Jett opens his mouth to respond, but I turn and dart toward the bookstore before anyone can issue a rebuttal.
An hour later, along with Mrs. Baxter’s full-frontal, needle-down-my-spine-inducing hug and a smiling, “See you on Monday!” I walk out as the new cashier/stocker/live bait money-taker for Beachin’ Books. She subjected me to no grueling, complex questions, other than a few things like How are you liking Edisto? and How’s your Memaw doing? There was no interview, just Mrs. Baxter showing me proper cash register operation, the pile of new stock that needed shelving, and her signature answer-the-phone greeting.
You’ve reached Beachin’ Books, where every day is a beachin’ good day! How can I help you?
There’s not enough honey in the world to make that flow off my tongue just right, but my lackluster attempts didn’t seem to constitute a problem for her.
Outside, heavy purple-bottomed clouds build in the South, the same direction from which a salty gale is blowing in. What I remember most about visiting Memaw in Charleston are the typical late afternoon thunderstorms, marked by loads of streaked lightning and heavy downpours. I sniff the air. The musky odor of rain floats on the breeze, and I pick up the pace. It’s a twenty-minute walk back to Memaw’s, but by the looks of it, I’ll have to make it in ten or get wet trying.
I cut through The Shrimp Shack’s parking lot. The racing trailer is gone, and the closed sign hangs crooked on the glass storm door. I cross the grass median to the paved walking path that circles the entire island as a few fat raindrops dot my blue long-sleeve blouse. My sandals pinch my toes as I hit double-time.
A golf cart whizzes by me, followed by a rusty green Jeep, and when the hum of another engine approaches, I instinctively glance toward the traffic. Jett’s orange Challenger rolls into my vision, stalking beside me at a snail’s pace. The tinted passenger window slides down into the door.
“Need a ride?” Jett steers with his left hand while he leans across the center console.
When I stop walking, he stops rolling.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” The words simmer with unintentional venom. I bite my tongue, holding back any other spontaneous outbursts waiting to strike.
He jerks his head backward like I’ve spit on him. “You mean Rachel? She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my teammate. And besides, she’s with Trévon.” He pauses, a mischievous spark lighting his face, teasing the corners of his mouth. “Wait—are you jealous?”
I’m fifty-percent jealous. And fifty-percent pissed about being jealous. I want to whack myself in the skull until I remember my “summer of no trouble” policy. “No! I just…she didn’t seem too happy to see me.”
He shakes his head. “Rachel’s not in charge around here. I am. Well, my dad is…so technically, it’s me.” He stares at me, not blinking. “Get in before you get soaked.”
I hold out my palm and gaze upward at the clouds rolling in. “Thanks, but I’m fine. That storm’s probably still a good fifteen minutes away.”
The words no sooner leave my mouth than the lightning flashes and a crack of thunder rumbles across the sky. “I didn’t even get to one-Mississippi on that count.” Jett deadpans. “Storm’s here. Get in already.” He leans across the passenger seat, pulls the handle and pushes the door open toward me.
I slide in—the black leather butter-soft against my bare thighs—and slam the door behind me. The clicking of the seatbelt into place only increases my nerves, which crackle like a handful of sparklers under my skin. I inhale through my nose for four counts and blow it out through my mouth for seven, a breathing technique my therapist says diffuses anxiety in record time.
Jett eyes my ritual and laughs. “Don’t worry. I won’t kill you.”
I cringe and stare straight out the windshield, white-knuckling the armrest and kneading my feet into the mat as he pulls away from the curb. Another bolt of lightning snakes through the clouds and a torrent of rain unleashes, pounding the roof of the car and flooding the windshield so that even the wipers on the highest level barely make a difference. My heart slams in my ears, the big vein in my neck on the brink of sure implosion, while Jett reclines back in the driver’s seat, still with only one hand on the wheel.
“So…you gonna get a car while you’re here?”
“No. I don’t drive.”
He leans forward, whipping his head in my direction. “What? No way! I don’t know anybody our age who doesn’t have a license.” He relaxes back into the leather seat. “Your parents make you wait or something?”
