Page 11 of Inseverable (Carolina Beach)

“I love running on the beach. Don’t you, Spanky? It’s like exhilarating and fun all at the same time—”

“Donotcall me Spanky.”

“Iron Man?”

“No!”

“Batman?”

I turn enough just to glare at her. “Batman?”

She shrugs and continues to run like she’s prancing through a field of daisies, pointy toes and all. “You know,” she says. “Because you’re all broody and your voice is really deep?like Batman.” She beams up at me. “Take it as a compliment. Batman’s all sorts of hot.”

“There’s something wrong with you,” I tell her truthfully.

I continue to run. And so does she. For a tiny thing she’s freakishly athletic. She’s also fairly quiet which is more than shocking.

As I start to get winded, I notice her face is only mildly flushed. I make the mistake of sweeping my gaze along her form. She’s wearing a black sports bra, and shorts that are more like panties than pants. Her hair is pulled back in ponytail revealing a round face and bright brown eyes.

A small spray of freckles pepper her nose and cheeks, and although it’s still only May, her skin has begun to tan. The girl is a stick and would probably shatter if she tripped. Yet despite her puny frame, there’s definition to her arms, legs, and flat stomach.

My gaze lingers longer than it should because she notices and yeah,giggles.

“If you’d like, I can flex for you,” she offers.

I release a heavy breath. This woman can’t possibly be this, this,grrr.

“So where you from?” she asks, ignoring the way I continue to shoot daggers.

When I don’t answer, she keeps talking like I did, and then some. “I’m from South Carolina, born and raised right here on the island. My folks?well, you can call them modern day hippies?used to take me and my brother?his name is Landon?all over the world every summer break up until I was in eighth grade.”

“To Europe,” I guess, even though I more than intended to keep my mouth shut.

She laughs. “Sometimes. Mostly Asia and Africa. We went to England and Italy a few times, but primarily hung out in soup kitchens in the cities, and churches in the rural countryside, tending to those in need of care.”

I frown, confused as to why anyone would drop what had to be several grand to visit Europe only to hang out in soup kitchens and I’m guessing are homeless shelters. But of course, I don’t ask. And of course, that doesn’t stop her from answering.

“They were volunteers, kind of like missionaries without religious intent. More because they could, and wanted to help.”

I’m listening, even though I don’t want to. That doesn’t mean I bother to respond.

“Ever been to Asia?” she asks.

I don’t answer.

“Africa?”

Again, I don’t say a word.

Her voice quiets. “Been to Iraq?”

My head whips her way. And even though I don’t doubt my face shows she’s hit a nerve, she doesn’t flinch. She motions to the ink on my left arm with a tilt of her small chin.

That arm carries the sniper rifle beneath the Death Before Dishonor banner. My right arm is all Ranger. A soldier’s outline covering the entire upper arm that took four hours to ink in.

“I appreciate you serving, more than you know,” she says carefully. “But it must have been hard, protecting your country like you did.”

I almost scoff at her words, but then I don’t, holding in my anger, for my sake and hers. Hard is running along a sandy beach after you’ve worked out for the past two hours. Hard is surviving Special Forces training. Hardisn’tkilling a man you never quite get to look in the face—or watching your friends bleed out in your arms—or lifting your buddy’s severed limb from a dirty pile of rubble—hoping like anything they can somehow stitch that shit back on.

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