The door swings open as she barges in, her narrowed eyes snapping open wide when they land on us. Jett’s face hangs near my boobs while I’m running my fingers through his hair, both of us soaking wet and him barely clothed.
She smiles, bigger than usual, as her eyebrow flexes into her forehead. “Never mind,” she singsongs and backs out of the stall, letting the wooden door slam behind her.
Chapter Twelve
The usually quiet island is abuzz with the hum of cars speeding along the main drag, their tow-behind trailers filled with colorful luggage and bicycles signaling the official arrival of vacation season. Mrs. Baxter said everything would change come Memorial Day weekend, and the uptick in traffic and the cackle of voices floating in the air prove her right.
“Well, there goes the neighborhood,” Memaw grumbles. She stands beside me on the front porch, leaning her elbows on the railing, as we watch the parade of newcomers. “Every restaurant will be packed from now ‘til September.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to eat in.” I pat her shoulder, stepping back to the front door to grab my purse off the foyer table.
The natives have a love/hate relationship with the visitors who pour into their island for four months out of the year. Tourism is a lucrative business around here, and the majority of the money to be made happens during this sunny and spectacular stretch from Memorial Day to Labor Day. Memaw says the place becomes “damn near unbearable,” but the Ramsey and Johnson families don’t seem to mind it. Of course, the market and the seafood shop are hot commodities for those coming in for a unique “taste” of Edisto. I’ve only been around Jett’s dad, Mr. Ramsey, a handful of times at the bookstore when he came in for a soda, but when he’s not going on and on about racing, he’s talking about how many pounds of shrimp he expects to sell this summer and the best way of advertising the Shrimp Shack. He’s that proverbial “man with a plan” for everything.
Me, I don’t have an opinion on the whole tourist thing, but while I can totally see Memaw’s point, I can also imagine how nice it might be to see something besides all the usual retirees and locals. To be the tourists with their rainbow-colored beach umbrellas and wagons full of sand toys and little kids, running and screaming in the waves. To be oblivious again and living the dream.
Must be nice.
A ruckus arises from the sidewalk below. A couple and their children—two young girls—shuffle toward the beach, a stash of gear in a cart and the two littles trailing behind, arguing over a beach ball. The smallest one screams and stomps her feet against the pavement until the older one gives in and hands her the ball.
I smile. A few years back, that could’ve been me and Noli-Belle, our biggest concern in life hinging on who got to carry the ball. I would’ve given in. I always did where my baby sister was concerned.
Memaw pushes herself into my side and leans in close to my ear. “Damn near unbearable.”
After the family disappears behind a thick palm grove, she reminds me she has a date for the evening. She’s been out with James three nights in the past week alone. On at least one of those nights, it was nearly 2 a.m. before she came home. I tried convincing myself they must’ve innocently fallen asleep on the couch watching movies, but the extra spring in her step the next day painted a different scenario. One I don’t want to think about.
I remind her I’m spending the night at Gin’s, and her smile oozes with wickedness. “So, I have the place to myself?”
We’ve switched places. I’m the grown-up, and she’s the hormonal teenager.
“I’ll be right next door. I could drop in at any time.” I shrug, my palms up. The last thing I want roaming around in my brain is an image of Memaw entertaining her ‘gentleman caller.’ Ew. Memories of the lunch date and her relentless pursuit of sausage sour my stomach.
She nods toward my purse. “Where are you going?”
“Work. Mrs. Baxter had an extra shift to be covered today.” More people on the island means more people in the store, which translates to extra hours. Might as well take advantage.
“You’re pretty chipper about having to work.”
“Just following your advice. Embracing my new home.”
The words barely cross my lips before the golf cart pulls up out front. Jett slides over to the passenger side and motions toward the steering wheel.
Memaw steps closer to the stairs, and Jett’s eyes dart in her direction. “Morning, Ms. Bessie!”
“Morning, Jett!” She side-eyes me while waving in his direction. “Embracing something, I see,” she mumbles under her breath. “Which also reminds me. How did you two enjoy your shower the other day?”
