Noah

I’m not sure how being around Grace managed to fuck up my decision-making process so much. I felt like I was pushing the shoot button on my Xbox controller every time I wanted to jump, resulting in stupid, self-inflicted casualties.

Bo had to physically restrain me from following Grace out of the theater. I fought back the urge to tackle her, throw her over my shoulder, and escape through the back exit. I’d take her to my truck and we’d drive to San Diego. Or maybe South Carolina. There had to be someplace within the 8,000 acres of Marine property on Parris Island where I could stash her.

“I think you’re supposed to take your girlfriend to an erotic film, not your best male friend,” Bo commented. “Unless you’re trying to tell me something, in which case I have to tell you that I’m flattered, but I play for the other team.”

My only response was to bare my teeth at him. I thrummed my fingers on my jeans while staring after the empty space left by Grace and her“ friend” Mike.

“You don’t really think she’s interested in him, do you?” I turned to Bo.

“Nah. Chick doesn’t hold your hand during the entire movie while being into the other guy,” Bo assured me.

“But she left with him.” Self-doubt was creeping in. Success had no room for self-doubt. I checked myself. Was I starting to sound like a creepy motivational poster?

“I’m thinking you got hit too many times in the head last night,” Bo said, gently knocking me in the back of the head and pushing me forward at the same time. “This is Grace. She sent you a care package every month for four years.”

That was the mantra I had held onto since getting out. After reading The Odyssey, I had convinced myself that Grace was Penelope and would wait for me until I had finished my battles and returned home victorious. Why else would she send me that book?

“It’s early yet. Let’s go down to Mick’s,” Bo suggested. Mick’s was a seedy bar on the South Side that was frequented by angry townies. It was a good place to get drunk and get in a fight, something Bo enjoyed doing on an all-too-regular basis.

The transition from Marine to civilian hadn’t been easy for either of us, but Bo seemed to particularly miss the adrenaline rush of always being in danger. While going to a bar populated by guys hopped up on steroids and nursing a hard-on for Central college kids wasn’t exactly the same as being on patrol, it was something.

“You should go put on a polo shirt,” I told him, nodding my acceptance of his offer. The T-shirts we had on weren’t quite the right look to incite the type of antagonism that would rid us both of pent-up frustration.

“Nah, we’ll just hit on one of the girls there, and that should be enough.”

Bo was right. Three beers and five numbers later, we were thrown out of the bar for breaking a bar stool and roughing up some town toughs.

“I shouldn’t have let the last guy land that blow to my face.” I looked in the truck’s rear view mirror. My lip had been cut by a punch to the mouth. No mouth guard meant my inner lip was lacerated too.

“No kissing for you tomorrow,” Bo said, checking out the bruise that was forming under his right eye.

“I’ll tell her that I had to fend off your advances after the movie.”

“You wish.” He turned and grinned at me.

It wasn’t the way that I wanted the night to end, but it was better than sitting in my truck all night behind Grace’s apartment.

Bo blew a kiss to the bartender as we peeled away.

Chapter Seven

Dear Grace,

I didn’t realize it was the anniversary of your father’s death. That had to be hard. My mom died when I was born. I have no memories of her. I guess she was a saint because my father is a jackass. Only a saint could ever spend time with him willingly.

You have to wonder what shitty thing I did in a past life to have my mother die while that mean-ass son of bitch lives. The good really do die young. You certainly see it here all the time. The most rancid, lazy, selfish motherfuckers live through it all, while the guys who care most about their unit step on an IED and die. Sorry for cursing.

We’re always told that when they die, they go to a better place. I hope so for all our sakes.

Yours,

Noah

Grace

Every Sunday I worked a six-hour shift at the library. The library was situated in the middle of campus and was one of the more stately buildings, with its wide-tiered steps framed by large, two-story pillars. Its brick facade looked like it had been standing there for at least a century.

Every student at Central had to work 10 hours a week somewhere on campus. Nearly all the student jobs allowed you to read or study, so I wasn’t sure if this system was designed to create a more egalitarian environment or just force us to study.

During the first hour of my shift, I kept worrying that Noah would show up. I hadn’t called like I had promised because I hadn’t come to any conclusion on what to do. Noah wanted something with me and I wasn’t so stupid to know it was just friendship, but I hadn’t dated anyone before. My feelings for Noah were too strong for a casual relationship, and I had scared him away once before.

Finally too antsy to sit, and hating myself for keeping one eye on the entrance, I asked permission to shelve the returned books. I hadn’t even unpacked my camera tonight. My confusion over Noah was becoming all-consuming, and I liked that least of all.

No one really enjoyed shelving, and I was sent on my way with a grateful glance from the girl working the reference desk.

I stuck my earphones in and maneuvered my cart full of books in and out of the rows of shelves, keeping myself busy until I heard the soft chimes warning that the library was closing shortly.

I’m not sure where Noah had been all day, but he was waiting for me on the porch swing of the Victorian when I got home from the library.

He stood as I walked up.

“Stalking me again?” I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Inwardly I winced.

“No, stalking would’ve been waiting in the library for the past—” he looked at his watch, “—six hours.”

“Why are you here?” I asked, allowing him to lead me over to the swing. He took my messenger bag from my shoulder and placed it on the floor, urging me to sit down.

I sat. He gave the swing a little shove with his feet and we swayed gently.

“I think we just need to get to know each other again.” His voice was steady and clear in the night air. I felt like Jell-O on the inside.

I refrained from pointing out the obvious. You couldn’t read nearly forty letters from someone and not get to know them a little.

