by Tracy Wolff
Or maybe they’re doing guy stuff, and he assumes I wouldn’t be interested.
Or maybe he wanted to talk to them about me. God. I really, really, really hope that isn’t it. Just the thought of him discussing what we do—what we’ve done—with Z and Ash brings the nausea rushing back, and I close my eyes and drop my forehead to my knees. Our best friends so do not need to know what I’m like in bed.
I’m sitting there, trying to work up the energy to get up—or you know, to find the will to live—when my phone vibrates again. Hoping it’s a text from Luc, I pick it up right away, then feel unreasonably disappointed when it turns out it’s from Zach, my youngest older brother. He’s the only one who hasn’t texted me the last couple of days, and secretly I’ve been hoping it’s because he feels as messed up about that woman coming back as I do. But judging from the first part of his text, which is all I can see on my main message screen, I’ve been living in a dream world.
stop being a spoiled brat. you need—
I swipe out of it without ever opening the text. If that’s what he’s leading with, I have no interest in anything else he’s got to say.
Still, it gives me the impetus I need to finally get myself to the bathroom. My feet feel a little better today, I realize as I limp barefoot across Luc’s hardwood floor. The cuts must be starting to heal, so at least that’s a win, I tell myself. Too bad it doesn’t feel like much of one when I’m standing over the sink—with one hand braced on the counter to keep myself upright—brushing my teeth. Splashing water on my face. And trying desperately to convince myself that there’s nothing to worry about.
Yes, I know Luc almost as well as I know myself.
Yes, things have been rough and different between us lately.
Yes, this whole run out while I’m still asleep thing is a little weird—and eerily reminiscent of what I did to him the first time we hooked up.
But that doesn’t mean anything weird is going on. Our relationship is changing, evolving, so is it any wonder that the two of us feel a little awkward? Like things don’t quite fit? It’s totally normal, I reassure myself for the thousandth time. Or at least, that’s my story and I’m clinging to it with bloody fingertips for as long as I can.
When I go back into the bedroom, I see that my clothes from the bar last night—a pair of jeans and a summer blouse I picked up at Macy’s before we went out—are neatly folded on Luc’s dresser. Seeing as how my last memory of them was tossing them onto a chaise longue at the pool, I can only assume this means Luc went out and got them this morning.
Thank God. Considering my only other option is raiding his wardrobe for another pair of sweats. This thought doesn’t sit well with me. Neither does the idea of going shopping for a whole new wardrobe when I have a perfectly good one sitting in my closet at home. I just need to stop being a chickenshit and go get it.
A quick glance at the clock tells me that if I wait a little longer, I can probably get into the house today to get my stuff—and then get out without running into either of my parents. From the time my oldest brother moved to Salt Lake City to go to college, our family has had a long-standing Sunday morning breakfast date at the local pancake house. Through the years a lot has changed as everyone has moved out, gone to school, gotten jobs, gotten girlfriends, etc—but the one constant has always been Sunday breakfast. Unless you’re on your deathbed or out of the state, you don’t miss it—no matter how drunk you got Saturday night.
I’m not on my deathbed, but I’m definitely missing it today. If my mom is going to be there, I’m going to be missing it for the foreseeable future. Maybe forever. And if that gives me a little pang deep inside, that’s just too damn bad. Because there is no way I’m going to cave on this, no way I’m going to just forget about the fact that she dumped us for a better, more exciting life.
Who does that? I wonder for about the ten-millionth time. Who goes out for ice cream and then never comes back? The fact that she’s shown up now means nothing to me. Except to make me wonder what went wrong in that bigger, better life that she’s finally run back here so my dad can bail her out of it.
So, no, I won’t be going to breakfast with her. But judging from the abundance of text messages on my phone, my brothers and father will. This means I should be able to get into the house for a little while without worrying about running into any of them.
With that thought as my guiding beacon, I finally make it into the kitchen. I find some TYLENOL, swallow them with a cup of fiery hot coffee that burns all the way down, then grab an everything bagel—my favorite kind—out of the bag Luc left on the counter.
I eat it standing up at the counter, staring out Luc’s window and trying hard not to worry about everything. It doesn’t work. Another couple of texts come in and though I know they probably won’t be from Luc, I look at them anyway. And I was right. Definitely not from Luc, but not from my family either.
They’re from Josh.
had a great time last night.
hope we can do it again soon.
Weird that he’s texting me about it, since he’s always been more Z’s friend than mine—but maybe he’s texting all of us. Either way, I don’t want to be rude, so I text back,
absolutely! so much fun!
Then I shove my phone back in my pocket and forget all about him. I’ve got much bigger things to worry about than Josh Greene’s texting habits.
Once nine o’clock hits and I’m sure my parents will have already left for Sunday breakfast, I grab my backpack and head over to my dad’s house. Funny, I’ve only been gone two days and already it feels like that—like the house I grew up in is my dad’s house and not my home. I’m not sure what to make of that, so I shove the thought to the back of my head and concentrate on driving instead.
Except, when I pull onto my street, I can see a bunch of familiar-looking cars parked along the curb on either side of my house. My brothers’ cars.