I lean in and kiss her on the cheek, throwing my bag over my shoulder, and bounce down the front steps without another word.
“Pepperoni or sausage?” Gin hovers above where I’m lying on the couch in the Johnsons’ rec room, waving a delivery menu in my face.
“Pepperoni. Definitely pepperoni.”
“Cool.” She plops on the farthest cushion, tapping away at her phone, then slides it in her pocket when she’s done. “Pizza’s ordered. Should be delivered in a half hour. Until then…” She retrieves a large canvas bag sitting on the recliner in the corner and brings it over. With a quick shake, the contents spill out onto the sofa. Avocados, strawberries, a pint of local honey, a small canister of old-fashioned oats, and a plastic sleeve of paintbrushes. “Let’s do mini-facials.”
Although she’s nearly three years older than Noli-Belle would be, Gin reminds me of her sometimes. My sister loved “girl time,” when we’d watch cheesy movies and do each other’s make-up and hair. Gin has the same excited look plastered on her face that Noli-Belle always did, somewhere in the neighborhood of Christmas morning meets innocent puppy dog.
Masks aren’t generally my thing, though. There’s something odd about sticking food all over your face and expecting some sort of beauty miracle. But when Gin smiles at me again with those wide eyes, I can’t bring myself to disappoint her, so I give in. Sucker.
I slice and pit the avocado, mashing it together with a drizzle of honey and a half-cup of oatmeal while Gin uses a fork to mash together a red juicy paste from the berries. We take turns smearing the green and red concoctions on our faces and teeth with the fancy paintbrushes.
While the lumpy mixture hardens on our skin, Gin and I slouch on the sofa, and she flips through the CD/DVD wallet I snagged from Memaw’s house, commenting about her eclectic tastes in movies and music like she’s some kind of idol. “My grandma bakes cookies. Yours watches rated-R action flicks and wears cool clothes and…”
“Picks up old geezers at restaurants.”
Gin crinkles her nose and cuts her eyes at me. The mere mention of anything boy-related gets her extra sappy heart fluttering every time. A hopeless romantic—the one thing I’ve learned is her kryptonite. I fill her in on Memaw’s budding relationship with James, leaving out, of course, the sausage part. I’m not sure Gin would be able to stomach it. Even giving her the G-rated version, Gin’s face still lingers somewhere between fascination and horror. It’s the same look everyone gets on their first day of sex ed in school.
“At least Hippie James is a cutie,” she says, her smile dissolving into a loud sigh. “I wish guys would pay attention to me.”
“Gin, you’re sixteen and gorgeous. Don’t rush it.”
She beams, her eyelashes flickering a mile a minute. “How about you? Have you ever been in love?”
I hardly know how to answer the question. If you’d asked me this time last year, I would’ve sworn to it. But now that I’ve had some distance, learned a few hard life lessons, the term itself is clear as mud. The things I thought were so important turned out to be nothing more than vapor that dissipated in one tragic moment.
But all that’s too hard—and too heavy—to explain, so I give her the Cliff’s Notes version. I dated a guy for nearly two years. He was a nice guy, but I pushed him away and he got bitter. So, hindsight being 20/20 and
all, the answer is no, I’ve never been in love.
She nods. “What about Jett?”
“What about him?” I look down, toying with the drawstring on my cotton shorts.
“I mean…I’ve seen you two together, and…”
“When?” I glance at her.
Gin’s lip quivers as if she’s accidentally ratted herself out. “When he was putting together the new patio set at your house, and when y’all left on the golf cart the other day. And then there were all those questions Rachel planted in your head. Jett was upset when he called me for your phone number that night.” She grimaces and holds both hands up. “But I didn’t tell him anything. Swear.”
“I know you didn’t. Thanks.” I slip in a little laugh, trying to disguise the tremble in my voice that takes over at the mention of Jett’s name. “We’re just friends. He hasn’t said anything to Bo, right?”
She vigorously shakes her head. “Nothing I’ve heard, and Bo—” Three loud knocks on the door interrupt her. Gin glances at her watch. “Mom must have the pizza.”
