Something Like Normal(12)

“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 you 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.