He squints his eyes and twiddles his fingers on his chin as he considers it. “Fair enough. But if I win—and I will—you agree to let me teach you to drive again. I promise you’ll be behind the wheel by the end of summer.” He pulls the screwdriver from underneath his armpit, twirls it in the air and catches it again. “And you’ll get the awesome side-perk of spending all that quality time with me.” He leans in close to my ear, his breath tickling the skin. My heart flutters as he whispers, “Once you quit trying to fight it and realize what a great guy I am.”
I smile at the thought but disguise it as sarcasm. “Awful confidant, aren’t you?”
He winks and holds up the screwdriver like a trophy. “Always.”
“Fine. I’m game, so you better go set that watch. Time starts on my count.” I set his lemonade on a plastic plant stand, and while he’s turned around finagling his watch, I swipe a large eye-bolt from the swing pile and slip it into the pocket of my yellow shorts.
“Ready. Tell me when to press start.”
“Three, two, one, go!” I yell, then turn, walking back to the steps. He stops me on the third one.
“You’re not gonna keep me company?”
The way his eyes stretch out, wide and innocent like a child, makes me want to run back and plant myself on the concrete beside him. But surely that’d be counterintuitive to The Plan. The one that answers to the nagging voice inside, that insists alone is better. Easier and safer.
“You have a lot of work to do and not long to do it, so I’m going to finish my book on the deck.” I walk up another step, then stop to add, “And don’t even think about cheating. I can see your watch from up there.”
He crosses his arms and cocks his head to the side. “I don’t have to cheat. I always win.”
“We’ll see.”
On the deck, I pull out a beach towel from the brown storage cube and spread it out next to the railing. With book and phone in hand, I lay belly-down and prop on my elbows to read. Except there’s no finishing a sentence, because every time Jett moves, it flashes in my periphery, compelling me to watch the way his biceps flex when he lifts the larger wooden pieces or how his jeans hug his butt when he leans forward on his knees to grab tools from the toolbox. The way—
No. Nothing’s going to happen between us anyway. I have the insurance in my pocket, the silver bolt nudging through the cotton into my hip. I roll over onto my back and pull the book to my nose, blocking out anything and everything except the words on the page.
It works for a while, until he starts singing, so low at first, I mistake it for a radio playing somewhere. But as it gets louder, his distinctive tone shines through. A low country drawl, southern like mine but strung out a little more. Slower. Throatier, with a smidgen of gravel.
Still holding the book overhead, I roll my head to the side and cut my eyes to where I can see him bolting together the second chair, singing to himself, wagging his head to the tune. When he tightens the last bolt, he drops the wrench, stands up, and pulls his shirt over his head. Sweat glistens across his back.
A thousand fireworks go off, working their way up from my toes.
So not fair.
He twists his head suddenly over his shoulder, catching me mid-stare. I fumble my book, and it falls on my face, knocking my head into the wooden floor with a thump. My cheeks burn hotter than all my skin exposed to the blistering afternoon sun as I lay there silent and still, praying to be absorbed into the wooden deck boards.
After a few minutes, I slide the book from my eyes and peek over the edge. He bends over, hammering the side table’s leg, so I slink sideways off the towel, get up, and tiptoe toward the house, phone and book clenched in my hand, going extra slowly to make no noise. At the sliding glass door, I stop, easing down to a seated position.
Humiliating. I lay my book beside me and wipe the residue of salt air from my phone screen with the long sleeve of my T-shirt.
Twenty more minutes and then it’s over, CJ. You won’t have to worry about him—or yourself—anymore.
The self-coaching session falls flat. No matter how much I reason “what’s for the best,” I can’t smile at the thought of not having him around. My jaw locks tight, forbidding it. I’ll miss him, which is crazy since I’ve only known him a measly week.
My phone buzzes, and I swipe my finger over the screen.
Typical Memaw. Always pushing.
