If You Were Here Read Online Free PDF Page B

the rim onto my hand. I was licking away the spilled beer—and not a sexy, titillating, “I’m coming for you next” lick but a spazzy kid with jam on her hands kind of lick—when a girl yelling “Woooo” bumped into me. A second, larger wave of beer foam cascaded onto the man next to me.
    “Sorry. Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I patted at his sweater futilely. Again, not a sexy, titillating, “I’m taking my time” pat, but a clumsy, ham-handed, “this might really hurt” pat.
    “Ah, beer and boiled wool. That’ll smell great in the morning.” Another person might have made the comment sound prissy or even cruel. Thanks to the friendly smile that accompanied the words, I found them comforting. It also helped that my beer-soaked victim was six feet three with wavy dark hair and hazel eyes. After getting a better look at him, I registered how firm his stomach had felt beneath that wool sweater.
    “Seriously, I’m really sorry.”
    “It’s not a problem,” he said, accepting a bar towel from the bartender, who apparently noticed the needs of this kind of man without request. He wiped the beer off my hands and shirtsleeves, ignoring the drops of ale on his own clothing. It sounds corny, but there was something familiar about the feel of his skin against mine. “You’re here with Susan, right?”
    “Um, yeah. I guess you are, too?”
    “Patrick Jordan.” He offered a firm handshake. “Susan’s pointed you out a couple times at these things, but we’ve never managed to meet.”
    “Oh sure, you’re Patrick from West Point.”
    That’s right. Susan’s wildly diverse and impressive background included college at the United States Military Academy at West Point. According to her, the predominantly male student body might not have treated her as well if it hadn’t been for a popular trio of supportive cadets led by Patrick Jordan.
    “And you’re—”
    “McKenna Wright. Susan and I lived together for a while a couple of years ago.”
    “Wait. Are you the one who calls her Bruno?”
    Yep, that was moi . “The first time we met, she said her name—‘Nice to meet you, I’m Susan Hauptmann,’ like any normal person. And then I go and blurt out ‘Bruno!’ It was the first thing I thought of.”
    “Of course, because doesn’t everyone know the name of the kidnapper of the Lindbergh baby off the top of their heads? Basic knowledge, really.”
    He raised a finger toward the bartender and I soon had another Westvleteren Trappist in my hand. The truth was that I usually dreaded Susan’s parties. I’m neither a mixer nor a mingler, so a night of serialized chitchat, yelled between casual acquaintances, was my version of being poked in the eye with a needle for three hours.
    But that night involved no further mixing or mingling. I barely noticed as the crowd thinned and familiar faces paused for a quick shoulder grab or a “Sorry we didn’t get to talk more.” Before I knew it, the bartender was announcing last call.
    Patrick and I paused our conversation only when Susan showed up and squeezed between us, throwing an arm around each of our shoulders. “Yo, I’ve been sippin’ on gin and juice.”
    Yes, the song was already old by then. It didn’t matter to Susan. It was newer than her other hip-hop standby—“Rapper’s Delight” by the Sugarhill Gang, the long version if she was wasted on mojitos. She gave Patrick a peck on the cheek. “That’s your prize for keeping this one here so late. She’s not usually a closing-time lady. Let me get you guys another round.”
    The bartender shook her head and made a cutoff motion. Susan made an exaggerated sad face. “Party pooper.”
    Patrick patted his hands against his pant legs. “Well, I guess that’s a sign that we’re out of here. Any interest in sharing a cab?”
    The words were spoken to both Susan and me, but his gaze was directed at me.
    Susan made a loud buzzing sound. “Not tonight, Patrick. She’s heading downtown. And not in