Something Like Normal(32)




Chapter 9

It’s a calm day on the water, so the waves aren’t too big. Moss seems to have found his sea legs—and a beer.

“I’m catching a shark today,” Kevlar announces as Gary distributes the fishing rods. We’re trolling on a school of tarpon, but Gary says there’s a chance we could see some sharks. “A black tip or a lemon—or a hammerhead,” Kevlar says. “Yeah, a hammerhead would be sweet.”

He pivots the fishing rod back, about to cast, when Gary stops him. “Slow down, son, you’re not going to catch anything without bait.”

“Except a buzz,” Moss says.

“Nah,” I say. “He’s already caught one of those.”

Kevlar gives us the finger, while Gary uses a live pilchard—bait fish—to bait the hook for him. Harper baits her own.

I move up behind her, my mouth next to her ear and my hand on her hip. The sunscreen makes her smell like summertime. “You are officially the coolest girl in the world.”

She shivers, but plays it off by rolling her eyes at me. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

“I’ve had my suspicions.”

Harper turns to face me and places her hands on my chest. I ignore the fact that they’re covered in fish slime because, well—it’s Harper. And she’s going to kiss me. “Travis?”

“Yeah?”

“Go away.” She gives me a shove. “I have a shark to catch.”

Kevlar cracks up. “Ooh, Solo. Denied.”

“Hey, Kenneth, aren’t you going to introduce me to your date?” I reach into the live well and pull out a pilchard for my own hook. “Oh, wait. You don’t have one.”

He takes a long drink, then burps. “Harper could set us up with a couple of her friends.”

As I cast my line, I consider hooking Kevlar up with Lacey Ellison. He could finally get laid. I glance at Harper.

“Don’t even think it,” she says, not taking her eyes off the water. “I have no control over what my friends do with random guys they meet in bars, but I’m not pimping them out to the Marine Corps.”

This makes me laugh. “I guess that’s fair.”

Today is a good day. Sunshine. Beer. Fishing. And Afghanistan is as far away as it belongs. I don’t need therapy. I just need more days like this.

Moss catches the first fish, a flashing silver tarpon that lights him up with happiness. They’re great game fish, tarpon, but not much for eating, so Gary takes a picture of Moss holding up his catch before they release it back into the Gulf.

“Solo?” Moss asks, casting out a fresh line. “They have these kinds of fish up in North Carolina?”

“Sure,” I say. “We can go anytime you want, man.”

He gives me that Buddha smile. “Cool.”

“I’ve got something,” Harper says, a little while later, when the line on her reel starts peeling off fast. The muscles in her arm flex as she tries to crank it in and I can tell it’s something big.

“Tarpon,” Gary says, but she shakes her head.

“It seems like it’s going deeper,” she says. “Maybe a shark?”

“Well, then sit down in the fishing chair,” he says. “And hang on.”

Whatever she’s hooked into is running. It’s not like in the cartoons, when the fish takes off swimming and the boat goes zipping along behind it. But sharks are strong and the boat starts pointing in the direction of whatever is on the other end of Harper’s line.

After a couple of minutes the drag stops spinning and Harper starts cranking it in. She’s strong, but the pressure on the rod is pretty intense.

“You doing okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. The loose hairs escaped from her pony-tail are damp and sticking to the back of her neck. “I could use some water.”

Kevlar brings her a bottle, and to keep the sun out of her face I give her an old Brewers ball cap I got when we lived in Green Bay.

With the boat following Harper’s shark, Kevlar has to settle for cooler fishing, which doesn’t bother him at all. He’s already half in the bag. Moss, on the other hand, is content to watch Harper fish. Like he’s committing it all to memory.

For about thirty minutes it goes like this: the drag peels off as the shark runs, taking as much line with it as it can; the drag stops and Harper reels in, taking back as much of the line as she can. It’s tedious and her arms tremble from the effort.

“Do you want some help?” I offer.

“No.” She gives me a grim smile. “But thanks.”

It’s no surprise she turns me down; she’s probably better at fishing than I am, anyway. And that’s kind of hot.

Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, pass before the shark starts getting as tired as Harper. In the shade of the Brewers cap, she’s fighting not to cry, and part of me wants to take the pole away to give her a break, but she’s too stubborn for that. One step forward, two steps back, she slowly reels it in. The drag zings out each time the shark thrashes against her, trying to throw the hook, and she struggles to gain it back.

Then—like in the last second of an arm wrestling match where the weaker of the two gives up—the shark just stops fighting. Harper makes up a yard, then two, then ten.

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