I shake my head quickly. “I have my license. I don’t drive. By choice.”
After a quiet beat, I glance over at him. His face is scrunched, nose crinkled, and mouth slightly open. I instantly turn back to the windshield, hating how his expression implies I’m some kind of weirdo.
“Why would you make a choice like—”
Ahead, a pick-up truck runs the light and swerves in front of us at full-speed. “Watch out!” I yank my legs up in the seat, circling my arms around them.
“What the—” Jett flicks his eyes back to the road and the tailgate of the truck that fills the front glass. He stomps the brake, which saves us from impact but causes the back tires to spin on the wet asphalt. The seatbelt bites into my skin as the car fishtails to the left, then jerks right before the tires grip and straighten out in the lane. “Asshole!” Jett screams.
My lungs refuse to expand. The rain and the taillights swirl together, and bile burns the back of my throat. I sink my head into my knees, wrapping my arms around my head, the same way they taught us in school to do for tornado drills.
“Cami? What’s wrong? Cami!” His words get harder, his tone frenzied. The tips of his fingers press into my arm, and I jerk away.
“That…idiot…almost…hit us!” My screams sputter out through gasps. My lungs remain wilted flowers, limp in my chest.
“Calm down. It’s okay. It wasn’t even that close.” His tone steadies as he pulls the car into an open space on a beach access and shifts to neutral. That’s when he laughs. “Remember, I’m a professional. There’s no shame in a little bumpin’ and rubbin’ if necessary. I got this.”
An inferno ignites in my stomach and explodes upwards into my chest. I stomp both feet to the mat and slap the dashboard in front of me. “No! You don’t! You can’t control what happens if some maniac sideswipes you!”
“Please. I’ve been involved in scrapes way worse than that would’ve been. How d’you think I got this gold tooth, anyway?” He inches up the corner of his mouth and points to the bling on the top row, right beside his pointy canine, like it’s a trophy. “Besides, I would’ve been more pissed about the jackass wrecking my car.” He strokes his hand back and forth on the steering wheel, laughing.
“Laugh it up! It’s all a big game to you, isn’t it?” My control slips as I stab an accusatory finger at him, threatening to wring his neck as the rush builds momentum like a bowling ball rolling down a hill. It sizzles, frantic energy pinballing against my insides. “With your fast cars and your big ego and your devil-may-care attitude. You really don’t get it. You think these cars are your play toys? They’re weapons. Killers!”
Jett’s eyes saucer. “That’s pretty melodramatic, don’t you think? Killers?” He pans his hand in front of the windshield. “We braked hard. We fishtailed. Nobody died.”
I sink back to the seat, the invisible punch to my chest robbing my breath. He has no way of knowing how his words slice through me like a knife, but I want to hate him for it, for bringing back all those horrible images I’ve tried so hard to forget.
He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans closer, leaning in low to try and intercept my gaze. “Cami?”
“My mama and sister died!”
Jett grabs both my arms. I try to wrench free, but his fingers press harder. “Wait. What?”
I shift my eyes away. Why did I let it slip out? Between Memaw’s big mouth and my outbursts, I might as well hire a freaking skywriter to make sure all of Edisto
knows.
“You can’t blurt out something like that and then ignore me!” He shakes me a little. “Please…tell me…”
I turn, meeting his eyes head-on, our faces mere inches apart. “Last year. They were killed because some selfish jerk couldn’t stay in his own lane.”
His eyes are red-rimmed with a hint of moisture along the lashes. It’s surreal to see in his what’s eerily been missing from my own for months. I haven’t cried since the memorial service. It’s like I’ve run out of my lifetime allotment of tears, and my body’s dry. My therapist says it’s proof I’m hiding from my grief, hiding from my recovery. Daddy agrees.
It’s all part of the reason I’m in Edisto.
I sigh, giving in to tell him a partial truth. I couldn’t bear the judgement in his eyes if he knew everything. The whole truth. “Eight months ago, some guy ran our car off the road. It flipped and hit a tree, killing my mama and sister instantly.”
