“Fine. I’ll let you know if anything changes.” She throws the phone onto the covers, mumbling under her breath. I tip-toe down the stairs, grab my magazine off the kitchen table, and disappear out the back door before she can catch me.
It’s a hot one already, the late May afternoon sun’s heat intensified by the ever-present coastal humidity. I slouch in the Adirondack chair and flip through ad after ad of designer clothing and perfumes in an attempt to keep my mind off Memaw’s tiff with Dad or Jett’s absence over the last four days. He hasn’t said when he’ll be home. In fact, I haven’t heard much from him apart from a daily picture of him eating sandwiches with that stupid camellia bush. But at least the messages prove he’s thinking of me during the day, and I thumb through them every night before bed like an obsessed fangirl. It usually ends when I either fall asleep, phone in hand, or threaten to kick my own ass. Whichever comes first.
I’ve also been stalking Facebook, and while Jett’s page has been quiet, Rachel’s continuous stream of pictures show her hugged between him and Trévon. In a few of them, a swish of blond hair and a sliver of tanned skin barely juts into the frame beside Jett. More than once, Rachel references catching up with Dani. Is that her?
I refocus on the page and a bikini-wearing model sprawled out on the sand underneath the headline “Summer of Love” when a high-pitched whirring breaks through the monotony of waves crashing in the distance. A small remote-control car—a Dodge Challenger no less—speeds up the sidewalk and onto the concrete pad. It stops in front of my toes, blaring its miniature horn twice. On top, secured by tape, is a lined notecard with simple block lettering.
FOLLOW ME.
I stand, glancing around the yard. Everything’s quiet, the backyard empty. The car circles behind my feet and heads back up the sidewalk, pausing once again as the horn blows and lights blink. My pulse races faster as I run to catch up with the miniature bumper disappearing around the corner of the house.
He’s invisible at first. My eyes are trained on the remote-controlled car whizzing through the grass when a pair of sneakers step into my path. I look up in time to crash face-first into his chest, the musky aroma of coconuts and gasoline wafting around me, a cross somewhere between a cabana and a gas tank.
Jett tosses the remote to the ground and grabs my arms, steadying me on my flip-flops. Sunlight glints across his emerald eyes, and my stomach kinks when he asks, “What’s your hurry?”
It’s the first time I’ve seen him in shorts, and his legs, though a tad bird-like from the knee down, sport well-toned and well-tanned thighs. The kind that ripple under the wiriness of his blond hair. The kind my fingers itch to touch. Maybe Memaw’s right about it being time to put myself out there.
“Ironic coming from you, the guy who never slows down.”
“I don’t have time to slow down.”
“Sure you do. You just don’t want to.”
He snorts and looks away. “Maybe you’re right.”
Of course I’m right, and not just because I’m always right about these sorts of things. Jett’s running from something.
A couple days ago, Mrs. Baxter’s new shipment of magazines needed to be filed in the display racks. On top was one of those glossy covered racing mags with cars and girls and testosterone, oh my. But it was the teaser for an article on page 43 that grabbed my attention. At first, I figured I’d skip it. It’s not like you can trust a psychological breakdown of “the race mentality” when the headline shares the same cover as some half-naked model sprawled out across the hood of a racecar.
I read it anyway, and while it was no in-depth study worthy of a scientific journal, it did make a few key points about the ‘need for speed’ being akin to an addiction. Between the intense focus and the adrenaline rush, taking the wheel of a racecar was almost therapeutic, a way to compartmentalize all your shit and shove it in the background. Which makes me wonder—what’s Jett trying to forget?
He cups my face in both hands and leans in, his lips within a few inches of mine. The proximity stirs something deep—a desire, a magnetic pull—I haven’t experienced in over a year. If ever. “Who can slow down when the race is such a thrill?” he whispers, his breath hot against my earlobe.
He’s so close his chest brushes against mine, and chill bumps scatter over my skin. My heart channels a hard rock drum solo that Jett can probably see pumping out in the vein on my neck. “You don’t think going slow could be equally as thrilling?”
“Maybe. With the right person.”
