As Much As I Ever Could
Page 11
“Don’t worry. He’ll be back before you know it.” Her voice startles me, and I jump, banging my head into the windowpane. When I turn around, Gin’s sitting cross-legged, hugging her pillow to her chest.
“I thought you were asleep. How long have you been awake?” She doesn’t respond, just drops her eyes with a sheepish grin on her face. “You were never asleep, were you?” I ask.
She glances up, eyes wide like a child expecting a scolding. “No. It’s just—there were some heavy vibes going on between you and Jett. Bo was over there snoring like a bear, and I was a major third wheel. So, I pretended. Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Are you okay…you know, because of the video?”
“I’m fine.”
Gin purses her lips and nods, then suggests we play cards for a while. She doesn’t push, and for that, I’m grateful. She slips a deck of cards from their box, shuffles them in her hands, and then deals us in. For the most part, we play conversation-free, but by the fourth round, I can’t help noticing how she keeps nervously clearing her throat.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The guy you dated before, who is he?”
“His name is Trent. Trent Casey.”
Gin flexes her eyebrows. “Is he hot?”
In short, yes. Trent is hot with his black hair, icy blue eyes, and a tall, athletic body. And he’s genuinely a good guy, too, even if we did have a bad ending. We started dating my sophomore year, always together until the accident last year. After that, the silence became distance and the distance became a mortal wound that finished us off.
Gin balks when she hears the actual break-up happened right before I came to Edisto. “That recently? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“We’d been over for a while. Just made it official.” I smile and throw my cards, perfectly matched in suits, on the table. “Gin rummy.”
She sticks her tongue out at me as she scoops them up and begins shuffling again. “That’s the third hand you’ve won.”
I glance at the digital clock on the TV. Nearly forty minutes have passed since the boys left, and the storm outside hasn’t let up one iota. The usual anxiety rears its head, circulating grotesque images of car wrecks and bloodied bodies in my head. I wring my hands, my stomach suddenly heavy as if a dump truck just unloaded concrete into my gut.
Gin reaches over and taps my knee. “Bo and Jett are big boys. Don’t worry.”
I nod, knowing full well her words won’t quell the bile rising in my throat. Telling me not to worry is like telling the Earth not to rotate. There’s no way to turn it on or off. It’s always there, sometimes a sliver but sometimes an F5 tornado. What if the worst happens? What if they’re hurt, lying in a ditch, the rain pelting their bodies? What if—?
My phone buzzes.
A smile breaks across my lips, and a deep breath escapes. “They’re on their way.”
Jett’s safe, and at any minute, he’ll walk back in the door.
Chapter Thirteen
To say the video hadn’t changed things between me and Jett would be a lie. It did. And in all the right ways.
In the weeks since, he’d attacked my “learning to drive again” with a renewed vigor, swinging by the house each day on the golf cart and waiting outside Beachin’ Books every evening when my shift ended. He became a natural part of my day—a part I look forward to from the moment my eyes snap open on my pillow each morning to the last thought in my head as I snuggle beneath the covers at night.
Now, he stares at me more too. As we head down the trail, me behind the golf cart wheel, muscles tense and eyes peeled for anything and everything in our path capable of imparting certain disaster, he’s there in the outer perimeters of my view, sitting catty-cornered in his seat with an ever-so-slight lean in my direction. He refines me with a laser-sharp gaze, like he’s mentally cutting away my ever-crumbling barriers, shining and spit-polishing the girl inside. The one he saw in that video.
I’d worried it would warp his image of me, turning me into a victim to be pitied. It didn’t. Rather, it seemed to validate what he knew all along—Cami’s alive and well. Now I need to prove to him I’m willing to do the work and meet him halfway. Live life as much as I ever could.
I turn on the lamp. A ribbon of light cuts through the darkness of my room. This has become a ritual, but tonight, something’s different. My heart doesn’t throw itself into wild palpitations. There’s no sweaty brow. Just calm.
The time is right.
I click open Drafts and pull up my email to Em, the words memorized from a million-and-a-half read-overs. I take a deep breath, in for four and out for seven, then hit Send. When the confirmation message pops up, I grab my phone and shoot off a quick text.
A response registers almost immediately.
Silence. No news is good news, right? No. Not when it comes to begging your best friend for forgiveness. The phone is dead silent, so I shoot off a flurry of psycho-texts, my heart swirling into the pit of my stomach.
My phone buzzes in my palm.
This has to be bad. Very bad. Not sure exactly what I expected, but a return email isn’t it. We haven’t talked—not really—in months. I’m prepared for an I hate you and die or I love you and am calling you right now text, but whatever the response, I assumed it’d be immediate. Why would she send an email telling me to take time and think about it? Thinking about it means there’s way more to this than simple forgiveness.
Ding. I look at the screen. You have one new message.
Double click. Deep breath.
* * *
To:
From:
Date: June 7
Subject: RE: Long Time, No Talk
* * *
I should be pissed at you. I should tell you to screw off. But I won’t. You’re my best friend—always have been and hopefully always will be. Even if one of us is acting like an ass. (That would be you in this scenario)
So, I forgive you. The question is, after you hear what I have to say, will you forgive me?
