by Lulu Pratt
I’m thinking about the big book project. I got an email earlier in the morning from the office, full of paperwork I need to print, sign, scan and return after I get back and before the project starts. It can wait until I’m back in the office, but if I do that I’ll have to have it in before my boss even gets into work. Besides, I know it’s better to at least have a good understanding of what I’m getting myself into before I sign anything.
“Hey!”
I start almost enough to take a tumble out of the hammock and look around to see Zane walking to me from his parents’ house.
“Hey yourself,” I say, righting myself in the hammock. “I figured you’d be like, I don’t know, out meeting with the boys. Finding a bar.”
“I’m not all drinking and video games, you know,” Zane says with a smirk.
“The same way that I’m not all books and craft projects,” I counter.
Zane sinks down onto the grass a few feet away from me, and I turn enough to be able to look at him without missing the beautiful sky above me.
“I mean, of the two of us you’re the more successful,” Zane points out. “So I guess books and crafts are pretty solid things to base your life on.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re successful enough,” I tell him. “I mean, if the military wants you to stay in. I think I remember people saying you’ve got specialist training and all that.”
“Yeah, but as long as you follow the rules you pretty much succeed in the military, to a point, anyway.” Zane insists. “You went to college and got that degree, and got a job right out of school.”
“I know a lot of people who weren’t able to work in their field,” I admit. “It was sheer luck on my part, at least half luck.”
“Half luck still leaves half hard work,” Zane reminds me. “And all the luck in the world won’t help you if you’re shit at your job. They’re about to trust you with some star author.”
“That’s one of the few things I can really claim,” I tell him. “He chose me out of the editors available.”
“How did they make him choose?”
I shrug. “They gave him samples of my editing work, notes that I’ve made on manuscripts, stuff like that, along with the other available editors’ work. Of course, if he hadn’t wanted any of us, they would have made an editor available for him.”
“So he thought you were the best of the ones available,” Zane points out.
“Yeah, I just got a bunch of paperwork to look over,” I tell him. “Non-disclosure agreement, information on the possibility of a royalties bonus, early completion bonus, things like that.”
“Sounds like what I’ve started getting down the line,” Zane says. “Stuff about reenlistment and what I can expect, along with what benefits I’m entitled to if I decide not to reenlist.”
“Do you think you’re going to?” I’m not sure why, but the question makes me anxious. What does it matter to me if Zane reenlists or not? I hadn’t even seen him for years until the other day.
“I don’t know yet,” Zane replies. “Mostly because I don’t know what the hell I’d even do outside of the military, you know? At least there I know what my job is, how to do it, all that stuff.”
“Well, I mean there are programs,” I point out.
“Yeah, I know,” Zane says. “If I wanted to I could go into college or something after…” he shrugs. “I just don’t know what I want to do yet. Can we change the subject?”
“Fair enough,” I tell him. “Who have you kept in touch with from here? Obviously not me.”
“Not many people,” Zane admits. “Matty and James, but other than them, I just see everyone on Facebook.”
“I’m about the same,” I say. “I’m still friends with Jessica, but everyone else I can see what’s going on in their feeds or whatever and that’s it.”
“Well, you always liked books better than people,” Zane points out. “You used to tell me that.”
I chuckle. “I guess I’ve made a career of liking books better than people at this point.”
“Not much of a social life in it though.”
I roll my eyes. “I get out. The company hosts happy hour at a local bar almost every week.”
“Yeah, but how often do you actually go?” Zane raises an eyebrow to emphasize his question.
I feel myself blushing and I can’t quite look at him. “I have plenty of times,” I insist. “Besides, my standards are high. That’s all it is.”
“Now that I can see,” Zane says. “I could see you having impossibly high standards. Hooking up with some guy who’s got an art degree. With family money so he can be an artist or something.”
I snort at that. “Just because my standards are high doesn’t mean I’m some kind of snob.”
“Hey, do you want to get out of here for a bit?”
I think about it. “Where were you thinking of going?”
“Just down to the store. Dad forgot to get something Mom asked for dinner and I said I’d go.”
“Give me a minute,” I say, realizing that I never put on a bra after my shower that morning, “and I’ll tag along.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ZANE LEWIS
I fall behind Harper a bit at the store, more than happy to enjoy the view from behind. I did promise Mom I would pick up a couple of things, but that was more of an excuse to spend some time with Harper than anything else. I’m glad it worked, watching her push the cart in front of her, watching the figure eight of her ass showing against the dress she put on before we left.
“Do you dress like this in New York, too?”
Harper stops and looks at me with one eyebrow raised, in the middle of reaching for pickles.
“Mostly,” she replies. “Why do you ask?”
“You must get hollered at constantly,” I smirk. “I mean, if you look like that…”
“I keep my headphones on,” Harper tells me.
I laugh. “Oh, right. You don’t do much driving in the city,” I say.
“Almost none,” Harper says.
“Is the car a rental, then?”
