I have a doughnut in one hand and a coffee in the other as I stroll into Carolina’s hotel room.
“Rise and shine,” I call out.
After my wonderful and not-at-all-awkward breakfast with her father, I ran to my room and showered.
Carolina yawns while sitting up in the bed. “Quit being so perky.” Another yawn. “It’s too early for that.” Her hair is a tangled mess, there’s dried slobber on the side of her mouth, and even with the shower, there’re still blotches of mascara under one eye. She’s a gorgeous, hot mess.
I hold the doughnut bag and coffee up. “I brought food for your hungover self. I’d be nice to this perky dude.”
“All right,” she groans. “Thank you. Carbs is just what the doctor ordered.”
“Or what the preacher ordered.” I hand her the bag and a napkin before placing the coffee on the nightstand next to her. “Your dad picked it out for you.”
She stills, just as she’s about to take a bite of the doughnut. “My dad?”
I plop down on the edge of the bed by her feet. “Yep. We had breakfast.”
“You had breakfast with my dad,” she drags out.
“Sure did. It was quite a blast, let me tell you. We drank mimosas and took tequila shots. He sure enjoyed the hair of the dog.”
She stretches her leg out to kick me. “You’re such a liar.”
“About the shots, yes. About us having breakfast, no. He wanted to have coffee with his daughter’s new boyfriend to tell him not to break your heart.” I leave out the questions about future marriage and why she left school.
Her eyes widen, the doughnut falling onto the bag in her lap, and her hand cups her mouth. “Oh my God! I forgot about our boyfriend-girlfriend game. What happens when we get home? How are we going to break up?”
I poke her foot. “Let’s say you cheated on me.”
“What? No! You’re not blaming the breakup on me.”
“Oh, and I’m supposed to take the blame?” I point at myself and shake my head. “I’m not being the bad guy.” I scratch my cheek. “There are reasons other than cheating. We can say you joined a nunnery. You join, no one suspects anything, and all will be right in the world.”
“You need to stop suggesting I join a nunnery. Not happening.” She shoves a bite of the doughnut into her mouth.
“Why? Your father probably has some great connections.”
She rolls her eyes, chewing. “You just want me to stay single and non-sexually active for the rest of my life.”
“Fine, no cheating or nunnery. We’ll say we’re better off as friends.”
She throws her head back. “It’s way too early to discuss our fake breakup for our fake relationship.”
I nod in agreement. “Your head hurt?”
I’m acting as normal as I can.
Does she remember what happened last night?
She wasn’t drunk. I definitely won’t be bringing that shit up, though.
“Nope.” She finishes off her doughnut.
“Liar.”
“Ibuprofen, please.” She points at her bag. “Left pocket.”
I snatch her bag, grab the ibuprofen, snag a bottle of water from the mini fridge, and hand them to her.
“Thank you,” she says, swallowing the pills down.
She hands me the water, and I set it on the nightstand next to her coffee.
“Our flight leaves in a few hours,” I inform her, sitting back down on the side of the bed. “I’m shocked you’re not packed and ready to go yet.”
“Last night drained all the life out of me. I can’t wait to go home.”
“Back to reality,” Carolina says after we land and stroll through the airport. “I never thought I’d be so excited to be home from a vacation.” She holds up her hand to correct herself. “Technically, it was a hell-cation.”
We took an Uber to the airport with her parents this morning, and Carolina tried her hardest not to appear hungover. The disapproving glances her father shot her way proved her convincing skills sucked ass.
I bump my shoulder against hers. “Rude to say that to the person who accompanied you on the trip.”
“Fine.” She bumps my shoulder back. “It would’ve been a hell-cation had you not been there. Seriously, thank you for coming, Rex.”
“I’ll always have your back … until you break up with me later.” I press my hand to my heart. “I’m already putting together a broken-heart playlist.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re breaking up with me. I’ve been brainstorming for the perfect story.”
“Too late. I’ve already made the decision. You’re into some kinky shit in the bedroom that’s way out of my comfort zone.” I struggle to hold in a laugh. “I refuse to let you spank me with whips and give you a golden shower.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps, slapping my arm, and she casts a glance at her sister walking a few feet behind us. “What is wrong with you? My sister is right there, and you know how much of a tattletale she is. I can’t have my parents thinking I want you to pee on me!”
I chuckle. “I highly doubt your parents know what a golden shower is.”
“Uh … you ever heard of Google?”
“Google?” I stroke my chin. “What is this Google you speak of?”
She hitches her bag up higher on her shoulder. “I like your idea, but it needs to be switched around. I was the one who refused the peeing thing.”
“I see we’re having some creative differences here. Time to find a better approach. You riding home with me? We can talk about the best way to break up.”
“Duh. My parents already know.” She blows out a long breath. “I’m definitely not sharing another ride with them.”
“How did you know I’d let you ride home with me? Maybe your boyfriend needs some alone time.”
“Don’t care. I’m riding with you. Get over it.”
I chuckle. “I love it when you’re bossy.”