Instead of replying, I scour social media, accepting friend requests from both Gin and Bo and cyberstalking some of my old friends from back home. Trent’s relationship status still says “it’s complicated,” but his latest posts show him happy and smiling on the field in his baseball uniform. Emmalyn’s in the background of several of them, and I wonder if she’s dating someone on the team. I used to know everything about her. Now we’re more strangers than best friends.
Her page is a mishmash of the usual dance recitals, selfies in her bedroom, and even a few at the baseball field. Definitely a new boy in her life. Sad I don’t know who. Sadder I won’t have the gumption to ask. Scrolling farther down the page, a photo of Emmalyn, me, and my sister Noli-Belle flashes on the screen and stops me cold.
That night from last summer plays in my mind as clear as if it were yesterday. Emmalyn spent the night at my house, and my sister demanded to be included.
Mama came in, wagging her finger in the air. “Magnolia Belle Ainsworth, you let these girls have some privacy!”
But with all the ferocity of her 12-year-old firecracker self, she stood up, hands on her hips, feet planted firm. “Mama, I hate being called Magnolia. It sounds like an old lady. Besides, they said I could stay!”
Just a few weeks later, our entire world crumbled, and I lost every one of those people. Two never made it out of the mangled wreckage; one was collateral damage. A bone-deep shiver, defying the blazing overhead sun, creeps down my spine.
What the hell am I doing? How could everything good in my life be gone, vanished like it never even existed? How do I get over something like that?
I tilt my head toward the sky, sending up a silent plea to my mama and sister for guidance. For wisdom. For some sort of sign on how to move forward without them.
Clanging echoes below, and I glance down at my phone. Ten minutes left on the countdown. I creep forward on my knees, peering over the deck’s side. Jett rushes from box to box, shaking out cellophane, patting his pockets. To his right, both Adirondack chairs and the side table are completed, and on his left, the swing is completely assembled minus one arm.
“Where is it?” he grumbles, kicking a box across the cement. “It’s gotta be here somewhere.” He checks the watch, slams it down, then renews the search, his frenzied eyes sweeping over the mass of cardboard and plastic. As I lean farther toward the edge, the bolt in my pocket pokes into my thigh, and a swirling sensation kicks up in my gut, like mama is whispering her advice to my heart from the great beyond.
You can’t move on by standing still.
My breath catches in my throat. It’s as if her voice is audible, a strange blend of the wind through the palm fronds and distant roar of the waves. It reminds me how much I miss her; how much I need her here. How much she’d hate what I’ve let myself become. And suddenly, I know what I want to do—what I have to do—even though it’s everything I’ve railed against.
Darting inside to grab the lemonade jug, I then head downstairs. Jett’s still rummaging through the debris and doesn’t glance up, his attention focused on one goal. After filling his glass, I discreetly drop the bolt beside the Adirondack chair’s front leg then walk over and pick up his watch from the railing.
“Tick-tock, tick-tock.”
He narrows his eyes at me, then continues sweeping his hands across the cement, edging closer and closer to the chair. The minutes tick away.
Come on. Come on. Open your eyes, for the love of God! My stomach kno
ts.
“Aha! I knew it was here!” His fingers wrap around the bolt, and he jumps to action, holding the arm in place as he twists the screwdriver.
“T-minus thirty seconds and counting…”
He glances at me, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Come on, come on.
“Ten seconds...nine…eight…seven…six…”
“Done!” Jett jumps to his feet and throws down the screwdriver, which clangs against the toolbox lid. It’s the first time I’ve seen him bare-chested this close, and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of his long, lean muscles and how his coppery skin smooths over them.
He connects the swing’s chains to hooks installed in one of the wooden supports underneath the house, then stands back with arms folded across his chest, admiring his work.
“It’s only right to give her a trial run.” He nods his head toward the swing then grabs my hand and pulls me to sitting beside him on the wooden slats. With a rough shove from his feet, we sail backwards then forwards, and instinctively, I grab his arm, squeezing in close.
