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“Where is he?” The deep voice of my father penetrates the thin drywall. Even the curtain track rattles.
My neck tenses as I look at my folded uniform on the chair. Never to be worn again.Now I’ll be a monkey in a suit. Somehow, I think getting shot will be less painful than disappointing my father because there is no way I can be the son he wants me to be.
Chapter 7
Poppy
“Tell me you’re feeling better, actually don’t. I know you are." Harper steps back as the man in front of us pulls down his carry-on luggage. His arms swing so wide you'd think he had a ten-foot girth, not the ten inches the plane gives you.
"Iced oat milk expresso is the best-kept secret to a hangover. It’s something with the ice that soothes the head pressure.” She grins as we wait in the narrow aisle of the plane to disembark.
“I kind of do,” I admit with a weary grin. The espresso helped, but I think my hangover is being suppressed by the thrill of living my life for me again. Once I step off this plane, it’ll be the start of a new chapter. I wish my brother were included, but I must respect Henry's determination not to notice me. I tried, I did my best, I failed; it’s time to start living again.
I glance back at the plane seat I sat in and mentally think, "Bye, old self. It's time to live again. Time to feel other emotions besides grief." I turn my head and place one brave foot in front of the other as I walk down the aisle.
When we finally get off the plane, I breathe a sigh of relief. Harper insists we each get one more iced espresso, and then we head to baggage claim.
A sharp elbow comes to my side; I’m ready to snap someone's head off. I've been crammed in a seat, partially hungover and over-caffeinated. I need some space. Don't mess with me; I'm American, we like our personal space.
Another elbow poke. My eyes seek out the perpetrator until I see it's attached to Harper. Her blonde brows inch up to her hairline as she jerks her head for me to look at two men waiting for their bags. They are both tall and good-looking but also wearing cowboy hats. I didn’t think that was a thing. So, it’s not just a stereotype made up by Hollywood. Interesting.
My eyes drift down to see each wearing worn brown leather cowboy boots.
“Grab me a lasso so I can giddy up on those cowboys.” Harper murmurs. “Those are callus-hand men who know how to tie a knot. Can you imagine the things they can do with those hands?” Her tongue swipes over her lips as her eyes zero in on the zipper of their jeans.
I’ve never met a woman more sexually charged than Harper.
"Harper lesson 101,"
I roll my eyes, "When will I get a 102? You always say 101."
"That's because each new lesson trumps the last. Pay attention." She playfully juts out her hip. "Two pussy cats are no bueno, but two cocks make for a fun cock fight." She adds.
“No one speaks like that, Harper,” I scold.
My bestie has the worst unfiltered comments, but she’s also blessed with an ability to make even the most cringe-worthy remarks funny. Something can indeed be so bad it’s good.
Her eyes finally leave the Cowboys. "You're right, I'm not 'no one.' So, therefore, I can speak as I wish," she winks.
I snort a laugh. "Touché." My eyes drift up and down my best friend. She's ethereal, tall, and blonde, a blend of beauty and brains. "How are you so confident?" I mutter.
I used to be similar to her. I had confidence, but my trust was broken, as was my mental state. I want that again. I want to joke and laugh and not look over my shoulder and see the demons and ghosts from my past chasing me.
How do I outrun them?
She steps in front of me, grabs my shoulders, and bends lower so we are at eye level. "You and I both have the unfortunate experience of having life ripped away from us." I see Peter's memory flash in her blue eyes. "That gives us a unique perspective and a hall pass to simply not give a fuck what others think. Live your life for those who can’t live again, make new memories, have no regrets," her fingers tighten on my shoulders, her face softens, “live."
I blink away tears.
Harper sees my emotions. She registers them, then does what she does best when the air gets too thick—she cracks a joke. "Have sex, safe sex, of course, be responsible, don’t mix three different liquors. Not even an oat milk espresso can cure that hangover." She chuckles as she swings her arm over my shoulder. And just like that, she managed to make me smile again.
***
The car veers off the highway. A horn honks as the Uber driver almost collides with another car. I grab my seatbelt like a life vest. Get me out of this car!
I glance at my map. We should reach my new apartment in just five minutes. Glancing up, I meet the creepy eyes of our driver again. Watch the road, you sleazebag!
Five minutes feels way too long.
