Cathryn Parry - The Long Way Home

The thing was, road warriors stuck together. They knew all about traveling out first thing Monday morning and home last thing Thursday night. Fridays were for paperwork and telecommuting from home. Bruce did his laundry and errands on Saturday and relaxed on Sunday. Then on Monday he flew to whatever client site he was currently contracted to, fixed the computer systems and was a hero. Or a bum, if something went wrong. Either way, he was free. Nothing held him down. Nothing locked him in place.

Don’t make eye contact.

He walked past the snaking line—caught glimpses of families and old people and young, wide-eyed couples—and ambled up to the counter. This wasn’t his normal rental-car place—he knew the staff in the Fort Lauderdale office personally—so he opened his wallet to get his identification card, just in case. It was tucked behind his gold American Express card, which he removed gingerly. The fragile plastic had been swiped by so many machines that the card was cracked almost in half.

He caught the eye of a clerk on duty. Desmond, the clerk’s nametag read. Bruce nodded at Desmond, and subtly flashed his platinum-colored customer ID.

Desmond nodded back, but continued listening to the customer who was venting at him, a guy about Bruce’s age with a goatee and backpack—and absolutely no power to make anything happen in his favor. A guy who didn’t stand a shot at getting a car.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Desmond said patiently, “I know you have a reservation, but we are absolutely empty at the moment. There is nothing I can do.”

Then Desmond hurried over to assist him. He took the paperwork Bruce offered. “Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”

“I need to switch this for a sedan,” Bruce said. “Something smaller and low mileage.”

The clerk glanced at the sleeve of Bruce’s paperwork. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cole, but there are no cars available. We have at least an hour wait. Your best bet is to keep what you have.” He tried to hand back the paperwork.

Bruce smiled slowly. Held Desmond’s gaze. Kept his palms flat on the counter. With an easy look that said he understood, he felt for Desmond, he really did, but he knew the rules—hell, he had his own rules, too—and this was the way it was gonna go down. He’d do it gracefully, without inciting a riot in the line—especially from the guy in the goatee, practically blowing a gasket beside him, but either way, they were going to do this.

“There are always cars,” Bruce said, softly, his body angled away from the waiting crowd.

The clerk swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up and down.

And then he went to his computer. Bruce tucked his customer ID card back inside his wallet.

Desmond glanced from the monitor to Bruce. Bruce smiled at him. He knew that the computer system—similar to the ones he designed himself—was telling Desmond that Bruce had rented one of his firm’s cars every week, never fail, for the past eight years.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cole,” Desmond said, reaching for the phone. “I need to get an override from management. Would you mind waiting a moment?”

“No problem,” Bruce replied. He went to slide his wallet into his back pocket, when his elbow bumped against something soft.

Actually, against someone soft.

A kid, no more than six or seven years old, had come up beside him. Well inside his personal space. Now what? He raised one eyebrow at the kid, who didn’t take the hint.

Big trouble, he thought. Don’t go there.

“My dad says you’re cutting the line,” the boy said.

Bruce had a niece about the same age. She was a real firecracker, too. Maybe that was why he was considering ignoring his own rules about not interacting with civilians. It seemed nothing was going to be normal about this trip.

“Does he?” Bruce replied. In curiosity, he lifted his gaze past the kid to the guy with the goatee who’d been expressing his irritation to the clerk.

“Daniel,” the man said, his face red with either exasperation or embarrassment, “get over here right now.”

But the kid didn’t move. Bruce frowned, looking down at him. What was it about this kid? Thin and determined, he had a set to his mouth. The parents were just...tired and worn-out from their travels, and kind of clueless about what was happening around them, to tell the truth. The mother rocked and cooed at a toddler girl, cute kid, with wispy hair a blinding blond that was almost white. There were two older kids, eleven or twelve, but they were arguing over an iPod, or maybe an iPhone. The father was sidetracked now, distracted with reading them the riot act, and attempting to get them to line up and behave, although even Bruce saw what a futile gesture that was.

Bruce looked down at the kid again. This was none of his business. But he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“I’m not cutting the line on you,” Bruce explained. “This is a special line for people who travel a lot.”

The kid stared at him. “How can we get in the special line? We need a car. We need to get to Grandma’s house before the traffic starts.”

Bruce had news for him; it was already well into rush hour. Waiting another hour for a car might be the best thing for them to do.

“I think you’ll be stuck in traffic even if you leave now.”

The kid’s chin set. “It’s better if my brothers fight in the car than fight here. My dad won’t be as mad.”

“That’s uh...good thinking.”

“I know.”

Bruce blinked and looked at the boy again. Something about this kid was just...sucking him in. The thing was, Bruce could relate to parents who were absorbed in their own world and not paying attention to the wide world around them. To older siblings who were equally absorbed in their world of petty squabbles, of scuffling with each other instead of behaving. To the baby, so cute and helpless. And to this precocious middle kid, the only one who paid attention to the bigger picture. A leader in the making.

“What’s that big ring?” The kid asked, pointing to Bruce’s heavy gold Annapolis ring with the blue stone on his left ring finger. “Were you in the Super Bowl? Are you famous?”

“It’s my Annapolis ring. I earned it at the U.S. Naval Academy.” Bruce pushed away his unease. He didn’t usually wear the ring, but this week he’d had meetings scheduled with the upper brass of the navy—captains and admirals. His life tended to flow more smoothly when the people in charge accepted him as part of their club. So he’d dug it out of his top drawer, and now he was stuck with it for the night.

“What’s the U.S. Naval Academy?” the kid asked him.

“It’s where the country trains leaders for the U.S. Navy,” he said by rote.

“Is that like the Marines? I want to be a Marine.”

Bruce had felt that way once, too. “Yeah, I get that. When I was your age, I had a buddy whose father was—”

Whoa. He suddenly felt light-headed. Where was this coming from?

He was over all that old stuff. Way over it.

The kid stared at him, but Bruce shook his head in response. He couldn’t tell him that once, a long time ago, he’d had nearly the same conversation with his best friend’s irascible father. Because Bruce had been the precocious kid in his neighborhood. The inquisitive leader who’d felt the burning need to take care of everybody close to him because they weren’t doing such a good job of it themselves. Maureen was the baby sister his mom fussed over, dressed in pretty clothing and took to girly things like ballet class and shopping. His brothers, twins, older than him by eight years, were the ones always distracted by hunting and fishing and boating, and fighting with each other. Their father was cut from the same cloth as Mark and Mike, and though they were all three good guys at heart, they had never understood Bruce. He baffled them. He was different from everybody else they knew.