While Gin runs to the adjoining bathroom for washcloths, I walk over and throw open the door with a wide, strawberry-stained smile. “Thanks for—” The words hitch in my throat, my smile fading. It isn’t Mrs. Johnson.
Bo’s mouth drops open as he cocks his head from side to side, staring at every angle of my face. “What the hell? You look like a deranged vampire version of Oscar the Grouch.”
Behind Bo’s shoulder, another set of eyes fix on me—emerald ones—and my body goes numb, like at any moment I’ll completely dissolve into a gelatinous puddle at their feet. A heat rushes to my cheeks, so hot I’m afraid the avocado will cook right there on my skin.
“I…uh…we were…” I stammer, my brain unable to string together correct words. Jett rubs either side of his chin with his thumb and forefinger, a wicked grin curling his mouth.
Before I can make any progress in my explanations, Gin runs beside me, flinging a damp washcloth in my hands. She stomps her foot on the carpet, eyes wide and furious. “What are y’all doing here? It’s supposed to be girl’s night.”
“Hate to tell you, but girl’s night got hijacked.” Bo pushes past us into the room and tosses the pizza box on the credenza. “Didn’t you see the weather report? Severe storms all night. We can’t tent camp, and all the cabins were full over at the State Park. So, here we are, like it or not.”
Gin threads her arms over her chest, looking between me and Bo while Jett waits in the hallway. I take another swipe with the white washcloth, collecting greenish chunks from my face, and flick my eyes toward Jett, who smiles at his sneakers. Gin’s pissed about the change in plans, but I can’t echo her rage. Something about the idea of spending the night here with Jett in the same house ties my stomach in knots.
When no one says anything, Gin flies into a tantrum, complete with stomping feet, before she hurls herself on the sofa. Bo walks over and sticks his tongue out at her as she kicks her leg in his direction, narrowly missing his boy parts.
“All right. Keep the fight clean, guys,” Jett says as he walks in and pushes the door closed behind him. He stands no more than a foot away, and my every pore feels magnetized, like an invisible force field sucks us together. As if at any moment, the resistance will break and I’ll go flying into him. He leans in close and whispers so low only I can hear. “That Oscar the Grouch look is hot, and you smell good enough to eat.”
The empty pizza box and two obliterated bags of tortilla chips the boys nabbed from Mrs. Johnson’s pantry lay on the floor by the door. The credits rolling on the third movie of the night and the frequent flashes of lightning are the only light in the dim room. The predicted storms rumble outside with a vengeance, the wind howling like a pack of wolves. Rain pelts the roof in a barrage of loud thumps.
Bo, however, isn’t fazed. He stretches out across the entire sofa, a river of drool puddling on the pillow beneath his head as he softly snores in rhythm with the movie’s soundtrack. Gin lays belly-down in front of the TV, her pillow folded under her head where a mop of blond locks cascade onto the floor.
I sit cross-legged behind Gin, my back resting on the sofa’s leg, and Jett’s beside me, so close his knee brushes mine from time to time, each occasion sending shivers racing up my spine. More than once, I sense him staring at me in my peripheral vision, but by the time I gather the courage to look, his eyes are back on the TV. Other than a random comment here or there, we don’t talk, but the tension between us builds like a rubber band pulled to three times its length. It may snap at any minute.
“Looks like everyone else is out.” He nods toward Gin’s sprawled frame, which hasn’t moved in the last five minutes.
“Gin?” I call out her name and wait. No response, so I try again. “Gin?” Still nothing.
“So, what’cha want to do?” Lightning illuminates his face in flashes, each burst of light reflecting in his eyes. That’s a loaded question. We could do all kinds of things, most of which we probably shouldn’t do. Most of which I shouldn’t even be thinking about right now.
“Another movie?”
Jett nods and grabs the case, flipping through the first few panels. He stops, scrunching his eyes at a DVD he pulls from its sleeve. “What are the ones with only dates on them? Home movies? Bootlegged copies?”