What the hell? They never come here on Sunday mornings. They always meet at the restaurant. Always. So why are they here, now? It doesn’t make any sense.
Cursing under my breath, I steer my way between the cars, figuring I’ll just keep going. It’s inconvenient, but I can go shopping for a few more days’ worth of stuff. Eventually I’ll find a time when I can get in here alone.
Except it doesn’t quite work out the way I plan. Just as I’m passing the house, my brother Nicholas pulls up from the opposite direction. As soon as he sees my Jeep, he pulls his truck to a stop in the middle of the road, effectively blocking me from getting by.
I think about pulling into the driveway and turning around, but that just makes me look like a total bitch. Especially when Ty and Marcus choose that exact moment to walk out of the house toward Marcus’s truck. It’s obvious that they’ve spotted me, too.
Shit. I’m totally trapped.
Not sure what else to do, I back up until I get to some open curb that I can park along. Then I climb out of the car and pray the next half an hour won’t go as badly as I’m afraid it’s going to.
I get to the driveway just as Marcus and Ty are unloading a couple boxes of beer and wine. “Starting the drinking early today, are we?” I ask with raised eyebrows. “Not that I blame you. Can I get in on that action?”
Ty shoulder bumps me. “We’re watching the game after breakfast. Stick around and you’re welcome to as much of the action as you can handle.”
“That’s so not going to happen. I’m just here to get my stuff.”
“Your stuff?” Nick says as he comes up behind us. “You’re not actually planning on moving out, are you?”
“That’s exactly what I’m planning.”
My brothers make eye contact over my head, rolling their eyes at each other. “Don’t be such a girl,” Marcus advises as he pushes open the front door with his foot.
“Newsflash, you jerk. I am a girl.”
Ty sighs heavily. “Wouldn’t know it to look at you. I mean, except for the hair.” He yanks on one of my cu
rls, and then takes off before I can retaliate.
The others follow him into the kitchen, but I just stand there, wondering what I should do. I can hear pots and pans clanging and a bunch of people talking all at the same time. Judging by the cars outside, Nick and I were the last to arrive—which means all six of my brothers are in there right now. Along with my father and her.
Part of me wants to stick my head in, just to see how all my brothers are reacting to her. But judging from the laughter and upbeat chitchat going on, they all seem to be doing just fine. Even Zach, the traitor.
And I am so not in the mood to deal with all of that.
Deciding to hell with it, I take the stairs two at a time. My room is the last one on the left—closest to the bathroom because I’m a girl, my father used to say. It was the one perk that came with being female in this house—that and being the only one who didn’t have to share a room growing up. The boys used to complain about the fact that I had my own room, but the truth was, I would have traded with them in a heartbeat. It was always a little lonely being the only one who didn’t have a roommate. Add in the fact that my three best friends were also boys—boys who regularly had sleepovers at one another’s houses that I couldn’t attend because my father wasn’t that liberated—and for a while, being a girl had pretty much sucked. Especially considering the fact that I had no interest in Barbies or nail polish or any of the other things the girls at school had liked.
On the plus side, I’m used to being odd woman out, so the fact that I’m the only holdout with my mom doesn’t bother me.
More like shouldn’t bother me, I think, as I let myself into my room and close the door behind me. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
How can my brothers just forget what she did? How can they just pretend none of it happened? I don’t understand.
Now isn’t the best time to worry about that, though. Not when I have clothes to pack and not a lot of time to do it. I figure it won’t be long before my dad is beating down my door, demanding my presence at the breakfast table. And since I have no intention of actually being in the same room as that woman, I’m pretty sure that will start a fight. I’d like to have as much packed as I can before that happens. Grabbing my two travel bags out of the bottom of my closet, I lay them on my bed and start shoving stuff into them. Underwear, socks, tank tops, shorts, jeans, even a couple of sundresses in case this thing with Luc manifests itself in a date at some point soon.
The bags are big since they’re meant to accommodate my bulky snowboarding clothes, so I manage to get a lot into them in a short amount of time. It’s only September so I don’t need my boarding clothes yet, but I grab one outfit anyway—just in case. I throw in a few pairs of shoes, some toiletries, and my birth control pills and I’m done in under ten minutes.
I’m just grabbing my laptop and tablet—and my phone charger so I can stop borrowing Luc’s—when there’s a knock on my door. Shit. I was really hoping to do this after I got back downstairs, where there was an easy escape route.
But since that obviously isn’t going to happen, the best thing to do is just get it over with. Quickly. Moving around my bed, I cross to the door and, after taking a deep breath, open it. I’m all prepared for my father or oldest brother, Greg, to be on the other side—all prepared to get bitched out by one of them. But what I’m not expecting is for my mother to be there, dressed in a sunny yellow dress and carrying a large mug.
I’m so unprepared, in fact, that for long seconds I just stand there, staring at her.
“I brought you some coffee,” she says, holding the mug out to me. “Your dad says you like it black.”
“He likes it black. I like it with cream.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She lowers her offering, then glances past me into my room. “Can I come in?”
“I was just leaving, actually.”