There’s a new guy in my life. He’s someone I’m really interested in, but I can’t be with him. At least not without causing a lot of problems. I’ve been wanting to talk to you forever about it, but, well, you weren’t talking. And that’s actually how this whole thing got started.
It’s Trent. He texted me a few months after the accident to see if you’d talked to me. I didn’t hear from him again until a few weeks before you left for Edisto. He was feeling pretty lost about what to do, how to reach out to you, and I could relate to what he was going through. I guess one thing led to another (God, I hate that cliché statement). We never meant to develop any feelings beyond friendship, but it’s happened. Is happening. We haven’t cheated. Right now, it’s a bunch of tip-toeing around the subject because we both care about you too much to hurt you. It’s hard to even write that because you’re my bestie (no matter what), and I never want to ruin that.
Trent says y’all haven’t been communicating, so I have to ask. Are y’all still together? I think he’s weirded out discussing it, so it sort of slides under the radar. But I can’t go on with this unless I know if you still have feelings for him. If you do, I’ll forget it. Everything. Right now. But if you don’t, I’d like to have your approval if and when Trent does bring up the subject.
I wrote
this whole thing in like five minutes and have spent the rest of the time staring at the send button. Push it or not? Once things are said, they can’t be unsaid. And more than anything, I never want to lose our friendship—we’ve come too close before.
And there you go, texting me again. Chill, CJ. You only made me wait almost nine months to hear from you! Read this. Think it over. Text me tomorrow.
I love you. Em
* * *
I walk over to my bed and lay on top of the covers, staring at my ceiling and gnawing on a fingernail. Em and Trent? So that explains the pictures of her at the baseball field I saw online. Obviously, Trent hasn’t told Em we’ve broken up. Probably because he’s too embarrassed to admit he did it with an impersonal email. That was a total jackass move, but in all honesty, I hadn’t been so great to him myself. I won’t tell her the details of our break up, I’ll just say we’re over. What happened between me and Trent is a moot point now, anyway. And they deserve a chance without all the baggage and drama. They have a lot in common. Why didn’t I ever see that before?
My heart teeters on the edge of a happy explosion. Through it all, Em’s still my bestie, and the aching need to fill her in on my first month here is like a vicious cat clawing at my nerves.
There’ll be no waiting until tomorrow.
I dial her number. It rings twice before she answers in her melodic, soft-spoken tone.
“CJ? Is it really you?”
“It’s me, Em. We have so much to talk about.”
Chapter Fourteen
Riding in the backseat of Bo’s Bronco shouldn’t freak me out. It’s not like we’re not bigger than most every other vehicle on the road. And taller. His gargantuan tires and lift teeter on the verge of monster truck status. Still, my knuckles whiten in a death grip on the seatbelt strap. Maybe it’s not so much the ride as it is the destination.
For the past three years, Jett’s thrown a blow-out party at his house the second weekend of June. According to Gin, it coincides with some big shrimping conference Jett’s parents attend, so when they pull out of town in their fifth-wheel camper, the preparations commence.
He invited me last week on our daily golf cart driving lesson. I hem-hawed a bit but finally gave in when Gin got wind of it and promised to stay by my side the entire night. Jett promised the same thing, but the guest list included tons of his racing acquaintances, and I’m not delusional. Trévon and Rachel will damn sure manipulate his face time in front of his adoring fans and colleagues.
Back at home, pre-accident, parties were no big deal. Every weekend there was somewhere to go or someone to go with. Of course, like the new measuring stick of my life, that was before. In the world of “this is your new life, CJ,” parties don’t blip the radar screen. Like, ever. It’s hard to be invisible in the middle of a crowd staring at the girl who’d “been through so much” while they guzzle beers. Artificial pity at its finest. No thanks.
“Here we are!” Bo announces from the driver’s seat, pulling into a grassy patch by the front drive. He reaches out to grab his date’s hand. Laurel—the mysterious internet fling turned actual girlfriend for one week per year. Despite Gin’s private claims that the whole relationship’s “shady,” Laurel’s a sweet girl with turquoise eyes and long, chocolate hair, perfectly untidy when piled in her messy bun. Her easygoing personality syncs perfectly with Bo’s.
“Same place as last year?” she asks from the passenger seat.
Her question catches me off guard, and I slide forward in my seat, elbows on the console. “Wait. You’ve been here before?”
“Last year’s party.”
Crap. I’m even newer than the newbie. Gin reaches out and grabs the small part of my arm exposed beyond the three-quarter length sleeves of my sapphire blue blouse. “Don’t worry, CJ. I’ll stay with you tonight. Remember?” Then she pauses, smiling, and points her finger out my window. “And I won’t be the only one.”
Jett bounces over the sidewalk in a half-walk, half-run toward the Bronco. He stops short as we throw open the heavy doors. “It’s about time. Almost everyone else is already here.”
Bo shoves his keys in his pocket, jumps out, and jogs around the front of the vehicle in time to offer Laurel his hand in jumping out onto the ground.
“I’m sorry. That’s probably my fault,” she giggles.
