“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.
“What?” she asks.
Charlie turns his head to look at her and I see the gash in the side of his neck, the skin torn open, and dark dried blood crusted around the edges.
My stomach churns and the fork clatters as it hits the plate. I bolt for the restroom, barely making it to the stall before I puke up eggs and bacon. My eyes burning and nose dripping, I stand in the stall—holding on to the walls to keep from falling over—until the heaving stops. My mouth tastes sour and my heart is beating too fast.
“Travis, are you okay?” Harper pokes her head into the men’s room as I’m splashing cold water on my face. For a split second I hate her for seeing me this way, but it’s not her fault my brain is playing tricks on me. No, I’m not okay. I’m losing my fucking mind.
“I need to go.”
“Yeah, sure.” She looks confused and I can’t blame her. First I hit on her in a dive bar. Then I showed up outside her house in the middle of the night. Now I’m in the men’s room of the Waffle House, where I just flushed away my breakfast. “I’ll, um…” She looks at my reflection in the mirror and I can’t tell what she’s thinking. “I’ll take care of the bill.”
“I’ve got it,” I say, but the door thumps closed behind her. I pat my pocket, but it’s empty. Just as well she didn’t hear me. I forgot my wallet, too.
We don’t talk on the drive to my house. At least not until she pulls the Land Rover into the driveway.
“Feeling better now?” Harper asks.
I can’t tell her I saw Charlie, that back there in the restaurant he talked to me. Because what Marine—what person, really—wants to admit his brain is scrambled? What girl is going to want to date that guy? “I guess. Thanks.”
Despite my weirdness, though, something has changed between us. Like she got out of her system what has been festering since middle school. I don’t think she hates me anymore. Or else she thinks I’m pathetic and feels sorry for me, which is not ideal, but still an improvement over hating me. “Hey, Harper, can I ask you something?”
“Okay.” Her expression is guarded. Wary.
“You could have brought me straight home, but you didn’t,” I say. “Why?”
She doesn’t look at me, just stares straight ahead through the front windshield. “I have to go. I’m going to be late for work.”
I don’t press the question as I get out of the Rover. Her non-answer is enough for now. “I’ll see you later, Harper.”
My mom is alone at the kitchen island when I go inside, her hands curled around a cup of coffee. She gives me a tired smile, then glances at the clock. “Have you been out all this time?”
“Sort of.”
Used to be she’d try to ground me for staying out all night. Now she doesn’t even ask where I’ve been. Her eyes are ringed with sadness. “Coffee?”
I’m so tired I can barely see straight, but I guess I can stay up a few minutes longer with my mom. I scrub my hand over my face. I need a shave. “Sure, thanks.”
She reaches up to the open cupboard and I notice she’s not wearing her rings. They’re lying in the soap dish at the edge of the sink, which is odd. She takes them off when she washes the dishes, but she always puts them right back on. She fills a USMC Mom mug with coffee and slides it to me.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods with her head down, so I can’t see her face, but when she looks up there are tears in her eyes. Shit. This night is never going to end. She wipes her nose with a tissue. “Your dad didn’t come home last night.”
“What the—? Why? Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I called his cell, but he didn’t answer.”
Something is not right here. “Mom, what’s going on?”
“He—we haven’t been getting along very well this past year. And, I don’t know, maybe it’s my own fault.”
I move to her side of the island and put my arms around her. It’s hard to be affectionate with her—and not only because I’ve been away so long. I’m not used to this. She collapses against my chest, her words and sobs spilling out together in a flood.
“While you were in Afghanistan, I went a little—well, I went a little crazy,” she says. “You have no idea how afraid I was for you. I was on the Internet until all hours of the night, talking to other Marine parents and googling your name to make sure you were still alive. Whenever I saw a news article that said US troops had been killed, I was terrified the doorbell would ring and someone would tell me you were dead. Then they’d release the names and I’d cry with relief that it wasn’t my son and then cry more because it was someone else’s son. I was obsessive about keeping my cell phone charged and I checked it a million times a day so I wouldn’t miss your call.”
Mom wipes her eyes, but she can’t stop the flow of tears. “I was so worried about you that I didn’t pay attention when your dad started staying later at the dealerships. At least, that’s where I thought he was.”
This is not her fault. It’s mine.
“He’s having an affair,” she says.
We’re all assholes. Me. Ryan. Dad. All for the same damn reason, even if what motivates us is different. Me being here, comforting her, isn’t absolution.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Mom sucks in a snotty breath and pulls back. “No. It’s okay. I didn’t mean—” She smoothes her hand over the damp spot on my shirt. “I didn’t mean to put this on your shoulders. God knows you’ve got enough on your plate.” She looks up at me. “Travis, have you been fighting?”
“Not exactly. Long story,” I say. “Have you slept?”
She shakes her head and gestures toward a to-do list lying on the island. Grocery shopping. Cookies for the cheerleader car wash/bake sale. Dry cleaner. I crush the list. “Sleep first. And Dad can pick up his own dry cleaning.”
Mom’s eyes go watery again. “You’re such a good man, Travis.”
If she knew the pain I wanted to inflict on my own father, she’d know I’m not even close to being a good man.
“Go get some sleep, Mom.”
I finally reach my own room and collapse on the bed—too tired to think about Dad or Harper or even that the mattress is too soft. If I have any nightmares, they’re gone before I wake up again.
Chapter 4