Except she wasn’t ugly. She was beautiful, with dark, hopeful eyes—even though she was trying not to look hopeful—and I couldn’t have been an asshole if I wanted to. She wouldn’t let me do anything other than kiss her—believe me, I tried—but the gods of getting laid smiled on me for the rest of the weekend. Afterward, Kevlar—who failed to seal the deal with every girl he met—called me a haji-lover for kissing a Muslim girl. He spent the trip to Afghanistan nursing a busted bottom lip.
When it’s over, Paige moves off me and falls back against the bed, gasping for air. My own breath is short and my bones feel liquid. “Jesus, Trav, I forgot how fucking good it is with you.”
She’s right. It is good. Except when the adrenaline starts wearing off, I hate her. I hate my brother, too. Mostly I hate myself. “You need to go.”
“Why?” She nuzzles my neck, as if we’re still together.
“You got what you came for.”
“Don’t be that way.” She reties her bikini. “You wanted it, too.”
I shrug. “Fine. Stick around. You and your boyfriend can have breakfast together in a couple of hours.”
Paige laughs. “You’re jealous. How cute.”
“I’m not.”
Thing is, I’m really not. If I feel anything at all, it’s anger—that she hasn’t changed and that all the years we were together were a huge waste of time.
Chapter 3
I’m standing on the cracked sidewalk in front of a tiny orange-and-white cottage on Ohio Avenue, wondering what I’m going to do next, when a man comes out the front door. It’s still dark, so at first I don’t think he sees me.
“Is there a good reason why you’re outside my house at four thirty in the morning?” he asks, resting a travel mug of coffee on the hood of an ancient Land Rover. His keys jingle as he unlocks the driver’s-side door. He surveys my T-shirt, soaked through with sweat under the arms and in the middle of my chest. It’s a long run from my house to Fort Myers Beach—and there’s a bridge involved.
A little self-loathing goes a long way.
“Just ended up here, sir.” I don’t have a good answer. After Paige left, I pulled on my running shoes and took off. I didn’t even bring my cell phone. “Wasn’t sure where else to go.”
“Interesting choice of destinations.”
I nod. “Not real well thought out, either.”
He chuckles. “Need a lift somewhere?”
“I could use a ride home.”
The porch light flickers to life and Harper steps out, the wooden screen door slapping shut behind her. “Travis?”
Her feet are bare and she’s wearing little pajama shorts that sit low on her hips and make her mile-long legs go on forever. I have to look away. The last thing I need is to get a boner in front of her dad. “Yeah, um—hi.”
Her dad’s eyebrows lift, but he sips his coffee without comment.
“What are you doing here?” She steps off the porch into the small patch of sandy grass, sounding only marginally less annoyed with me than she was earlier. “Haven’t you had enough abuse for one night?”
Apparently not. “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get some air.”
“You look like hell,” she says. “Did you run the whole way?”
“More or less.”
Her mouth falls open. “That has to be at least—”
“Seven miles.” They both stare at me, but seven miles is nothing. What’s more interesting is that she knows where I live.
“Well, o-kay.” Harper’s dad glances at his watch. “I need to get to work, so why don’t you drop me off and then take Travis on home?”
“Let me go change real quick,” she says.
Bummer. I kinda liked the pajamas.
“Nice Rover, sir.” The Land Rover is older than me and except for a CD changer he probably installed himself, there are no creature comforts inside. The windows are crank-operated, the door locks are not automatic, and the spare tire is mounted in the middle of the hood.
“Thanks.” The driver’s door creaks as he slams it shut. “I bought her when I was in college. Every couple of months I need to replace a part or fix something, but she’s a tough old girl.”
“If you ever need a hand…” I stop, feeling like a moron and sounding like a suck-up.
“You know your way around an engine?”
“Some.”
He nods. “You’re Linda Stephenson’s boy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” It’s interesting that he mentions my mom and not my dad. Like maybe there’s another person in this town who doesn’t think the sun rises and sets on former Green Bay Packer Dean Stephenson.
“You can call me Bryan instead of sir,” he says. “It makes me feel old.”
“Yes, si—” Old habits die hard. “Okay.”
“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.”