There might’ve been some awkward times during our trip—like, say, when she got naked and asked me to shower with her—but I’m sad it’s over. Not that I won’t be spending more time with Carolina back home, but it was nice to be able to touch her without it appearing weird. I was her boyfriend in Texas. It was my job to be all touchy-feely. If only I could do it here in Blue Beech.
Our vacation is over.
Our fake relationship will end.
Our lives will go back to normal.
Neither of us has muttered a word about the shower incident, and I’m hoping it stays that way. I already felt bad enough about turning her down. Carolina doesn’t put herself out there like that; it’s not in her nature. It was rough to say no, but it was also satisfying to know she trusts me enough to pull herself out of her comfort zone. Sure, she was drunk, but had I been some random dude, she would’ve never dropped her panties in front of me.
At least, I hope not.
We grab our luggage, and Carolina turns her parents down for a ride four times before we finally say good-bye and walk to my car in the parking garage.
“Have I mentioned how much I love this car?” she says after we throw our luggage in the trunk and get in. “It’s so much fancier than mine. You just keep getting more tech savvy.”
“An electric car is not tech savvy,” I argue from the driver’s side as we pull out of the parking spot.
She stretches out her legs. “In our small town, anything above a gas-hogging truck, Jeep, or minivan is tech savvy.”
“Which is why, Lina babe, I don’t suggest it. Finding charging stations is a bitch.”
I fucking love my Tesla. It took me a while to finally make the plunge and buy it, but it’d been my dream car for years. After I signed my contract with the development company for my game, I sold the Charger and bought the Tesla. The next item on my list is purchasing a home after my lease ends.
“I’m too poor to buy a new car anyway,” she says with a frown. “I might stay poor for the rest of my life since I dropped out of school …
says my parents.”
I gulp, gripping the steering wheel as I glance over at her. “Do you think you’ll ever tell them the truth?” Do you think you’ll ever tell me the entire truth?
“Who knows?” She wrinkles her nose. “Maybe in thirty years.” She shakes her head while turning her attention out the window. “It’s embarrassing. I’m stupid.”
“Hey,” I say softly. “You’re not stupid. You were taken advantage of.”
“My stupidity is more than just him.” She casts me a nervous glance. “It’s him, what happened with Margie, all of it. I feel stupid, weak, and wish I could go back in time.”
My stomach sinks at the heartbreak in her voice, and I wish I could wrap her in my arms, hold her tight, and let her know it’ll be okay … as I’ve done so many damn times since that bastard did what he did.
“My parents wouldn’t understand being taken advantage of because I made that stupid choice,” she continues. “It was a consequence of my decision. None of this would’ve happened had I not been irresponsible … had I not been too scared to tell the truth and stopped hiding it.”
Yet she’s still hiding it.
“Has living at your sister’s improved?”
At first, Tricia gave her shit for dropping out, which is bullshit. Tricia didn’t go to college. She married her high school sweetheart right out of school and started a family. Her parents approved of that, but they don’t approve of Carolina waitressing and getting her shit together. Her sister hasn’t failed to remind her how much work and money their parents put into Carolina’s education.
“A little,” she replies. “I stay in the loft as much as I can when I’m there. When she makes her surprise visits for girl talk, I agree with her, so she’ll go.” She shrugs. “What can I do? I’m not going to be a bitch. She’s giving me free rent, for goodness’ sake, and losing money by not renting it to anyone else. I can handle a little lecturing for that.”
“The offer to move in with me is still open,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Hearing my sister’s lectures is better than being around you and your women.”
“Oh, come on.” I crack a smile. “You act like I’m with a different woman every night. Hell, I spend nearly half of my time hanging out with you and the other working on my fame.”
She laughs when I glance her way and smirk.
“You’re at my apartment more than your own anyway,” I add. “It’d be no different.”
I’ve offered the spare bedroom in my apartment to her several times. I’d love for her to be my roommate, for me to be able to watch over her and hang out with her more.
“On the days we’re not together, you’re with another chick, not working on your fame—unless it’s to be Blue Beech’s biggest man-whore even though you’ve already won the title.” She waggles her finger in my direction. “Don’t forget, I’ve been there on numerous occasions when random chicks show up at your doorstep.”
“I didn’t know numerous meant twice,” I correct. “And I made them leave.”
My other nickname for Carolina is the Exaggerator Queen. She always multiplies everything I do by at least five. Two chicks show up, and she’ll say it’s ten. I tell her I’ve had sex with one chick, and she says I’ve had sex with five.
“Are you going home or to my place?” I ask when the Welcome to Blue Beech, Iowa sign comes into view.
“Home for now,” she replies. “I might come by later. I need to unpack, do laundry, take a long bath, and get over this stupid hangover.”
I nod and head toward her sister’s house. “Text me in a bit … with a breakup text.”
She sighs. “Not happening, homeboy.”
A playful groan leaves my throat. “At least send your boyfriend a picture of you in the bath.” I slam my mouth shut as soon as I say the words, and I want to slap myself.
Teasing Carolina whenever she said she was taking a bath was one of my favorite pastimes, but now, after the shower incident, bath sexting references are a terrible idea.
Her face pales, confirming she no doubt remembers what happened last night. “Not …” she stutters. “Not happening.”
