Something Like Normal(21)

That firefight happened on our very first patrol and it happened so fast that I don’t know if Charlie froze out of fear or if he thought he was invincible. And even now I don’t remember if he fired his weapon. All I know was that he was lucky that day.

Harper sits down beside me and reaches for my hand. Her fingers graze calluses, ruptured blisters, and scars from cuts that took too long to heal because my hands were always dirty. She doesn’t say anything. She just squeezes.

“You should probably stay away from me,” I say, resting my head on my knees. “I’m a mess.”

“That was really scary,” Harper says. “You were yelling and I had no idea what to do. I can’t even imagine what it must be like for you.”

“It fucking sucks.” I grab the shovel and fling it away as hard and as far as I can. “I just want to be normal again.”

But what has been done can’t be undone. My best friend is dead and I’m never going to be the same Travis Stephenson.

Harper doesn’t look at me as she pushes to her feet and walks over to get the shovel. I’m filled with white-hot rage at her for being so kind, but it burns itself out by the time she comes back. “Maybe,” she says, holding out the shovel, “it’s time to find a new normal.”

“I, um—I’m sorry.”

She smiles at me. “Don’t apologize, Travis, just dig.”

Half an hour later, I collapse on a sheet Harper spread beside the nest. My T-shirt is sticking to my skin, so I pull it over my head before I lie back. Stars freckle the sky, and the sand beneath the sheet is cool against my warm skin. That was the one really amazing thing about Afghanistan. There are no city lights to clog the night sky, so it feels like you’re seeing the whole universe. I close my eyes.

“Nice trench.” Harper drops beside me on the sheet and hugs her knees to her chest. “You did a good job.”

“So now what?”

“We wait.”

Harper shivers a little. August in Fort Myers is usually sweltering, even at night, but there’s a front moving in and the sea breeze has kicked up a little. I hand her the sweatshirt I brought. “Do you think they’ll hatch tonight?”

“There are signs,” she says. “The nest has collapsed a little in spots. Just small shifts in the sand that suggest movement. We might only get one or two tonight, or we might get all of them.” She gives me the type of smile that makes me care about sea turtles. “It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

Perversely, yes.

“I can think of worse ways to spend the night.”

She pulls on my sweatshirt. “Like what?”

“Every single night in Afghanistan,” I say, but it’s not really true. We had some good times. I tell her about the time Charlie’s mom sent us pizza—canned sauce, premade crust, pepperoni, mushrooms. She even included a metal pizza pan and one of those rolling cutter tools.

“We dug a fire pit, put a grate over it, and barbecued it,” I say. “It was kind of burned on the bottom and the freeze-dried mozzarella wasn’t fully melted on top, but it tasted so good. Like home.”

“Charlie is one of your buddies?”

“He was.”

Her smile fades. “I’m sorry, Travis. I didn’t know.”

“I know.”

“I heard Ryan talking at school once,” she says. “He said he wasn’t sure about the details, but that you were a hero. That you saved some people’s lives or something.”

“Ryan doesn’t know anything.” I sit up and tug my T-shirt back on. I hate my brother right now for using my life as some sort of… bragging right. Especially when there really isn’t anything to brag about. “I really don’t mean to be rude, but I’d rather not talk about this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, Harper, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just—I’m not a hero,” I say. “If I were…” Charlie might still be alive. “I’m just not.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, then she shoulder-bumps me. “You do have superior digging skills.”

I laugh. “Yeah, well, this one time at boot camp they gave me a medal for shoveling. You need a hole dug, I’m your man.”

I sneak a look at her while she’s laughing. My sweatshirt is huge on her, but it looks so good. As if she belongs in that sweatshirt. And I don’t even want to think about what that means. Instead, I think about leaning toward her, kissing her. Except I think too long and she’s on her feet, her eyes wide as if she can read my mind.

“We should—” Harper swings her head toward the nest. “The turtles.”

I can’t figure her out at all. She doesn’t behave the way most girls I’ve met behave. An awkward vibe zigzags between us as I follow her to the nest. She shines the red-covered flashlight and makes an excited little squeak. In the muted red glow, a tiny head and a pair of flippers wiggle their way out of the sand. Harper reaches for my hand and squeezes my fingers, telegraphing her happiness through me. I don’t do anything.

A second head pops through the sand as the first baby turtle flips his way to the mouth of the trench. This is only the beginning. I have to admit—I want to pick up the little bastard and carry him.