Free My Kind of Christmas by Robyn Carr

get jets if you go to an Academy these days, you can’t enlist and sign up for flight school. Then Aiden headed for college on a Navy scholarship—he’s a doctor. It was down to me. In my mind, the only choice left was deciding which branch of the military I’d join. I got an appointment to the Naval Academy. I went to the same senator Sean had gotten his recommendation from—you can’t get into an Academy without serious political juice.”
    She sat back on his sofa, shock on her face. She took a drink of her Sam Adams and then continued to stare.
    “What?” he asked.
    “How’d you do in the Academy?” She wanted to know.
    “I did fine.”
    “ How fine?”
    “Well. I did well. I graduated second in the class. Got a couple of awards.”
    “And flight school?”
    He narrowed his eyes. First in his class. Every class. “Well,” he said.
    “You little pisser, teasing me about my nubile brain . You were an overachiever.”
    “Who spent about four years in diapers…”
    “With a binky in your mouth. There isn’t a single prescription for brainiacs, except it sounds like growing up with four older brothers might have put you in want of a brotherhood and the Academy. Flight school and a military career would fit right into your pattern. And apparently you were a lot more social than I was.”
    “Do you know everything?”
    “I read.”
    “I read, too. But not about stuff like that.”
    “I know. You’re reading weapons systems, math, aerospace, combat strategy, et cetera. I’m a science major who loves psychology. My degrees are in biology and chemistry with a minor in psych. I’m kind of drawn to the study of genetics, statistics, environmental science, DNA studies, that sort of thing.” She shrugged and said, “That’s how I relax. Reading that stuff.”
    She was scary! “Your childhood,” he said. “Come on.”
    “I’m the oldest, a completely different dynamic. I had slaves—two younger sisters who did whatever I told them to. And apparently I was a real load to raise, but I like to think I was only curious. I liked to take things apart. You know.”
    “Toys?”
    “Well…when I was two. When I was ten I took apart a VCR, an old jukebox, a pool table and a computer.”
    “A pool table? ”
    “At my grandpa’s house. I got the legs to fall off. It took my dad and grandpa all day to stand it back up because they wouldn’t let me help. But I also liked to mix things for taste and to see the chemical reactions—like the time I figured out that baking soda in cola could make a volcano. This wasn’t a problem all the time—I came up with some interesting concoctions out of the refrigerator. But when I got under the sink, we sometimes had trouble. My sister had to be rushed to the hospital because she got a whiff of the fumes from one of my experiments and it burned all the cilia in her nose, throat and lungs. She wheezed for hours. I was grounded forever.”
    “Jesus,” he said. “You’re not planning to reproduce, are you?”
    “Actually, I hope to one day.” Then she smiled and said, “You know what cilia is.”
    “It’s a commonly known word.”
    “It isn’t,” she argued. “Do you have a Scrabble game around here?”
    “I hope not. Why?”
    “You could actually give me some trouble.” Then she laughed.
    Something told Patrick he’d be wise to spoon some chili into her and get her out of here, but that was far from what happened. Instead, they took their time with lots of talking and laughing before they even got to the chili. They went through the teenage and college years, jobs they’d had, trouble they’d been in, glorious moments, disappointments, dates—the good and the terrible. He’d had many more dates than she. Instead of sitting at the table, they finally ate in front of the fire and, afterward, Angie found them a Scrabble game online to play on his laptop.
    And she beat him.
    It was getting very late when he asked her, “Where are you spending Christmas?