Moss leans through the space between the seats. “You should have seen him on the drive down,” he says. “We’d have been here even earlier if he didn’t get stopped three times for speeding. Boy has some serious road rage, too. Shit. I’m less afraid of the Taliban than his cracker-ass driving.”
I laugh, but I can’t help wondering if this is what Kevlar brought home from Afghanistan. And what about Moss? He told me that he grew up in the projects in Baltimore. He wasn’t a gang member and he wasn’t from a single-mother home. His dad was ex-Army on disability and they couldn’t afford a better neighborhood. Moss told me once he plans to go to college when he gets out next year.
“Seeing people get killed is nothing new for me, Solo,” he said to me once, while we were lifting weights in our makeshift patrol base gym. “You do what you can to let it go. Otherwise it’ll eat you up.”
I glance at him in the rearview mirror and he’s looking at the scenery as we pass, all Buddha-serene. Maybe he’s the lucky one.
Kevlar reminds me of a dog with his head stuck out the window as our charter captain, Gary, speeds the boat across the water, heading for fish. Kevlar’s got a beer in his hand and the go-fast he’s been craving. For the first time since they showed up at my bedroom door, he looks really relaxed.
Moss is in the cabin, looking a little seasick.
“Do my back?” Harper—stripped down to a green-striped bikini top and shorts—hands me a bottle of sunscreen. The bruise she gave me below my eye is still fading to yellow, but she’s inviting me to touch her bare skin. It’s kind of a mind-fuck moment and I have to mentally field strip an M16 to keep from getting turned on—but I like it.
Kevlar comes into the cabin for another beer as I’m spreading the sunscreen between her shoulders. His red eyebrows lift over the top edge of his sunglasses and he mouths son of a bitch at me, making me laugh. “Anyone else want a beer?”
Moss shakes his head. He still looks a little queasy.
“Too early for me,” I say.
“Dude, it’s happy hour in Helmand.” Kevlar throws me a beer, which nearly slides out of my sunscreen-covered hand. I touch the can to Harper’s back, making her squeak. As she turns around to smack my arm, I watch Kevlar chug his entire beer, then go back to the fridge for another.
“Travis?” I turn to look at Harper. Her voice goes quiet. “Everything okay?”
I’m not sure how to answer. I have my own shit. I’m not sure I can deal with his, too. But maybe I should. Maybe that’s what we need—to talk about Afghanistan, about Charlie. There’s a dot of sunscreen at the tip of her nose, so I reach up and rub it in. “Yeah, I’m good.” I don’t think she believes me. “Give me and Kevlar a minute?”
“Dude, you okay?” I ask, after Harper is back out on deck.
“Yeah, why?” Kevlar says.
“I don’t know. Just seems like you’re drinking a lot.”
“The hell, Solo?” His eyebrows pull together and he frowns. “I’m on vacation.”
“Sorry, man.” I throw up my hands. “I’m just saying if you need to talk or whatever—”
“Fuck off.” Kevlar goes back out on deck, facing into the wind. The boat hits a wave and a spray of salt water catches him in the face. He lets out a joyous whoop, grinning like a fool.
I go out beside Moss. “How long has he been this way?”
“Since we got home, I guess,” he says. “I took the bus to see my family, so I’m not sure. On the way down here he told me he spent a night in jail back home in Tennessee for getting in a bar fight. I don’t know, Solo. It’s like real life isn’t big enough for him anymore.”
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.”