He leans in, sweaty and hot, and the only thing running through my mind is why this isn’t grossing me out. But it isn’t. In fact, the more the heat rises between us, the harder my heart thumps against my ribs.
“Aren’t you gonna congratulate the winner?” he asks with his signature cocky smirk.
“Congratulations,” I say straight-faced, then turn my head in the opposite direction to conceal my grin. From the way his arm slides against mine, it’s evident we’re both winners.
Chapter Seven
Amber rays flood over my desk from the brass lamp, the only light in the room since the moonless midnight outside is black as pitch. Sleep’s elusive. Every time I close my eyes, I think of Jett, our wager from the other day, and how much I want to tell Emmalyn all about it.
The nerves. The happiness. The fear. The anger. Only a best friend can help sort out all those mixed-up emotions somersaulting in my stomach.
But would she even care at this point?
I open my laptop. The blue screen comes to life, so bright it mars my vision, and I wince as my eyes adjust. I click open the email browser, the cursor flashing in the text box. Blip…blip…blip…blip. It tells me to get off my stubborn butt and contact her already.
* * *
To:
From:
Date: May 15
Subject: Long Time, No Talk
* * *
Hey Em. It’s CJ, but I guess you already know that. How are you?
Ok, that sounds like small talk, but I do want to know. I hate not knowing things about you when I used to know everything. Things have been…weird.
I saw a picture of you, me, and Noli-Belle online the other day, and I remembered last summer when we spent the night at each other’s houses like four times a week. I miss those days. I miss us.
I know you prefer texting, but I can’t muster the courage to do it. If I text you and you don’t respond right away, I’ll know how angry you are. If I email and don’t get a response, at least I can pretend this got lost in SPAM and had nothing to do with you ignoring me.
I haven’t said it yet, so I’ll say it now: I’m sorry. There’s no reason to turn your back on your best friend, but I did. It’s just…you reminded me of how great my life was before. I can never get that life back now. Talking to you was too hard, because it reminded me of that.
I don’t know if any of that even makes sense. It does in my mind, but that’s probably not the most reliable measurement of sanity these days. (That was a joke by the way. Go ahead and laugh. I want you to.)
Please forgive me. For the first time in almost a year, there’s hope things are going to get better. It’s a faint glimmer, but it’s there when it never was before. I want to tell you all about it, but I realize it might be too late for all that now. I was depressed and took my friendship away. You didn’t deserve that, but I’m hoping somewhere down deep, you still want me around.
I miss you, Em.
<3, CJ
* * *
I flounce backward, my shoulder blades digging into the wooden chair. There it is in black and white. All my heartfelt emotion, devoid of the usual cynicism, laid bare, exposing my vulnerability. A brand of honesty so dangerous, it forces me out there, unprotected, unguarded and with no control over the outcome.
The flashing cursor morphs into a hand, its digital finger pointing at Send. I sigh, slide the mouse over the icon, and click. The email disappears from the screen, replaced by a pop-up message. Saved to Drafts.
Chapter Eight
Well, this is boring. The bookstore has been quiet for well over an hour now, but Mrs. Baxter assures me that’ll change once the official tourist season kicks off on Memorial Day. Right now, the island’s population is still mostly locals who don’t give a flying fig about beach reads and “I heart Edisto” postcards. So, other than the two orders of live bait I rang up this morning for a few grungy-looking fishermen and the obligatory first-day-of-work-courtesy-visits from Memaw, Gin, and Bo, the time has lagged.
Mrs. Baxter doesn’t even stick around. She retreats to her sweet setup on the lower level, half back-stock and supplies for the shop and half private lounge with a full leather reclining sofa and big screen TV, disappearing down the back stairs with a, “Give me a holler if you need anything. I’ll be watching my soap operas.”
