Seventeen. The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot

SEVENTEEN

The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot

Joe

Fourteen years before, somewhere in the Middle East

I've been sitting in the computer lab for nearly an hour, waiting for privacy, but Kennedy has three girls on the line back home that he has to email. I don't know how he manages it. Not just keeping them all straight, but having the interest of three girls. He's not much to look at, even in fatigues, and he's more than a little bit of a dick, but I guess to each their own.

Finally he rolls away from the keyboard, stretching his fingers over his head with an obnoxious groan. "Done." He walks over to the printer, grabs up his pages, and dangles them in my face. "New spank-bank materials up and loaded."

"Nice," I tell him in a dull voice.

"You headed back? I'll wait for the reading if you want."

Not for the first time, I wonder if these girls know he takes their private emails and reads them aloud to the rest of the guys. That strangers hear their sexual fantasies and roar with laughter. Maybe they do and they don't care. It boosts morale or whatever.

"Go on ahead," I tell him.

"Does your girl know what an old man you are?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, and I wasn't going to give him one anyway. They all call me "Gramps." At first it was because my name sounds like something from the Civil War. Josiah Cole. But then it was because I have a fiancée that I've been with since we were in high school and don't mess around on her. Not even in theory.

Not my style.

Kennedy leaves and I'm finally alone. I don't check my email. I've already responded to Kiley and my mom tonight. Kiley's email was full of wedding-planning questions and her venting about work. Normal stuff that I responded to as best I could, even though I'm not really in the headspace to have an opinion about flower arrangements, and I can't even imagine what "strawberry jasmine mint" filling would taste like in a tiered cake. My mom's email had me feeling shitty, though that wasn't her intention. It was all about the resort and my dad and what my old friends are doing now that they've graduated from college and are moving away.

It's all good stuff. I'm happy for them. And usually that kind of news rolls off my back. I'm content doing what I'm doing. I was made for the Marines. I have a purpose and it complements my restlessness.

But there are moments, usually late at night, when everything is quiet and no one is attacking us and we're in that period of waiting, in between missions, that I feel the heavy press of homesickness.

I glance behind me once more before clicking on the search engine and typing in her name. Musky Maren. As expected, she's added new content. Makes sense—it's summer break in Wiscon sin. She's recorded videos in other states, on other lakes, but Wisconsin is where she says she feels at home. It's why I come to her website.

I click on the first video and settle back in my seat, adjusting the volume. The best part about Maren's videos is she doesn't talk too much. Even still, I sometimes mute the sound. I'm not interested in fishing tips. I just want to forget I'm in a desert for a while. I want to see the loons, painted turtles, blue skies, white clouds, and gently rippling waves. I want to imagine I can smell the wind kissed with pine. One time, Mare caught a mama black bear and her cubs swimming across the lake, and I just watched in rapt silence, my chest burning.

Today, I watch Maren. I've known her most of my life, but she's always been a kid to me. This time, I'm struck with how grown-up she looks. Mature. Long reddish-brown hair tucked under the brim of a baseball cap, the ends tossing in the wind. She's in shorts and a simple tank. Tanned limbs and relaxed smile. Freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and scattered across her cheeks. She looks like summer.

I do the math. I turn twenty-five in a few months' time. So she must be what? Nineteen? Twenty? I grin to myself, thinking of my best friend Liam, her oldest brother. I bet he's shitting himself, trying to fend off the punk frat boys sweating after her.

I don't envy him the job.

On-screen, Maren's face splits in a wide, beaming smile and she stands, yanking up her pole and reeling for all she's worth, her hands a whir of movement. I click on the volume in time to hear her excited squeal. There. That sounds like the Jig I know.

A splash of water later and she's holding up a giant northern pike, deftly removing the hook and snagging her fingers in the gills, careful to avoid the needle-sharp teeth. I watch her, from halfway across the world, leaning back in my chair, my arms folded across my chest. She's telling me about the fish, the bait she used, the conditions of the water, all in an enthusiastic, breathless way that just bleeds happiness, and I feel it like a missile strike to my solar plexus.

She's brought me home.

I don't have the first fucking clue what I am doing—I only know I don't want to stop.

