Tomorrow is a new day, and while I don’t know what it might bring, I vow to myself to take back control of my life one decision at a time.
CHAPTER 23
“Claire Fahnlander is obsessed with you.” I’m walking out of morning devotions Monday morning next to Waverly. So far Camp Zion is a carbon copy of Whispering Hills high school complete with the same familiar faces and one, miss Claire Fahnlander shooting daggers our way during prayer time.
“She’s always been,” Waverly sighs, hoisting her Bible and Book of Mormon on her hip as we breeze down the hallway. “She used to have a thing for Cade Corbin. Cade has a thing for me.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s been going on since middle school.”
“So that’s why she doesn’t like you?”
“I guess?” Waverly doesn’t seem to care that much, which is a relief because I know how fucking catty these high school bitches can be. “I try to stay out of it.”
“Who’s Cade Corbin?”
“That guy right there.” She nods forward where a tall, lanky guy with surfer hair and a neon pink, popped-collar polo is walking toward us. He’s smiling at her like a love-struck puppy dog. Waverly stops at a drinking fountain. “He’s been in love with me for years. I think he just wants me because he can’t have me.”
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good knowing she came all over my cock the other night but she won’t give frat boy here the time of day. Almost makes a guy feel special.
“Hey.” Cade weasels his way up to us, edging me out with calculated intention. “So, uh, any plans this summer?”
Waverly smiles at him, laughing under her breath like she’s amused by his goofy grin and his California tan and those disgusting dimples. He’s showering her with attention and she’s lapping it right up like a kitten to milk. “Cade, you know I can’t hang out with you.”
“I’ve been waiting forever for this,” he says. “All those years of turning me down and you won’t at least let me take you on one date? Send me off to college on a high note?”
This guy’s fucking obnoxious, and I want to slap that smug grin off his face right here, right now.
“She’s with me.” I clear my throat as Cade whips around.
His smile fades. “Who’re you?”
Waverly shoots me a furrowed-brow look, which I’m interpreting as, “Protect the family secret,” but for all I know, it also means, “Don’t intervene, I actually want to date this douche canoe.”
I’m not a mind reader, so she’s out of luck.
“We’re together.” I’m not sure why that seemed like the best thing to say in that moment, but I’ve said it and now I have to own it.
Her jaw drops, her face paling. Cade scratches the side of his head, squinting at me.
“I thought you couldn’t date?” he asks her.
It’s funny watching her squirm and try to come up with some kind of impromptu lie, especially since she’s a horrible liar. I decide not to make her suffer too long.
“She’s not supposed to.” I inch closer to her, slipping my hand into hers. “It’s kind of under wraps, so I’d appreciate you not saying anything to anyone, man. Thanks.”
I pull her down the hall with me, leaving Cade to eat my dust. By the time we round the corner, she yanks her hand out of mine.
“Why did you do that?” Her words are delivered with a hushed heat. “What, you think because of last night, I’m with you now?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not. Let’s just make that clear right now.” I smirk, rubbing my hand across my mouth.
“You can’t just tell people we’re together.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” She wants to get angry at me, I can tell, but she’s still trying to wrap her head around how she feels about it. This will either bode well for me or it’ll be catastrophic. “Because it’s not true.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
She’s cute.
“I’m not supposed to date, and even if I were, you’re the last person on earth I should be associating with in that way,” she says. “Look, I’m already on thin ice, and if this were to get back to my dad…”
Her words trail off, like she’s afraid to finish the thought.
“I can handle your dad. Not worried about him.”
She’s quiet, but her face says it all.
“What, are you afraid of him?” I ask. “Or, wait, are you afraid to disappoint him?”
Her palms smooth over the hem of her sweater. “Look, just don’t tell people I’m with you, okay? Even if you’re joking.”
“Fine,” I say. “As long as you don’t go on a date with Cade Corwin.”
“Corbin.”
“Whatever.”
“Not a problem.” Waverly rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to date him, anyway.”
“I can’t imagine you’re missing out on much.” I grab the collar of my polo and pop it up, flashing a goofy grin like Cade’s.
She cracks a smile and somehow we’re just now realizing the halls have emptied around us. Her hand clasps over her mouth. “Jensen, we’re going to be late for the Faith-Building workshop.”