I ran my eyes over his face, trying to read some expression, and noticed his lower lip was scabbed. My hand was up and hovering like I could make it better with a touch. “Ouch,” I said.

“Yeah, it only hurts when I smile or laugh.”

“Or kiss,” I added, and then mentally kicked myself.

“The person I want to kiss isn’t really feeling me right now,” he half-joked. His eyes were warm, and I knew I was courting danger here. The old Noah wound healed up over the last year, and now I was threatening to slash it open and pour salt all over it.

I started to draw my hand back, but Noah grabbed it and pressed it against his lips. I could feel the ridge of his scab, a hard contrast to the soft portions of his lips. Against my will, I rubbed my fingers across the uninjured parts. That tiny touch had set up a riot in my stomach like a battalion of butterflies was trying to beat its way out. I didn’t heal him with my touch, but from the softening of his lips I could tell he liked it. I stroked him slowly and his mouth parted. His breath felt hot against my fingers, and I felt something coil inside me in response.

“I’m really glad to see you made it home safe and sound,” I admitted. My words sounded breathless. I had prayed so hard for that outcome. Even when he hadn’t wanted me, I was so happy that he was alive and unharmed.

“I missed you, Grace. More than you will ever know.”

He smelled delicious again. I wanted to press my nose into the well of his throat and breathe deep, imprinting his smell onto my memory banks. It would make my nighttime fantasies slightly more real and vivid. I forced myself to drop my hand.

“I—” I cast around for the right words to say. I wanted to explain myself in a way that still preserved my pride but conveyed I wasn’t a toy to be discarded and then picked up whenever he felt like playing with it again. “If you truly want to be friends, Noah, I can do that. But nothing else.”

His face remained unchanged, which made me falter. Maybe he did just want to be friends, and I had misread the entire situation. I gave him an uncertain smile and said, “I’ll see you around campus then?”

“Don’t friends hang out?”

I nodded my head. Yes, but we weren’t really friends. We were some weird, undefined category where we had some shared intimacy, yet were not in a real relationship.

“How about we study together at the library on Wednesday?” Noah offered.

I shrank back, tears at the back of my throat. I was right to be cautious. He wanted to just be friends, like his kiss-off letter said. He had referred to me as a little sister. I cleared my throat to make sure I sounded as easy going as he did. “Sure. I have Stats & Methodology that day, and I always need to review my notes after that class. Meet you there.”

I stood up then and walked to the door that led up to my third floor apartment. When I looked back to wave, Noah was standing there with one hand on the back of his neck and the other at his hip. He looked frustrated, managed a slight smile, and then nodded in return. I went upstairs, as confused as I had ever been.

***

I had three classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. They started at 8:00 a.m. and ended right after noon. I usually met Lana for lunch at the Quad Commons Café, the one place Amy says we should never eat. Lana rarely got up before eleven and scheduled all of her classes in the afternoon. Lunch was about the only meal we shared together on a regular basis, and it was usually the first of the day for her.

We had two choices on campus. The dining hall, which served a variety of cafeteria food, along with a salad and dessert bar, or the Quad Commons Café, where you could get deli sandwiches and light grilled items. Tuesdays, we would meet at the dining hall, because they had Taco Tuesdays, but most days we met and had big prepared salads from the QC Café.

Lana had already purchased everything and was sitting at a table unwrapping her salad.

She was wearing sunglasses, which I tipped down when I arrived at the table. She allowed me to see her swollen eyes before pushing the glasses up and waving me to my seat.

“Peter?” I queried. She mhmm’ed and I waited. She pulled out her phone and showed me a picture of some blonde in front of a mirror, wearing tiny panties and her shirt pushed above her bare breasts. They were rather large and obviously fake. Not Lana.

“You’re getting hit on by a stripper?” I guessed. Lana made a buzzing sound.

“Wrong. Peter forwarded me this charming selfie.”

“Intentionally?” I gasped in horror.

“No, I think he meant to send it to Luke Larson, his frat brother, but the phone auto-filled ‘Lana’ instead,” she explained in a careful monotone, as if any expression of emotion might break a dam she’d built.

“Done in by autocorrect.” I handed her back the phone. I wanted to delete the photo. It wouldn’t do any good for Lana to keep it on her phone. “What did you do?”

“I replied back ‘nice rack.’ He called me immediately asking what I was talking about. He tried to say that it wasn’t anything, just a pledge prank. The lies were so weak that I figured he wanted to get caught, forcing me to be the one to break up with him.”

“Did you?”

“I didn’t give him the satisfaction. He wants to break up to pursue other girls, then he needs to man up and do it. I’m not going to make it easier for him.” Lana picked up her fork and started rearranging spinach leaves. Her disinterest in eating worried me, but it was only one day.

“I’m surprised you shed any tears over him.”

“Oh, closure, you know.” She gave an uncaring wave of her hand, but her actions revealed that she liked him more than she had let on. Sometimes it was hard to know where you stood with Lana. She was too busy protecting herself. If you weren’t persistent, she never let you in. Even I found Lana hard to read, despite living with her since I was twelve. But I knew her tough exterior hid a very big heart. We may be cousins by blood, but we were sisters of the heart.

“We Sullivans are bad at relationships,” I informed her. “You and I need to start following Josh’s playbook.” Josh didn’t date. He hooked up exclusively and currently seemed to be trying to burn his way through the female population up at State.

“Of course we are,” Lana said. “We’re merely exhibiting patterned behavior learned at an impressionable age. We don’t know anyone who has a healthy and loving relationship, so we are unequipped to develop our own.”