I haven't so much as hugged a woman I wasn't related to in three years, and suddenly I'm making out on couches and getting head in darkened hallways from Maren Laughlin. Maren, whom I've known since she was in diapers. Whose brother has been my ride-or-die for thirty-plus years. Whose brother will shoot my dick off if he finds out it ever touched his sister's perfect mouth.

My eyes roll back in my skull at the mere memory of her tongue curling along…

Christ, I'm in trouble.

It's not like I planned for this to happen. In fact, I'm not even sure I know exactly what is happening. I know I like to be around her. And my kids like to be around her. And she seems to like being around us. Her friends are a lot, but in a good way. Her family loves me like I'm one of their own, and I love them. I'm unattached and so is she. I'm an adult and so is she. Maren loves the resort and the lake as much as I do.

All the boxes are checked, and yet I'm not sure what they're checked for , exactly. Are we friends? Are these benefits? Are we dating? Should I ask her out? It's been twenty years since I've asked a girl, a woman, out. So long that it was a girl, but now would be a woman. I have no idea if that's even how it's done anymore.

And I have no idea if she wants that. She's leaving as soon as the work is done and she sells the bait shop and apartment, despite the way she seems to be growing attached to me and the kids. She had been fitting into our lives seamlessly nearly from the beginning, so much so that I hardly knew it'd happened until her friends arrived and she'd taken a step back, inserting space between us.

Then, I really noticed. And I didn't like it. I wasn't sure if I'd done something to scare her off. Let's face it, I'm not exactly a prize over here, between the ex and the ready-made family, and Maren's got the entire world open to her. She's gorgeous and sweet and generous and patient and outgoing and has this ability to suck everyone into her orbit and set them spinning.

What if that's all this is? Magnetism. Gravity. Chemistry.

Am I just a desperate jackass, panting after her like that idiot Bryce Callahan? Like all those guys who used to stalk her YouTube channel and jack off to her pictures?

I'd almost convinced myself to let her be. Let her finish her job and move on wherever the wind takes her next. It would be for the best and I could chalk it up to being lonely and pathetic. But then last night, when she'd looked off, I sang Bon Jovi because I hoped it would cheer her up. I couldn't help myself. I only wanted to bring playful, happy Maren back. And it worked like a charm. She lit up like a house on fire.

And then she devoured me in her cabin. Literally. My head is still spinning. I've never come so hard in my life.

We need to talk.

Or maybe we don't. She doesn't seem to want to with all her sexy shushing. Maybe this is what dating is like now. Was that a hookup? Are we hooking up?

This is the kind of shit I usually talk to Liam about, but… for obvious reasons, that's off the table.

Which is why I asked Cameron Riggs to meet me for coffee this morning. I told him I had some renovation questions and needed his advice at one of the villas. Which isn't a lie, since we're renovating them this winter. It's just that I already have a reliable contractor on board for that.

Cameron shows up in his truck. I jump out of the golf cart and immediately hand him a steaming cardboard cup of black coffee. He looks a little worse for wear after last night's impromptu karaoke, but is still beaming good-naturedly like a happy fucker who knows he's won the lottery in life.

I open the villa door and we step into a large open space, the kitchen to our left and the living room to our right. Cameron immediately looks to me for direction.

"Actually, I lied about the renovation advice, but don't worry," I hastily assure him. Dude is huge and I don't know him well enough to be sure he wouldn't punch if he felt cornered. "I'm not ambushing you. I do need advice on something, just not construction."

Cameron leans against the granite-topped island and sips his coffee, at ease. "Ah. I've been wondering. Hold on a second." He pulls his phone out of his pocket and immediately starts to scroll.

"What are you—" But I can already hear the distinctive tone of a FaceTime call going through.

A man's voice drawls in a harried southern accent. "Riggs, I already told you to call Arlo about the tux. You're barking up the wrong tree with this linen-pants thing. I don't give a shit if you wear swim trunks, just get your ass there in time to catch me when I pass out after Lorelai appears at the end of the aisle looking like god's gift to, well, me."

Cameron shakes his head at the screen, laughing. "Save your breath, Huckleberry . I already worked it out with your best man. I'm not calling about that. I have someone here who needs our advice. He's in love with Maren."