Page 7 of Sparks
I laughed. “No. We’re just never all there at once. We have four pallets in the main bedroom and two in the small one.”
“Pallets? Like cots?”
“No. They’re all different. One girl has an actual twin bed. Some of the others have air mattresses. I’ve got a pile of mats and sleeping bags and blankets. It’s actually pretty comfortable.”
He couldn’t stop smiling as I explained, which made me giggle.
“Eight of you, but only six beds?”
I shrugged. “We share. Someone will sleep in my bed tonight. We each have our own pillows, though. We don’t share those. And we wash sheets weekly. Everyone tries to be respectful.”
“Sounds like the military life,” he said.
“Yeah. Our training was pretty rigorous, believe it or not. A lot of people cry and end up dropping out because it’s so stressful, especially during the crash drills. They yell in our faces and all that. We call it Barbie Bootcamp.”
“No way.” He threw his head back and laughed, making me giggle again.
“Yep. And once we graduate we’re called Sky Muffins until we’re put on permanent crews.”
“Shut the fuck up.” His grin was so big it was making my own face hurt from smiling.
Jerome Smith came over with vodka in one hand, cranberry juice in the other, and a bottle of soda water under his arm.
“Refill, Captain?” He looked at me. “Harlow?”
“Ah, you don’t gotta do that, Smith,” the officer said. “I was about to get up.”
“Nah, I got you, sir.” He refilled our drinks with a smile, and Captain Fowler shook his head.
“Just this once. You don’t need to serve me.”
“I live to serve you, sir.”
“Not tonight.” The captain gave Jerome a firm pat on the shoulder as the soldier finished and turned to leave us.
“Good kids, man,” he said, almost to himself before turning to me. “Harlow, is it?”
“Yep. Harlow Robinson. And you’re Captain Fowler?”
“Oh, hell no.” He laughed. “Enough of that. Call me Shawn.”
“Shawn.” I held out my hand like a goober and he shook it, his grip dry and warm.
“Now,” he said. “Your dad was Navy, huh? I’ll try not to hold that against him.”
I laughed. “Luckily we only had to move a couple times. I was in San Diego when I was little, but mostly lived in Norfolk and Virginia Beach. My dad was gone out to sea a lot, though. Then he retired and became a contractor at the shipyard.”
“And your mom?”
“She’s a total beach hippie.” I smiled thinking about her. “She collects sea glass and makes jewelry with it. She does workshops at local boutiques and galleries. She had her own shop until she got sick.”
“She got sick?” he asked.
I nodded, feeling a flash of fear like I did every time I thought about it. “I’ll tell you the abridged version. My parents tried for years to have a baby, but never could. Imagine their surprise when I came along when she was thirty-nine.”
“Oh, shit,” he laughed.
“Yeah. They thought it was perimenopause at first. So, I’m the only child and my parents were significantly older than my friends’ parents. My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was sixteen.”