Am I the right person? Is he? And how do I even respond to that? A million butterfly wings beat against my chest, and I lick my lips, mentally searching for another topic.
“Have fun at your promo event?”
And what I really mean is did he have fun with Dani or the countless other fans there? Not that I have a right to know or be pissed if the answer is yes. But still.
He pulls back, nose scrunched, then bends to scoop the remote and car under his arm. “Same as always—smile for the camera, sign my name, meet people.” He nods his head toward the driveway, and I follow along behind him, my mind spinning with questions I’ll never have the courage to ask. Who’s he meeting? Fans? Dani? A random hook-up?
Get a grip, CJ. This is insanity. You can’t keep—
“What’d you do while I was gone?”
My mind zips back to the present and Jett, head cocked to the side as he waits for my answer.
“Worked. Hung out with Memaw,” I offer and then snap my fingers at another remembrance. “Oh, and I met Jenniston.”
“Great.” He doesn’t even look at me when he says it, just blurts it out in one flat syllable. Curt responses usually mean drop the subject. I know. I’ve perfected their use this past year, so I extend him the same courtesy, though my mind swirls with the possibilities of his silence. Stop, CJ. He’ll tell you when he’s ready. If he’s ready. If he wants to ever tell you at all. Good God.
Jett fumbles in his pocket and produces a small silver key. “Here.” He takes my hand, prying my fingers open, and drops it in my palm. In front of the house, a monstrous golf cart, complete with rugged tires and a custom orange and black paint job, waits on the shoulder.
I slam the key back into his hand, swallowing the electrical impulses slithering through my esophagus like a venomous snake, and dig in my toes, unwilling to budge. Surely he’s joking. I don’t care how much money he’s sunk into that pimpmobile. No way am I taking that glorified tin can on wheels out on the road.
“You have to get behind the wheel for me to help you.” Jett scratches his head and nods toward the cart. “How ‘bout this? I’ll drive us to the pier, and we’ll practice in the empty parking lot. Just you and me.”
The high-tide waves crash on shore, gurgling underneath most of the pier’s wooden, crisscrossed support structure. The darkness of the shade and the wind tunnel effect send shivers over my arms as we walk to the beams beyond reach of the ocean’s salty fingers. Jett yanks my hand, pulling me toward a post. “See this?”
High above Jett’s head and all the way down to the sand, crude etchings, names, and dates cover the weathered wooden column. According to Jett, every teenager who calls the island home inscribes their name on the post. Why? No one knows, but it’s tradition, and traditions rarely make sense anyway. In the center is the name Keith with 1952 carved underneath. Apparently, this Keith-whoever-he-is is the point of origin for this anthropological project.
“Here’s Trévon’s. Rachel’s. Bo’s. Gin’s. And mine.” His finger travels across the wood to each name and finally to a naked spot at the bottom corner of his. “Now time to add you.”
“But I don’t live here.”
“Sure about that?” He nudges my shoulder with his, fumbling in his pocket to produce a small knife, which he uses to carve my name into the soft wood. CAMI. “Now you’re officially a part of Edisto history.”
“So I’ve been illegitimate until now?”
“Not to me.”
I run my fingers over the carvings of our names, the fresh-cut letters splintering out from the otherwise smooth surface. At the end of summer, will this be all that remains—a tiny bit of history? A speck on the map of our lives? I know better than most that life isn’t something you plan. You don’t take it by the horns; it takes you. We’re lying when we tell ourselves the key is to be proactive, because the truth is, we’re all just reacting. The saying goes, “If life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” Nobody’s out there making lemonade for fun. They only do it because life hands them the lemons first.
Sour freaking lemons.
We can make plans with the illusion of control, but soon enough, life will find a way to shit all over it. I smile, imagining how my therapist’s face would twist into a grimace from that deep-thought-by-CJ.
“What’cha thinking?” He stares at me, bottom lip tucked between his teeth, but I’m not stupid enough to rattle off that line of pessimism in all its tragic glory, so I shrug instead.