“Oh my God.” He repeats it over and over through the fingers clamped over his mouth. “I made all those stupid jokes. I’m so sorry. I…” He flounces back in his seat, mouth hanging wide.
The look on his face, somewhere between shock and pity, is exactly what I don’t want to see. People tiptoeing around me, afraid to say something to set me off. That’s why I never wanted anyone here to know about it. That’s why I should never have let it slip.
I slouch back into the soft leather. “I just want to be normal this summer. Forget it ever happened. At least until August.”
“What’s in August?” he whispers.
Hell. Absolute Hell, that’s what.
“I have to testify at the guy’s trial. He’s been charged with vehicular homicide.”
Jett rakes his fingers through his hair then grips the back of his neck. “My God, I had no idea. Was he drinking?”
“Texting.”
He clasps his hand over his mouth, once again talking through his fingers. “Shit, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
I roll my head against the headrest, looking over at him. He stares back.
“Don’t treat me like some fragile freak. And never mention it again. Ever.”
“I promise.” The look in his eyes tells me he’s being honest. And there’s a hint of something else there too. Understanding? Empathy? I don’t know.
We hold each other’s gaze, and for the briefest minute, a connection, a magnetic pull, ignites between us. A chill ripples through my veins, and I shiver, pulling my arms in tight to my chest.
The walls renew. The moment vanishes.
“Can you take me home? I’m exhausted.”
Jett nods without a word, revs the engine, and pulls into traffic. His silence is a typical response. People either clam up or succumb to diarrhea of the mouth, unable to shut up, rambling about anything and everything in some supreme effort to avoid the subject at all costs.
By the time we pull into Memaw’s drive, the heavy blanket of clouds has pulled back to reveal crystal blue slivers overhead. Jett parks and leaves the car running while he jumps out and walks around to open my door. He trails me up the front steps, and when we get to the door, I stop before walking in.
“Thanks for the ride. For everything.”
“Anytime.” He turns to walk away but pivots on his heel, steps forward, and wraps his arms around me. Hints of coconut, car exhaust, and shrimp whirl around us as his heart pounds against my chest, the warmth of his body encapsulating me.
I clamp my eyes and wait for the involuntary flinch.
It never comes.
Chapter Six
Two days pass at a snail’s pace, yet the memory of his arms, the pressure of his hug, still lingers on my skin. When I close my eyes, it intensifies, like fiery swirls below the surface, burned into the nerve endings. Since the accident, the faintest of human contact has crawled over my skin like angry scorpions.
Not his.
But I didn’t hug him back. Instead, I planted my arms flat against my sides, waiting for the knee-jerk reaction that never came.
Or maybe I was willing it to come, because that’d be easier than the alternative.
What if I could like this boy?
I shake my head. No. Hell no. Not going to happen.
Letting anyone in is dangerous. That whole “loved and lost” crap really loses its sting if you never love in the first place. Can’t lose something you never had, so I’ve made it my life’s mission to keep everyone at arm’s length, cordial enough to not be considered a loner freak with hidden terroristic plans but far enough away so no one can make me lose my balance. It’s why I can agree to a sleepover with Gin but not call my best friend in the whole world. Gin is a new face, and our relationship is superficial and will probably remain that way. How close can you actually get to someone over a summer? Besides, I never asked to be exiled here anyway, so I might as well slap on the happy face and play along.
But Jett. One look in my direction, one twinkle in those green eyes, one infuriating smirk, and my barriers breech. I hate him for having that power, but I hate myself most for wanting more—more of his time, more of his attention, more of him.
It confirms what I already know. Jett Ramsey is trouble.
The good kind. That’s what Gin said.
I flip the book I’m reading closed and whack it against the deck railing. “Nope. There’s never a good kind.”
“Never a good kind of what?”