Jett nods and waves in her direction. “Hi Laurel. Just get in?” He doesn’t wait for a response, but turns toward me, offering his hand to help me jump down. I slip mine in his and he threads his other arm around my waist, lifting me out onto the grass.
Gin jumps down on my heels, unassisted, and trails behind Bo and Laurel as they head inside, arms entangled. I alternate my gaze between Jett and the monstrous home in front of me. “So…wow. This is your house?”
“My dad doesn’t do understated. Welcome to the Ramsey Family Compound.” Compound is the perfect descriptor for a house like this—three stories on top of twelve-foot pillars, walls made mostly of glass windows, double-decker porches, sundecks all around, and a brick-and-iron gate surrounding the perimeter.
He grips my hand tighter as we walk in the front door, and the way his fingers fit in mine quiets my nerves, even in the presence of so many people I don’t know. Though Gin has promised to never leave my side, my primary objective is to spend time with Jett to see what, if anything, is really going on between us. Everyone knows parties are the best way to overcome stubborn insecurities and find the (liquid) courage to get real. Could tonight be the night Jett and I make any sort of solid moves? I don’t know, but I didn’t spend two hours in the bathroom doing my make-up and hair for nothing.
We enjoy a good amount of time together before the inevitable happens. A handful of people, some our age and some looking to be in college, walk in with their T-shirts and jackets emblazoned with racing emblems. Different logos from the ones Jett wears, which I assume means they belong to a different team. Still, everyone seems friendly, slapping high-fives and shaking hands like long-lost buddies.
It starts with Rachel bending low to reach Trévon’s ear while he sits at the kitchen table. She looks at us as she whispers, finally jutting her finger in our direction with a forceful ultimatum. Trévon nods, gets up, and heads our way.
“Shit,” Jett mumbles. “You’d think they’d give all this a rest. At least for one night.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got Gin.” He nods, squeezes my hand, and gets up to meet Trévon. I turn to Gin, but she’s otherwise engaged, casting some serious flirty vibes toward the red-headed boy in a striped polo leaning against the staircase railing. He’s talking to a small group of guys, but gives her The Eyes more than once.
When she doesn’t make a move, I wrap my arm around her, accidentally sloshing a little of my drink on my leg. She laughs and points to my red Solo cup filled with PJ and fruit. “Go easy on those. Bo said Trévon made it, and he’s heavy-handed with the grain alcohol. It sneaks up on you.”
“Contrary to popular belief, I used to have a life, which did include a few parties in my day. This is only my second. Trust me, I’m good.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Gin clicks her tongue and glances back over at the guy, who’s now obviously staring in our direction. I dart my eyes between them, watching their mirrored reactions. He smiles. She smiles. He ticks his head up in a silent hello. She flutters her eyelashes. He strokes the collar of his shirt. She fiddles with her pinky ring.
I lean close in her ear. “So just go talk to him already.”
She whirls around with wide eyes and a loud, “Shhh!” then mouths silently, “He. Will. Hear. You.”
It’s moments like these when the two years between us seem to span a decade.
“Unless he has some sort of hearing superpower, I’m pretty sure he has no clue I’m talking about him.” I laugh and down another big gulp of my drink.
“You are talking louder than you think, CJ.” Her voice morphs into some sort of reprimanding mother mode, all sweet and measured
on the surface but seething with venom below. Sort of like when I was a kid and misbehaved at the store and Mom turned to me with that “We’ll deal with this at home young lady” warning of impending doom. She pries the cup from my hand against my protest. “I think you need to slow down a bit.”
I stick my tongue out at her. “Fine, but only if you go talk to him.”
Gin stands up, both of our cups in her hand, and glances down at me. “I’ll be right back.”
As she saunters to the garbage can, the guy breaks away from his group and trails behind her. I readjust on the couch for a better view of the hallway where he stops her and begins talking. She giggles and bites her lower lip as he leans against the wall, hands in his pocket. While they chat, he angles his body toward her. Such a good sign.
As I spy on Gin, two brown-haired girls sit down on the loveseat opposite the sofa. When Jett’s name comes up, I turn my head ever so slightly in their direction, mentally trying to block out the background noise.
“What’s Tyler doing here?” Brunette One asks, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “You know how much he and Jett hate each other. I’m surprised Jett hasn’t blown a gasket.”
Brunette Two snorts and takes a swig of her beer. “Why should he? Jett’s a better racer than him. Tyler’s just jealous.”
Tyler, huh? That must be the big competition Rachel keeps bringing up. I scan the room, but there are several guys with the other team’s racing logo on their shirt. It could be any one of them. In the far corner, Jett leans against the kitchen island, still chatting with Trévon and Rachel and a few others I don’t know, and he’s perfectly calm. Smiling, even. If Tyler is anywhere around, Jett either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care as much as everyone else thinks he does.
“Don’t underestimate Tyler. He’s Jett’s biggest competition.” Brunette One flounces back on the sofa, crossing her arms as if her declaration somehow seals the deal on the argument. The way she bats her eyelashes a million miles a minute when she enunciates Tyler’s name screams that her interest in the matter is deeper than she’s letting on.