We took mine, which was definitely a rental, but we’d had an argument about it for all of half a minute.
“It’s my car,” Harper says. “I just generally don’t drive unless I’m actually leaving the city. There’s no point in it, anyway.”
I remember, almost too late, that Mom wanted me to get mayo, and I grab it off the shelf and add it to the cart.
“So you just take the subway everywhere?”
“Or the bus sometimes, though it gets rougher on the bus in some respects than the subway. And of course, cabs are going day and night,” Harper replies.
“Where do you keep your car then, if you’re not driving it?” The idea is so weird to me.
“There’s a parking garage where I pay rent to have access to a spot,” Harper replies. She grabs some bowtie pasta off the shelf and puts it in the cart, and we move onto another aisle.
“You pay rent to be allowed to park somewhere?” I shake my head at that.
“Yeah, it’s not that bad, actually,” Harper says.
“You have to pay rent to park somewhere?” I shake my head again. “That just sounds crazy.”
“Well,” Harper explains. “There’s a limited amount of parking space in the city. So I pay one-fifty a month, and I’m guaranteed to never have to search for a spot.”
“A hundred and fifty a month? Christ.” I snag a pack of Oreos for a later snack.
“It’s not bad, really,” Harper insists.
“It sounds terrible,” I tell her.
“You’re just biased against the city,” she says, making a face at me.
I laugh. “Maybe if I lived there I’d start to love it.”
“Maybe,” Harper says.
“Maybe instead of reenlisting, I’ll leave the military and move in, become your roommate,” I tell her.
Harper raises an eyebrow at that and snorts. “I don’t know about that,” she says.
“What? You don’t think I can cut it in the big city?”
“No,” she replies, shaking her head. “I don’t.”
“I got through basic. That was hell. I think I can deal with New York City.”
“Hmm. I don’t know about that,” Harper says.
“Why? What’s such a big deal about New York that I couldn’t handle it?”
“Everyone thinks they can deal with it,” Harper says.
“So how come you can handle it, but I can’t?”
“You can’t really call yourself a New Yorker until you’ve cried on the subway or some other really, really public place, and didn’t even care about the fact that everyone can see you,” Harper explains.
“Sounds a lot like the army,” I say.
“How’s that?” Harper looks at me confused. We start down another aisle.
“Well the goal of basic is to break you down, bring you all the way to the foundation. Then build you back up.”
“I’ve heard that but I guess I never really thought it was a real thing, I figured it was just something you say about an experience like that,” Harper says.
“No, it’s totally legit,” I counter.
“So how do they do that?” Harper steers us to the produce aisle and I try to remember what else Mom wanted.
“The screaming in your face thing isn’t really part of it anymore, but basically, they work you and work you until you’re exhausted, and then you have to work some more. You eat, sleep, shower, everything, on their schedule. If one person doesn’t make it through, none of the group does.”
“I guess I can see that,” Harper says, picking up a cucumber. Almost against my will the filthiest possible thought flits through my head.
“Anyway, after weeks of eating, sleeping, working, doing everything to someone else’s will… you just sort of break,” I explain.
“I have to admit, it does sort of sound like living in the city,” Harper says.
I laugh. “So, see, I could totally make it there.”
“Alternately, I could make it in the army,” Harper counters.
“I wouldn’t want you to go into the army, anyway,” I tell her.
“Oh? Why not?”
I think about that question for a few seconds. “You’d get this kind of… hardness to you. It’s not bad, exactly, but it would change you.”
“Like the city hasn’t,” Harper says, rolling her eyes.
“It’s different,” I insist. “Women in the military are great, don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those cavemen guys who think women don’t belong.”
“Good,” Harper says.
“It’s just that by going through that process… you’d have ended up less sweet. You wouldn’t blush anymore, or if you did it wouldn’t be easy to make you blush the way it still is.”
“It’s not that easy to make me blush,” Harper protests.
“It’s easier than it would be if you had to learn to keep a straight face when some commanding officer is going off not five inches from you,” I point out.
“Okay, that’s fair,” Harper says, laughing.
“And your taste in clothes would be different. I like this look you have going on, it’d be a shame to see you all uniform-correct.”
“Are you flirting with me, Zane Lewis? Because there are some people from West Ridge High who would drop their jaws at that.”
“I flirted with you back then, too, you just didn’t notice,” I tell her.
“That’s because you flirted with everyone,” Harper counters. “It doesn’t count.”
“Well I needed someone to practice my moves on,” I say.
“I was your practice?” Harper laughs out loud.
“Of course! I knew I was never going to do anything with you, and I wasn’t going to get anywhere. It was good practice for girls playing hard to get, because you were actually impossible to get.”
We keep going around the grocery store for a while, talking about what we were like in high school. I have to keep reminding myself about what Mom wanted me to get as just talking to this new, grownup Harper who came from the city is distracting as hell.
I can’t get the image of her stripping out of my mind.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HARPER POLSEN
“Are you going over to the Lewises’ place?”
