. “What do you want?”
“Waffle House.”
“Not again,” Kevlar groans at Moss’s suggestion. “Solo, did you know there are thirty-eight Waffle Houses between here and Lejeune? Now, we haven’t eaten in all of them, but wouldn’t you say four in a seventeen-hour period is excessive?”
“I like Waffle House,” Moss says.
Harper is probably working, which is a good enough reason for me. “Shut up, Kenneth. If the man wants Waffle House, we’re going to Waffle House.”
Harper looks up as we enter the restaurant. Kevlar is out in front, so I wink at her and put my finger to my lips. She gives us a bright, generic smile. “Hi! Welcome to Waffle House. Have a seat anywhere and I’ll be right with you.”
“Damn, Solo, if there were girls who looked like that in the other Waffle Houses, I’d have stopped at every single one of them,” Kevlar says.
“Why? So you could sit there and not talk to them the way you did when you, me, and Charlie went to New York?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“C. J.,” I say, “you should have seen him. The whole trip he talked about how he was going to get laid. Then we get to the bars and he’s like, ‘She’s hot. Maybe I’ll go ask her to dance.’ And Charlie and I would be all, ‘Do it.’ But did he? No.”
“I talked to that one girl.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I nod. “One girl. Did you get laid? Kiss her? Get her phone number? Dude, it’s not difficult. In fact, I bet I can get that girl”—I point at Harper—“to kiss me before breakfast is over.”
“No way.” Kevlar shakes his head. “You’re not that good.”
“How much?”
“Twenty bucks,” he says.
“Deal.”
Harper brings menus and silverware. “My name is Harper. Can I get you some coffee? Or maybe some orange juice?”
“Harper? That’s a beautiful name,” I say. “Were you named after Harper Lee?”
The corner of her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t give anything away. “No, Charley Harper.”
“The artist? He’s one of my favorites,” I say. “My name’s Travis and these are my friends Kenny—”
“Ken,” he interrupts, and I nearly lose it. Ken? Since when? “Ken Chestnut.”
“And this is C. J.”
“Very nice to meet you,” she says. “You gentlemen aren’t from around here, are you?”
“We’re down for a couple of days from North Carolina,” I say.
“Marines,” Kevlar adds. “We just got back from Afghanistan.”
She turns her high-beam smile on him and his face goes as red as his hair. “Nice.”
“We’re going deep-sea fishing later,” I say. “You wouldn’t—would you like to join us?”
Then she smiles at me and this charade takes on a whole new dimension and I like it. A lot. “Sure, sounds fun,” Harper says. “Now, about those drinks.”
While she’s gone, Kevlar fills me in on company gossip. I don’t know how he finds it all out, but he has dirt on nearly everyone. “Dude, you remember Nardello from second platoon? His wife left him and took everything, even his ’66 Mustang.”
“Damn, that’s cold.”
“And Day—dude, he tried to off himself.”
“What? No.”
“Yeah,” Kevlar says. “He was pretty tight with Palmer.”
Palmer was one of the eight from our battalion who were killed. I didn’t know Day or Palmer very well, but I guess I know how Day feels. Like you’re a glass that’s filled to the top. Then you have to face everything back home and the glass overflows.
Harper comes back with a pot of coffee and I push it all out of my mind. “You guys know what you want?”
Moss orders biscuits and gravy with grits and Kevlar goes for a pecan waffle, but I cock my head and look up at her. “All I want is a kiss.”
Her eyebrows lift. “What?”
“Nothing on the menu would compare.”
Kevlar groans and even I have to admit it’s the cheesiest thing I have ever said. But this isn’t about successful pickup lines. It’s about winning twenty bucks from the guy who bungee-corded me to my bed.
“Well, that’s just about the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says, and slides into the booth beside me. Harper touches my face with her fingertips and presses her lips against mine. She smells like apples and bacon and maple syrup. This is supposed to be a joke, but her tongue teasing against mine makes the Waffle House disappear and sends me dangerously close to cold shower territory. Her green eyes are on mine as she pulls slowly away and gives me a tiny, private smile. I extend my hand across the table—palm up—and Kevlar slaps a twenty in it. Harper gives me another quick peck on the lips, then stands up. “Are you having the usual, Travis?”
