Cannon Read online

  Afterward, he runs his hand down my back and over my hips.   "Let's get the fuck out of here, Addy," he says.

  "Where?"  I'm not sure if he's talking about today or permanently, and I'm not sure I care.

  "Road trip?"

  I grin.   "You have the schedule.   You're the boss.   Can we?"

  "Say it again. "

  "Say what?"

  "Say I'm the boss. "

  I laugh and try to slap him from where I stand, but I can't reach him, bent over like this, and Hendrix chuckles.   "I'm not saying it again.   I think you misheard me the first time. "

  "Come on," he says, slapping my ass.   "Say it and I'll tell you the schedule. "

  "Fine," I say, with a mock-exasperated sigh.   "You're the boss.   But only when it comes to the schedule. "

  "What-the-fuck-ever," he says.   "Screw everybody.   We have a couple days before the awards show.   Let's road trip. "

  I agree, caught up in the afterglow of sex.   I don't know if it's the sex, or it's being with Hendrix that's making me giddy and reckless, but I don't care about dropping everything and taking off with him.

  That fact alone should scare me.

  ONE YEAR AGO

  I stand in front of the door to the house, paralyzed by fear and sadness and guilt and rage and a thousand other emotions I can't possibly articulate, swirling around in my head.   Fear grips my heart, worse even than it was when I was in that hellhole in Afghanistan.

  Page 63

  Why did I come here?  What the hell am I going to say, to her of all people?

  Mandy opens the door.   She looks older than she did in the photos Watson was always showing me, dark circles under her eyes.   But I guess that's what a husband's death will do to you.   She's holding a baby on her hip -- Amy.   The baby is older now, too, and she stares at me with wide eyes like she doesn't know what the hell I'm doing here, either.

  Mandy's eyes take me in, the dress uniform I wear out of respect for what I'm doing here, even though it's not official.   She's had this visit before, the official one, the one where they show up on your door with a flag.   I should have been the one to do it, the only surviving member of my squad.

  I chicken-shitted out before.

  Now I'm making up for it.

  It's been three months.   Three months before I could face this.   Two weeks since I've been able to get behind the wheel of a fucking car at all.   I drove to Kentucky, my fingers white-knuckled around the steering wheel, my heart racing so fast I was sure I was near having a heart attack.

  And now I stand here, wearing the uniform, presenting her with a flag, my pathetic attempt to give her something that makes up for her loss.   My pathetic attempt to assuage the guilt I feel for surviving the blast that should have killed me too.

  An older woman comes to the door behind her, and stops when she sees me, taking the baby wordlessly from Mandy's hands.   Watson's wife reaches for the flag, her expression unchanging until she touches the fabric.   Then she falls to her knees, her hands still on it, letting out a cry that rips me to my core.

  I touch her hand, intending to pull her to her feet, to say something meaningful that will take away the pain.   But when I put my hand on hers, I lose it.   A dam opens, and I can't stop the tears that stream down my face.   So we stand there, her and I, sobbing together for the life of her husband, and the lives of my friends, that were lost.

  PRESENT DAY

  "So where are we going?" Addy asks as she slides into the front seat and puts her bare feet on the dashboard of my shitty car.

  "Really?  You're asking me that question?  Where do you think we're going?"

  Addy smiles.   "To the beach. "

  Just like when she was sixteen.

  And it is, just like we're teenagers again, Addy laughing at something stupid I say and swatting my arm from the passenger seat as we drive the seven hours to Hilton Head.   Away from all the bullshit in Nashville, Addy starts to open up.   The wrinkle that I thought was permanently etched in her forehead is gone, and she seems content and at ease.   She seems happy.

  I think of the last time I took a road trip, the one to Kentucky to see Watson's wife Mandy.   The trip that tore me in two, left me broken.   I made the same trip four more times, my version of a pilgrimage, doing the thing I feared doing the most, that I thought would destroy me.   But in the end, it didn't.   Doing it kept me together.

  She looks over at me while we're driving.   "You're staring at me. "

  I shrug.   "No reason. "

  "What?" she asks, her voice higher.   But she's smiling.

  "You just look…happy," I say.   But it's not only her that's happy.   It's a strange feeling, being content.   It creeps up on you when you least expect it.   It's a lot like love in that respect.

  "I don't usually look happy?"

  I laugh.   "Fuck, no you don't. "

  "Well, maybe I am happy, Hendrix," she says.   "I think I might be. "

  I think I might be, too.

  Addy covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she giggles behind her hand at the three college girls singing karaoke, a drunken rendition of "Don't Stop Believing. "  We're sitting at a little dive bar on the beach, Addy in a cutoff jean skirt and a tank top, wearing a baseball hat.   Before we left the hotel, she worried someone might recognize her, but no one has, which leaves me relieved.   She looks like a regular college chick.   Except a lot hotter.

  "Oh, you think you can do Journey better?" I ask, taking a swig of my beer.

  "I do an excellent rendition of that song, thank you very much.   You go up there. "  Addy runs her finger along the salted rim of her margarita class, and when she puts her finger in her mouth I think it's the most unintentionally sexy thing she's ever done.

  I raise my eyebrows.   "I'd put you to shame, hot stuff," I say.   "You've never heard me sing. "

  Page 64

  Two tequila shots later, and there's a break in the songs.   Addy nods at the stage.   "There's your chance, hot stuff," she says, winking.   She thinks I'm not going to take her bait, but I down the rest of my beer and stand up.   "Where are you going?"

  "You wanted me to serenade you, didn't you?"

  Addy laughs.   "I didn't mean it," she says.   "Sit down. "

  "Not on your life, sweet cheeks," I say as she covers her face in mock embarrassment.   "Don't worry, I'll dedicate it to you. "

  "Hendrix, no!" she protests, but she's laughing, and she leans back in her chair with her legs kicked out in front of her, teal flip-flops on her feet, and tucks the brim of her hat down over her face.   I watch her flag down the waitress and get another shot of tequila, that she hold up at me in a "cheers" gesture.

  When the music starts, I can practically hear her groan from the stage.   Okay, I can't really, but her reaction is priceless.   She buries her face in her hands as I take the microphone.   "This is for my best friend, who should just admit that my voice is much more amazing than hers will ever be. "

  I belt out the lyrics to Addy's first hit, "Country Sweetheart," the candy-coated pop country song that made her famous.   And by "belt out," I mean I do my version of singing, which falls somewhere on the tolerability scale between nails on a chalkboard and the most annoying sound in the world.   But I know all those goddamned lyrics, even though I wasn't into that bullshit when I was in high school.   That damn song worked its way into my brain and took up residence there, way back then.

  Just like Addy did.

  The other people in the bar think it's funny, that I'm doing some kind of serenade for my girlfriend, and Addy covers her face with the brim of her hat as people clap along.   When I get back to the table, I'm pretty sure Addy is going to say we need to get the hell out of there before she's recognized, since we're skating on thin ice, but she doesn't