I lurch forward on the folding chair, dropping my book to the wooden floor with a thud. Drowning in my obsessive thoughts, I didn’t hear anyone approach, and now I can’t help wondering how long he’s been standing there. I grab my book and jump to my feet, turning around. Jett’s at the top of the stairs, arms folded across his chest, smiling with his gold-toothed glint.
“Uh…spider. No good kind of spiders. I just squished one.” I pretend to flick guts from the back cover.
He pinches his shoulders up with a little shiver. “Yeah, I don’t like ‘em either.”
My eyes rove over him, from his white muscle shirt to the frayed ends of his jeans. A rip across the thigh exposes a tiny portion of his bronzed skin. So, he does wear something besides jeans all the time. An image of Jett in swim trunks skips through my mind, and my breath catches in my throat as heat circulates in my cheeks. I glance at him, his head cocked in my direction, brows furrowed like he’s reading my thoughts.
“Where’d you even come from?” I mumble.
“My house.”
“I mean, I didn’t expect you’d come to the back door when there’s a perfectly good front door that way.” I point toward the house.
“I knocked on your front door. Rang the bell, even. Turns out you can’t hear it back here. So, I walked around. I know—genius level stuff. I’m good like that.”
I laugh in spite of myself, shaking my head. “You’re such a jackass.”
“My parents think so, too.” He plants his thumb in his chest. “That’s my middle name.”
“Jett Jackass Ramsey? What great foresight they had.”
“Exactly. That’s where I get the genius stuff from.” He walks past me to my bedroom’s glass French door and peers in. “So, this is your room? Miss Bessie said something the other morning about giving you your own space on the first floor.”
“Yeah, at least for the summer.” I join him and lean against the siding. “So, what is it really?”
He looks over at me, eyebrows furrowed. “What?
“Your middle name?”
“Why? You gonna run a background check on me or something? It’ll be clean…” He pauses and looks skyward, clicking his fingers. “Except for that one incident about a year ago…”
I give him a playful shove on the arm. “Shut up. You brought up middle names. I was making small talk.”
“It’s Dodge.”
“Like your car?”
“Exactly like.” He presses his nose back into the glass, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. “Nice décor, by the way.”
The edge of his lips curl. “Well, nice panties then.”
“What?” I squash my nose to the glass as Jett points to a stack of my freshly washed laundry laying on my desk, waiting to be put away. Shit. I meant to do that earlier.
He pulls back and nudges me on the shoulder. “Just playing. I’m gonna get started downstairs. You gonna bring me some of that lemonade Ms. Bessie promised?”
I smirk, heading toward the kitchen’s sliding door. “I’ll see what I can come up with. I make no promises.”
By the time I pour a glass and head down the steps, the cement pad under the house resembles an accident scene, the big brown boxes of the swing, two Adirondack chairs, and side table scattered in a crumpled pile of cardboard. The wood and metal pieces, all singularly wrapped in cellophane, lay grouped together in specific areas as Jett kneels in front of a battered red toolbox, scrutinizing the page of directions and laying out appropriate tools. He glances up, screwdriver in hand, as I walk down.
“Looks like a big job,” I say, eyeballing the mess.
He tucks the instructions in his back pocket and shrugs. “Nah, it won’t be too bad. Hour and a half, tops.”
“No way. I bet it’ll take you longer than that.”
“You bet? Now you’re speaking my language.” He shoves the screwdriver under his armpit and rubs his palms together. “How ‘bout a little wager?”
“A wager?”
“Why not? Let’s make this interesting.” He slides his watch off his wrist and dangles it in the air. “I’ll put 90 minutes on the timer.”
“Okay. So, what are the stakes?”
“How about we each set our own?”
This could be my opportunity to get rid of Jett—to purge him from my thoughts and my life—before all these puppy-eyed feelings get out of control and in my way. “I’m down. If the whole thing isn’t assembled in ninety minutes—and I’m talking whole, entire thing down to the last bolt—you, Jett Ramsey, have to quit partaking in this whole ‘set up’ business everyone has going on. No more following me in your car while I’m walking. No more spontaneous breakfasts. Nothing.”
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