A stack of hardback books sit catty-cornered on the counter’s edge, ready to be shelved. I load them in my arms and carry them over to the metal shelves against the wall, sliding each into its alphabetical home and sending poofs of dust spiraling into my face. I swipe my finger across the metal ledge and pull back a black smudge. Dust much, Mrs. Baxter? Now I know why the white feathers on that duster hanging on the peg beside the cash register are, in fact, still white.
I’m on my way back to the counter to grab it when the chimes on the door sound.
“Welcome to Beachin’ Books where every day is a beachin’ good day. I’ll be right with you,” I call over my shoulder.
“No rush.”
Her voice is immediately recognizable—Rachel, the pink-haired girl from Jett’s racing team. I walk to the register and peek at her around the metal shelf. She saunters to the refrigerator case in the back and bends over to grab a Cherry Coke from the bottom row. In her short shorts and cropped purple tank top, she moves toward me like a panther—stealthy and fluid with just the smallest hint of cunning.
“So, how’s your first day?” She twirls one of her cotton-candy pigtails around her finger while I ring up her purchase.
I hand her the change, and she shoves it in her itty-bitty pockets. “Not bad. A little slow.”
“Any visitors? You know how people like to get all stupid about first days.” She rolls her eyes.
I nod. “Memaw came in, of course, and Gin and Bo? You know them, right?”
“Are those the kids Jett’s known forever?” She pauses and takes a sip. “They’re okay. Not really my crowd.”
Imagining sweet, innocent Gin hanging out with this girl is comical. And I’m sort of confused as to why she and I are even having this conversation. She didn’t seem too interested in getting to know me before.
“So…you and Jett have become friends?”
And there it is—fishing for details. He told me she was with Trévon, but the way she acted the other day was “extra.” Obviously, she wants something more from Jett than friendship. “I wouldn’t say friends. We’ve hung out a little. I barely know him, really.”
“That’s an understatement.”
My lips crimp together. “What do you mean?”
She sighs and slams her drink so hard on the counter, the brown fizz crackles around the bottle’s rim. “Look, Carlie…”
“Cami…I mean, CJ.”
“Sorry…Cami, CJ whatever…I’m going to be honest with you. Jett can draw you in. He’s hot, lots of natural charm. He’s like a freakin’ magnet. But magne
ts don’t attract just one object at a time. Get what I mean?”
“Not really.” I shake my head, grab the duster from the peg, and head toward the shelves.
She follows behind. “Look, I saw how you puppy-dog-eyed him the other day.” I whip my head toward her, starting to protest, but she waves me off. “You aren’t the first girl to get that look, and Lord knows you won’t be the last. Girls flock to him. You should see him work the rooms at our promo events. Smiling, flirting, hugging for selfies with all the chicks in line drooling, pawing, and showing him their boobs.”
The words and the images running through my imagination sucker-punch me in the gut. I blow out a deep breath and attack the book dusting with a vengeance, spewing minute particles into a frenzied haze around us. This. This is the reason I wanted no part of this romance shit this summer. This summer of relaxation is turning into a hellacious stress-pit already.
Rachel winces as the dust storm attacks her face, stepping back a minute to sneeze a couple times before reigniting her argument. “I don’t mean to be crude. It’s just…” She grabs my shoulder, spilling icy-cold droplets across my skin as I jerk away from her touch. “Anyone can see you’re an old-fashioned sort of girl, and, well, Jett appreciates the fast and wild. He’s a racer, first and foremost. Girls are just a diversion, and that’s something he doesn’t need right now.”
“Girls?” I repeat. Plural. Like multiple girls. My chest wrenches in a vice grip.
She shrugs. “How else do you explain his disappearing acts every time we go on our promo trips?”
“Disappearing acts?” I repeat again over my shoulder as I walk back to the register. Having a counter between us is ideal. Too bad it isn’t a brick wall with razor-wire across the top.
As Much As I Ever Could Page 6