I turn away from the door, step back toward the bed, and start zipping up my suitcases.
“You’re not really moving out, are you?” she asks, taking a few uninvited steps into my room.
“What is it with people asking me that question today? Yes, I’m really moving out.”
“Please don’t. Not on my account. The last thing I want is for you to feel like you aren’t welcome in your own home.”
Well then, she probably should have thought about that before she moved back in. I don’t say that though—no use being a total bitch when the last thing I want is to create any more drama. All I want is to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible.
“Don’t worry about it. I only stuck around this long because I didn’t want Dad to be alone. Since that’s not a problem anymore—”
I let the sentence trail off as I heft one of the bags over my shoulder and reach for the second one.
She stops me with a hand on my arm. “Please don’t go. I’d really like a chance to talk to you, to get to know you.”
“Yeah, well, when I was a kid, I really wanted a chance to get to know you, too. Looks like neither one of us is going to get what we want on that front, doesn’t it?”
So much for not being a bitch.
But there’s no way I can sit here and talk to her when I’m feeling this messed up. I’ll end up in tears or something equally ridiculous and there’s no way I’m doing that. No way I’m exposing just how vulnerable I am to someone who has already hurt me as much as she has.
I shake off the guilt that came with my bitchy comment, and pick up the other bag. And then I’m out of there, taking the stairs two at a time in an effort to get away from her as fast as fucking possible.
But she doesn’t get the hint. She follows me, and I obviously get my athletic ability from my dad because she trips before she’s halfway down the stairs. I hear her cry out and have just enough time to drop the bags and turn to catch her before she’s crashing into me and sending both of us careening down the last few steps.
She screams as we fall—of course she does—and by the time we land at the bottom, my dad and brothers are flooding in from the kitchen. By some miracle, I manage to keep us both upright, though my weak knee and hurt feet take most of the impact.
“What did you do?” Greg demands as he comes to a stop right in front of us.
“What did I do?”
As soon as I’m sure she’s steady I let go of my moth—of her—and grab my bags from where they fell. I hope my laptop is okay. I’ll be pissed as hell if I broke it trying to save her.
“It’s my fault,” she says. “I was chasing after her—”
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Ty asks, grabbing my arm to hold me in place. “You don’t get to just walk away whenever you want to. She could have been hurt—”
“All I was doing was trying to pack my bags. She’s the one who came into my room uninvited, and she’s the one who tripped over her own feet.” I shove him, hard, and since he’s not expecting it, I actually manage to knock him back a few steps. As soon as his hand slips off my arm, I head for the door.
Except Zach puts himself in my way. Zach who, next to Luc, Ash, and Z, has always been my best friend. Zach who, according to his text this morning, thinks I’m being a spoiled brat.
“Get out of my way,” I tell him.
“Will you just stop being so fucking stubborn and listen for a minute?”
“I’m not the one who isn’t listening. Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”
“Or what?” he asks, lifting a sardonic brow.
“Or I’ll move you.” I reach out to shove him the same way I did Ty, but before I can connect, my father’s voice booms across the entryway. “Cameron Michelle Bradley, stop acting like a rabid dog or I’m going to muzzle you. Put those bags down right now and go wash up in the kitchen. You’re staying for breakfast.”
I freeze in my tracks, because when my Dad uses that tone, you fall into line. It doesn’t matter how old or how angry or how hurt you are, you do as your told. And while an objective part of my brain tells me that I can ignore him—that I can sti
ll walk out—my twenty-one years worth of family knowledge say something entirely different. I drop my bags on the foyer floor before heading into the kitchen for what I can only assume will be the most miserably long and uncomfortable breakfast in Bradley family history.
Chapter 12
Luc
“So what happened between Josh and Cam last night?” Z asks as soon as I return to our table after a quick trip to the restroom.
“I don’t know,” I answer even as I try to block out how happy she looked laughing up at him at the bar. Or how good they looked—how well they fit—when they were dancing together. “I don’t think anything happened. Why?”
Z slides his phone across the table so Ash and I can see the latest string of text messages he’d gotten from Josh.
hey dude, great seeing you last night. cam’s super cool. what kind of food does she like? I’m going to take her out this week.
And a few minutes later:
does she like going out on the water?
I stare at the texts, trying to figure out how to respond without giving too much away. But it feels like the Hulk has just smashed the hell out of my chest cavity—or should I say, the heart out of it—and it probably looks like it, too. Especially since it takes me a couple of seconds too long to come up with an answer.
The quiet around us goes from waiting to awkward in a moment. I know it. I can feel it in the throbbing sound of silence that fills up all the air and just hangs there, slowly crushing me for long, painful seconds.
And still, I can’t speak—can’t get my brain to form words. I’m too busy re-reading the fucking texts. I’m going over and over them in my head, trying to figure out how the boogeyman that kept me awake most of the night has suddenly become real.
He doesn’t say that he’s going to ask Cam out. He says that he’s taking her out. Does that mean that he’s already asked? And that she’s said yes?
How the fuck is that possible? And if it is possible—if it is true—shouldn’t she have mentioned something to me about it at some point?