“Yep.”
“Solo, man, that was so not fair,” Kevlar protests.
I snap the bill between my fingers. “I’d say it almost makes us even.”
Moss laughs and fist-bumps me, and I feel the most normal I’ve felt since the day we got back from Afghanistan—except for when I’m alone with Harper. These are my brothers. This is my family.
“Hey, Harper?” I call across the restaurant.
“Yeah?”
“I was serious about the fishing.”
“Me, too,” she says. “I just have to finish up with this table of idiot Marines and I’ll be ready.”
“So, wait. Are you and her…?” Kevlar’s head swivels from me to Harper and back. He leaves the thought unfinished, which sums up me and Harper pretty accurately. Unfinished. She’s not my girlfriend, but I’m not interested in anyone else. Unless you count Paige, but… I don’t know why she gets to me the way she does. I don’t like her the way I like Harper. He drops his head to the table, making the silverware rattle. “This world is so unfair.”
“Dude,” I say. “I told you already. If you’re going to get a girl, you have to actually talk to one.”
He gives me the finger without looking up.
Harper finishes her shift and we follow her to the radio station, where she leaves the Rover for her dad. Driving down Daniels, Kevlar keeps rocking forward in the passenger’s seat, as if he’s trying to make the Jeep go faster.
“Jesus, Solo,” he complains. “My old granny drives faster than you.”
“I’m doing sixty.” The limit is forty-five and I’m keeping pace with traffic. “What’s your rush?”
Moss leans through the space between the seats. “You should have seen him on the drive down,” he says. “We’d have been here even earlier if he didn’t get stopped three times for speeding. Boy has some serious road rage, too. Shit. I’m less afraid of the Taliban than his cracker-ass drivin
g.”
I laugh, but I can’t help wondering if this is what Kevlar brought home from Afghanistan. And what about Moss? He told me that he grew up in the projects in Baltimore. He wasn’t a gang member and he wasn’t from a single-mother home. His dad was ex-Army on disability and they couldn’t afford a better neighborhood. Moss told me once he plans to go to college when he gets out next year.
“Seeing people get killed is nothing new for me, Solo,” he said to me once, while we were lifting weights in our makeshift patrol base gym. “You do what you can to let it go. Otherwise it’ll eat you up.”
I glance at him in the rearview mirror and he’s looking at the scenery as we pass, all Buddha-serene. Maybe he’s the lucky one.
Kevlar reminds me of a dog with his head stuck out the window as our charter captain, Gary, speeds the boat across the water, heading for fish. Kevlar’s got a beer in his hand and the go-fast he’s been craving. For the first time since they showed up at my bedroom door, he looks really relaxed.
Moss is in the cabin, looking a little seasick.
“Do my back?” Harper—stripped down to a green-striped bikini top and shorts—hands me a bottle of sunscreen. The bruise she gave me below my eye is still fading to yellow, but she’s inviting me to touch her bare skin. It’s kind of a mind-fuck moment and I have to mentally field strip an M16 to keep from getting turned on—but I like it.
Kevlar comes into the cabin for another beer as I’m spreading the sunscreen between her shoulders. His red eyebrows lift over the top edge of his sunglasses and he mouths son of a bitch at me, making me laugh. “Anyone else want a beer?”
Moss shakes his head. He still looks a little queasy.
“Too early for me,” I say.
“Dude, it’s happy hour in Helmand.” Kevlar throws me a beer, which nearly slides out of my sunscreen-covered hand. I touch the can to Harper’s back, making her squeak. As she turns around to smack my arm, I watch Kevlar chug his entire beer, then go back to the fridge for another.
“Travis?” I turn to look at Harper. Her voice goes quiet. “Everything okay?”
I’m not sure how to answer. I have my own shit. I’m not sure I can deal with his, too. But maybe I should. Maybe that’s what we need—to talk about Afghanistan, about Charlie. There’s a dot of sunscreen at the tip of her nose, so I reach up and rub it in. “Yeah, I’m good.” I don’t think she believes me. “Give me and Kevlar a minute?”