“I have no idea.” With Memaw, it’s a crapshoot into the grab-bag of weirdness. Jett gets up and loads the DVD into the player as I pull a throw pillow over my face, my eyes barely able to make out anything through the cotton fringe. “Watch that at your own risk. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He sits beside me, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. I fully expect to see some God-awful image flash on the screen.
The movie begins with a little girl’s laugh, shrill and joyful and oh-so-familiar. Noli-Belle. I push the pillow away and clutch it in my lap as a steel column slides down my spine. She skips across the frame, auburn curls flying out behind her like weathered flames, the sight of her robbing my breath. I open my mouth and suck in air with a loud gasp.
Jett spins around, eyes burning into me. “Cami, who is that?”
The words don’t come out voluntarily. I have to push them out, like thrusting boulders up a hill. “Noli-Belle. My dead sister.”
“Oh my God,” he mumbles, getting to his feet. “I’ll turn this off.”
“No.” I tug his leg, holding him back. “I want to see it.” It doesn’t make sense. I’ve spent so much time trying to forget the worst parts that now the good ones are hazy too. My sister was so beautiful, so full of life. Why has it been so much easier to remember her broken and bloody than as this? Happy and young and free.
Jett nods and sinks beside me on the carpet. With no words, he reaches out and twines his fingers with mine. I squeeze. He squeezes back.
My dad’s voice chimes in from somewhere off-camera. “What do we say when CJ comes out?”
“Surprise, CJ! Duh, Daddy.” Noli-Belle flashes her full-toothed grin and sits on our front porch bench. And suddenly, I know where Dad is. He’s holding the camera, and I know that because Noli-Belle is sitting beside Mama.
Her hair’s thicker than I remember, lips fuller, face younger and fresher. Could it be the details of their images are slowly washing away from the memories I have left? The realization pierces me like a stake to the heart. This was just last summer. I remember this day so well.
At least I thought I did.
“Here she comes,” Dad whispers as the camera pans around the yard, stopping to focus on the front door. What walks through is an even bigger surprise. So much so, Jett can’t contain his gasp as he double-takes between me and the screen.
Last year’s CJ.
Warm, bubbly, teenaged and carefree CJ bounces down the front steps, auburn hair flying in the breeze, hardly touching the bare shoulders exposed by a purple strapless sundress. I’m smiling and laughing as Noli-Bell wraps her arms around my waist.
“Tell her,” Dad goads.<
br />
“Surprise, CJ!” Noli-Belle screams, jumping up and down. Mama steps beside her and stretches her arms around the both of us, hugging us into her sides.
“There’s my girls!” Dad announces, the pride in his voice a faint glimmer of what used to be. “CJ, we have a surprise for you. It’s in the driveway. Go look!”
The camera follows behind the three of us, across the lawn, around the side of our house to a four-door navy blue sedan parked in front of the garage. The same sedan that would end up a mangled heap of metal on the side of a country road a few months later.
I grab the remote and hit stop. Jett’s hand clings to my other one.
“Cami—”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine.” But I’m not fine, and he knows it. His fingertips press into my hand even tighter. His body leans toward mine, as if he’s a support beam ready to hold me up when I collapse.
And in this moment, the one thing I know without a doubt is if I’m going to fall apart, there’s no one else I want by my side. That fact terrifies me. And excites me. And royally screws me up.
Jett’s phone buzzes in the quiet, and he picks it up, thumbing over the screen to open a new text. “Shit,” he mumbles. “My dad needs help at the dock. One of the boats came loose in the storm.” His eyes connect with mine, moving back and forth between them.
“Go. I’m okay. Promise.”
Jett slides his phone in his pocket and reaches to brush away a wisp of hair hanging from my loose braid. “I’ll be right back.”
He jumps up and slaps Bo on the arm. Bo rouses, glancing around the room in a daze before Jett grabs him under the armpit, hoisting him off the sofa. They disappear out the door, their footsteps thumping against the stairs. I walk over to the double windows and watch the rain come down in buckets, the wind blowing the palm fronds against the glass. The roar of Jett’s engine cuts through the pounding rain, and his taillights disappear into the stormy night.
As Much As I Ever Could Page 10