Something Like Normal(11)

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.”