“You don’t always have to keep your guard up, you know,” he says. This from the consummate man-on-the-run, with his hunky-dory persona covering the quiet brooding that lurks in his eyes. Most people don’t see it, but I can. “There’s nothing wrong with being tough. Just don’t be hard. There’s a difference.”
The corner of my lip twitches. “And you’re the resident softie?”
The dimple in his chin deepens as he smiles. “I might surprise you.”
That’s the truest thing I’ve heard all day. “You usually do, Jett Ramsey.”
“Then trust me on this.” He dangles the little silver keys in my face.
“I…I don’t know if I can.”
It’s not whether I can or can’t, but if I will. Driving a car is a lot like riding a bike. Once you master it, it’s pretty impossible to unlearn. It is possible, however, for the mere thought of sliding behind the wheel to morph into a paralyzing agent that literally sucks all energy from your body, replacing it with gut-twisting panic.
“That’s where I come in.” He reaches out and grabs my hand, twining his long fingers with mine, and pulls me toward the cart parked in the narrow side lot. It’s deserted like he promised, and the lengthy strip of asphalt stretches out before us like a runway, with beach on one side and marsh on the other. A hedge of palmettos lines the far edge, creating a border between the main road and the Piggly Wiggly across the street.
At least there won’t be a million people watching me make a complete ass of myself.
I get in and clutch the wheel. Jett slides into the passenger seat and eases his hand over my trembling fingers, his voice butter smooth. “You’ll do fine. Circle to the end of the lot and back. Easy.” If he’s trying to calm me, it isn’t working. His touch is like lighter fluid, and I’m incapable of calming down in the driver’s seat or when he’s near me.
I blow out a breath, turn the key, and push the accelerator. The motor putt-putts to life, purring as we pull forward at a snail’s pace. My thighs and biceps scream under the tension settling in the rigid muscles. Jett nods in encouragement, leaning forward on his seat, elbows on knees. We parallel the Atlantic, driving across the painted yellow lines with all the ferocity of a hundred-year-old granny.
At the edge of the lot, I stomp the brake a little too hard, and we both lunge forward. “Now what?”
Jett points back over his shoulder. “Make a U-turn and drive back, then do it all over again.”
His flat-lined lips say there’s no point in discussion, so I ease off the brake, heading back toward the pier. Around lap three, my muscles finally relax. The sultry breeze tousles the unclasped wisps of hair around my face while Jett dances in his seat to the cart’s radio, which blares full blast. Random whiffs of octane from the gas-powered engine dance in the air around us. I sniff harder, trying to capture the sweetness and commit it to memory. Freedom.
“Hey watch me!” Jett yells, hanging halfway out the side, arms swinging in the air as we approach the marshy end of the lot once again. His infectious laughter distracts me, and my gaze lingers on his bronzed skin flexing over the striations of lean muscles with each movement.
Damn, I’d love to touch him and explore each one of those peaks and valleys.
Without warning, the cart lurches to a stop. Jett smacks into the dash, and the steering wheel collides with my gut. My chest fills with bricks, lungs burning as a sudden lack of oxygen sears my cells. Panic radiates through me as I gasp for air and stomp the gas pedal, but each press only spins the front wheels, the quiet purr becoming a high-pitched wail, miring us further into the gray swamp mud.
I want to scream I’m sorry, that he should’ve never trusted me behind the wheel, but nothing comes out. Jett shuts off the radio and slides beside me on the bench seat, pulling my head to his chest. “Don’t freak out,” he says, stroking my back. “We’re only stuck. No big deal.”
Once my breathing steadies, he hops out the side, soft-stepping in the mucky goop to the front of the cart. “Put it in reverse, and I’ll push. When I say so, give it some gas.”
My muscles hug tight to my bones. I nod, shift to reverse and plant my hands in ready position.
“Okay, go!” He leans his weight into the front, arms bent for leverage.
My big toe taps the gas pedal, the engine giving a quiet rev without moving.
Jett continues to push, yelling above the motor. “Harder. Give it the gas!”
I slam my foot against the accelerator. A plume of muck sprays up along the sides as the cart barrels backwards onto the asphalt.