I slide my foot into my sandal and look up to see my mom just outside of the kitchen.
“Yeah, why?”
“Can you bring over the punch bowl and ask Bev if she thinks it’ll be big enough?”
Mom had agreed to let Bev use her punch bowl for the big party the next night, and she’d dug it out of the closet that morning, to judge by the noises that got me out of bed at seven.
“Sure,” I say.
I follow my mom into the kitchen, where I can see the punch bowl. It’s always been a fixture of my family’s parties, deep and wide, made of heavy glass. It’s actually really pretty.
“We were talking about maybe doing a special anniversary punch for the event,” Mom tells me as I heft the big bowl, making sure that I can actually carry it across the yard.
“First of all, don’t the two of you have enough on your plates with what you’ve already got planned? And second of all, what would make it a special punch?” I grin at my mother, setting down the punch bowl and grabbing my purse from where I left it the last time I came in.
“It’s cheaper to do punch than it would be to buy bunch of bottles of different kinds of alcohol for everyone,” Mom points out.
I consider that and nod my agreement. “So what makes it a special anniversary punch?” I settle my purse on my shoulder and pick up the punch bowl once more.
“It’ll be a Champagne punch,” Mom replies.
“Ooh,” I say. “That’s actually kind of impressive. But wouldn’t a Champagne punch get pricey quick?”
Mom shakes her head. “The great thing about it is that it’s actually pretty cost-effective.”
“I guess it would be, depending on how you make it. And of course it’ll be fancy.”
“Of course,” Mom agrees.
She kisses me on the forehead and I’m off, out of the house and walking across the yard to the Lewises’ back patio where Zane is sitting.
He’s in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with the word ‘Army’ on it, and when he sees I have the punch bowl in my arms, he immediately stands up, perfectly correct and at-attention, and holds out his hands to take it from me.
“Can you get the door for me? It’s not that heavy, but my arms are kind of full,” I tell him.
Zane moves to get the back door into the kitchen open for me. Bev is pouring herself a cup of coffee and looks up as I come in, Zane hot on my heels.
“Oh! Thank your mother for me,” Bev says, taking the bowl from my arms and setting it down on the counter before leaning in to kiss me on the forehead.
“She woke me up at seven looking for that, so it better be worth my trashed sleep,” I tell Bev with a little grin to show that I’m not actually all that upset about the situation.
She laughs. “I can offer you a cup of coffee to get you through the morning. You do know that I would like you to attend the family dinner party your parents are hosting later this week,” she says. “As Zane is attending I want there to be even numbers for the table and I already cleared it with your mother last night.”
“I knew I was going to be helping with the fancy meal, but it would be nice to formally attend and not be stuck in the kitchen,” I say. “And yes, the coffee actually sounds heavenly. I already had one, but I’m still barely keeping my eyes open.”
“What about you, Zane? Are you going to have another cup?”
Zane shrugs. “Might as well,” he says.
Bev pours two more cups, emptying the pot. She rinses it and fills it up. As I add milk and sugar to my coffee, she starts a new pot. That’s one good thing about the Lewises’ place, they have at least relatively fresh coffee on from early in the
morning until almost nine at night. There was more than once when Zane and I were in high school when we took full advantage of that fact.
We all sit down at the kitchen table and Bev grabs a basket of blueberry muffins from the counter. I snatch one up and eat it between sips of coffee, savoring the sweet, juicy blueberries and the soft cake.
“So what’s on the agenda for you two today? I haven’t seen you spend this much time together since before you finished middle school,” Bev says.
Zane and I laugh at that a bit. She isn’t wrong.
“We were going to play some PlayStation for a while, see where the day takes us,” I say.
“It’s so nice today, you two should be out and about, doing things,” Bev says. “Maybe you could play wingman for each other, or wingman and wingwoman, and get each other dates for the party tomorrow night.”
I roll my eyes.
“Actually that’s not a bad idea,” Zane says, and I raise an eyebrow.
“Go on,” I say, and I feel a little flutter in my chest at the thought of trying to get Zane a date to his parents’ big anniversary bash.
“If we get dates for the party tomorrow, then our parents won’t keep trying to hook us up with other people,” Zane points out quietly.
“That’s actually a good point,” I say in a whisper, thinking about it.
“So, since you two are both now over twenty-one, why not hit up one of the bars in town and find each other someone to bring to the party tomorrow night?” Bev grins at us and rises from the table.
“We need to decide where to go,” Zane tells me.
I think about it.
“First one to win three rounds of Tekken chooses?” I meet Zane’s gaze as I make the suggestion.
“You actually think you can beat me at Tekken?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I think I can beat you so hard that you’ll cry for how badly your character goes down,” I tell him.
“Oh you’re on,” Zane says.
“Three rounds,” I remind him.
“We’ll see,” he tells me.
“No, we have to agree ahead of time!” I can feel my heart beating faster and I’m not even entirely sure why.