I force myself to sound as playful as I can. “Kidding, my sweet girlfriend.”
13
Carolina
Hangovers are a bitch.
Turns out, while around distant relatives you don’t like, drinking helps you tolerate them. It also turns out that drinking will convince you that attempting to seduce your best friend in a hotel room is a fantastic idea.
Damn you, alcohol. You’re the best friend who’s also a bad influence.
Good for the mind but bad for the hormones.
Rex was thankfully smart enough not to mention last night. He knows I’d die of embarrassment, and he’d lose his favorite cookie-maker. As much as I’d like to forget last night, I can’t. All I’m doing while taking my bath is asking myself, Why?
Why did I enjoy our boyfriend-girlfriend game so much?
Why, even as awkward as I feel now, wouldn’t I mind if he came barging in here, asking me to share my bath?
Why? Why? Why?
These past few months have been hard on me and on my heart, but Rex has been by my side every step of the way. He goes beyond the best-friend title, and sometimes, I wish he’d move into the boyfriend title.
I love him so damn much.
If only things were different.
If only he believed in love.
I understand he doesn’t want to break my heart. I’ve seen him struggle with women—struggle when they begged him to give them more than a quick screw, struggle to cut them off, struggle to put himself out there. As much as I love him rejecting them, I wish he hadn’t turned me down the same way.
When I get out of the bathtub, I drop my towel and get dressed into my pajamas. On my way back to my bedroom, I snatch my phone and hop into my comfy bed. As soon as I glance at the screen, nausea fills my stomach more than this damn hangover.
Margie: Hey! My birthday is next week. We’re having a dinner at El Pacinos! Tacos and margaritas are calling our names. Please come!
So many emotions flood through me as I stare at her text message—envy, guilt, and sadness. A tear slides down my cheek as I contemplate whether to reply. Some days, I do. Some days, I don’t.
Me: I have plans. Sorry.
Seconds later, my phone vibrates.
Margie: Come on, Carolina. Talk to me. You said I didn’t do anything to piss you off, but all you do is blow me off. You left the dorm without even saying good-bye!
She’s right. Rex and his roommate, Josh, went to my dorm and packed up my things, and I haven’t been back.
Me: I’ve been busy working, and campus is such a long drive.
Margie: I can come there. Girls’ night this weekend?
Me: Not this weekend. I’ll get back with you.
Margie: Whatever. I’ll just stop reaching out.
I sigh, wishing I had the guts to say more.
I haven’t talked to Margie since I dropped out. When I disappeared from my dorm, she called and texted every day. I never answer her calls, but I text back, telling her I am busy or have a lot going on. I blow her off every time she asks to hang out.
After plugging my phone into the charger, I tuck myself into bed. My head might feel better after sixteen hours of sleep.
“Good morning, honey! How was your trip?” Shirley asks, her voice cheerful and loud when I walk into the diner bright and early.
Shirley is the owner of the diner I work for and waitressed here for years before her mother passed it down to her. She’s a dark-skinned woman in her sixties who’s a kind soul full of wisdom. I frequently studied here for hours in high school while eating slices of her famous pie. She never complained about me taking up a table, nor did she fail to slide a free slice in front of me—cherry, my favorite. She attends my father’s church regularly and is a frequent donor of everything sweet.
“I think I’m in need of a vacation
from that vacation,” I grumble, grabbing an apron and tying it around my waist.
She laughs. “Oh, family weddings. They’re always so fun.”
“And also depressing,” I add with a frown.
When I moved back to Blue Beech, my father offered me a job at the church, but I declined. Working for him is a bad idea. I’d hear his lecturing forty hours a week, and he’d watch every move I made. I still volunteer for functions at the church on my time off, but I can pick and choose those dates. They’re normally when my father is busy or in a public place.
Shirley’s Diner has been a staple in our town for decades. It has cute ’50s-themed décor—complete with classic red booths, black-and-white-checkered floors, and bright teal walls. The most popular part of the diner is the silver counter in the front with a glass case filled with slices of pie in every flavor imaginable. Shirley makes them herself every night, and I stay over to help sometimes. It’s the least I can do for her since she gave me a job and donates so many of them to the charity dinners I throw.
“Your boyfriend is in your booth,” Candy, another waitress, sings while skipping into the kitchen.
Rex and his family have always been regulars at the diner, but he’s here nearly half of my shifts and sits in the same booth in my section every time. On these days, he wakes up earlier than usual, brings his laptop to work, and eats. He also leaves me crazy tips, to which I try to shove back into his hand, pockets, shirt—wherever there’s a crevice on him—but he won’t allow it. He knows how hard up for cash I am. He also knows I won’t take any money from him, so this is his way of helping me out.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I reply.
Candy rolls her eyes while Shirley laughs in the background. “He’s so your boyfriend.”
“Sweetie, sooner or later, that boy will be your husband,” Shirley gushes. “You two need to do some growing up.” A grin takes over her wrinkled face. “You wait and see.”
“Shirley, I’m beginning to think you’re crazy,” I remark, shaking my head.
“Not crazy, honey, just wise.” She squeezes my shoulder.
Just Friends (Blue Beech) Page 11