One minute, Jett’s there. The next, he’s gone.
The low rumble halts when I cut the engine and raise up, peering over the edge. Jett lays stomach-down in the mud, propped on his elbows as he wipes clumps of ick from his face.
I scramble out the side, tip-toeing through the muck to squat beside him. His green eyes and white teeth peek out in slivers from behind the gray mask. The mud clings to his T-shirt and shorts in big gooey patches, the champion racer morphed into a lowly swamp creature. I clamp my fingers over my mouth, giggles erupting between them.
He swipes across his forehead, large globs dissipating into horizontal smears, and a wicked grin curls his top lip. “Funny, huh?” He lunges for my leg as I jump to my feet, backpedaling out of his reach and directly into the ditch. My flip-flop disappears into the muck, which squishes between my toes, gluing my foot in place. Unfortunately, the rest of my body continues moving backwards, and in a dizzying tumble, I end up on my back, the soft ground cradling me like a baby.
Jett springs to his knees, crawling toward me on all fours. “Shit! Are you okay?” His hands slap through the muck, sending gray splatters pinwheeling in the air. With one hand at my left shoulder and the other at my right one, Jett straddles me, hovering over my body, which involuntarily arches toward his despite my best efforts to sink further in the goop.
That’s when I know. He must pay.
“You asshole.” I grin, raising my hand in the air with a juicy glob of swamp mud I chuck at his head. It lands on top, the more liquid parts trickling down his forehead in runny clumps.
“I’m the asshole? You threw me in first!” He laughs and smears a handful across my cheeks and nose.
The goo tickles the edge of my nostril, the putrid smell gag-worthy. “That was an accident!” A quick swipe across the surface flings more muddy droplets onto his face and shirt. One lands on his lip, clinging strong despite Jett’s attempt to spit it away.
I scoot closer, gather the one clean edge of my T-shirt and wipe his lip while he stares at me. “What?”
“There she is.”
“Who?” I look over my shoulder toward the parking lot.
Jett grasps my chin, pivoting my gaze back to him, his Adam’s-apple bobbing in a hard swallow. “The real Cami.”
The truth shines in his eyes. I want to know this boy, not because he’s cute or charismatic or has a nice car or any of those other things people swoon over. Because he sees m
e. Not as a victim like everyone else. Not as a rehabilitation project. Not as a damaged shell of my former self. No. He sees me. The person. The one tucked away behind a mountain of heartbreak, guilt, and fear. The CJ of yesterday. The Cami of tomorrow.
I extend my hand, and his fingers intertwine mine. “Let’s go back to Memaw’s and get cleaned up.”
The water from the outside shower stall is frigid, and my teeth chatter as it soaks through my clothes, molding them to me like a second skin. Jett pulls off his muscle shirt, rinses it under the water, and hangs it on the metal peg by the door. The lean muscles of his back stack into a V-shape, disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. I shift my eyes to my bare feet when he turns around, watching the clumps of mud break apart in the water gurgling down the drain.
He steps beside me under the waterfall shower head, eyes closed and head thrown back, as the water races down his face and chest. Oh, to be one of those droplets, skimming over his skin, him underneath me, riding over the peaks and valleys on my way to—
“Cami?”
My heart pounds in my throat and I jump, inadvertently biting into my lower lip, which had been tucked between my teeth. I grimace but suck back the urge to scream out. He stares at me, a question floating in his eyes.
“Did you hear me?”
I shake my head, my brain inept at finding the right words when I’m standing this close to his half-naked body. He twirls his finger in the air.
“Turn around. I’ll clean off your back.”
I nod, still mute, and turn so the water courses down the back of my shirt. Jett’s hands run from my shoulders to my waist, wiping away the last evidence of our day. When he finishes, I turn around as he lowers his head in front of me. “Can you get that last little bit out of my hair?”
“Sure,” I mumble, scouring through the strands, letting the water loosen any residue.
Suddenly Memaw’s voice echoes underneath the house. “CJ, there’s a golf cart parked out front. Do you know who—”
As Much As I Ever Could Page 9