“Oh, no. Whatever will we do?” I find the situation to be hilarious, though judging by the sour look on her face we’re not on the same page. At all. She brushes past me in a panicked frenzy, only I grab her arm. “Where are you going?”
“Class.” She jerks her arm from my grasp.
“No, you’re not.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t be late. I can’t have any tardies on my record. They’ll make a note of it on my weekly report, and Bellamy already says everyone thinks I’m acting different and I’m still trying to prove to my Dad that—”
She yammers on, but I tune her out.
“We’re both adults here.” I clear my throat, interrupting her train of thought. “Let’s just sign ourselves out. They’ll only contact your parents if you’re, like, missing or a no-show. Trust me. I’ve spent my fair share of summers at Bible Camp. If we sign ourselves out, that takes care of any tardies or unexcused absences. This isn’t high school.”
She leans back against the wall, her head tilted, and then our eyes meet. “Fine.”
That was easy.
With determined steps, we rush to the main office and sign ourselves out. Minutes later we’re just a couple of free birds, heading down student-free halls toward the front doors where adventure begins the second we peel out of the parking lot.
She climbs into my truck, slinging her bag between us. “So what now? Where are we going?”
“I hadn’t thought that far.”
“Seriously?”
“You were worried about getting a tardy,” I say, turning the ignition. “Now you don’t get a tardy and you get out of camp for a few hours so you can be bad with me.”
“Just don’t get me into too much trouble today. Let’s fly low on the radar.”
“So you barged into my room last week and practically demanded that I fuck you, and now you don’t want to get into trouble?” Good to know even losing her virginity hasn’t changed the core of Waverly Miller. She’s still jam-packed with indecisive confusion. “You had a problem. I solved it. You really think I’d get you out of trouble just to get you into more trouble?”
“All I said was don’t get me in too much trouble today.” She buckles up, crossing her legs and staring straight ahead. “I’m trusting you with my future. I still think I can convince my dad to let me go to college. I’m trying to walk a very thin, narrow line here. That’s the only reason I let you talk me into signing out.”
“You trust me?”
“You’re good at this being bad stuff. You know what you’re doing.”
I pull out of the parking lot and come to a stop at the corner. “You’re okay with last week, right? We never had a chance to talk about it. You spent all weekend doing chores or some shit like that. I thought you were avoiding me.”
“How many times ar
e you going to ask me?” she huffs. “I’m totally fine.”
My foot presses into the gas. “Just making sure.”
Waverly stares out the window, tracing her finger across a smudge on the glass. “So, where are we going?”
“Probably shouldn’t stick around town if you’re not wanting to be seen.” I roll down my window, letting the cool spring air hit my face. Freedom is skipping some bullshit camp with a pretty girl by your side and no particular destination in mind.
“The next town over,” she says. “Hilldale. They have antique shops and little cafés.”
My lip curls up on one side. “I’m sorry, Waverly, but I am not going antiquing with you. I’m not your boyfriend, remember? You made that pretty clear just a little while ago.”
“So if you were my boyfriend, you would go antiquing with me?”
“Probably. But you’d have to blow me first.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“That’s how relationships work, just so you know. You do shit you don’t want to do and sometimes you have to bribe each other with sexual favors.” She smacks me hard across the arm, though it doesn’t much hurt. “And why the fuck does an eighteen-year-old want to go antiquing, anyway?”
We pull out onto the main road that veins through town east and west.
Waverly slinks a shoulder up to her ear. “I don’t know. It’s something to do.”
“You need to grow your imagination, then. I can think of a million other things to do that are better than antiquing.” I switch the radio on to a classic rock station. “What do you like to do in your free time?”
“Never had a whole lot of it. Most of my time is spent at home. Housework. Chores. I read books. That’s about it.”
“You’re killing me here. You know that, right?” I merge onto the interstate, rolling up my window. “Is there a theme park around here? A mall? Anything?” A big green sign a quarter mile down the road tells us we’re just fifteen miles away from the birthplace and lifelong home of Mormon poetess Elizabeth Wagner. “You know her?”
“I know of her, yes,” she says.
“You want to go see where she was born? It’s not much better than antiquing, but I get the feeling you don’t get out much, so I’m willing to go there, and you don’t even have to blow me.”
“I wouldn’t have blown you anyway, but yes, we can go there.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice, and I think she’s kind of excited.
We follow the signs to a sleepy little town called Glen Oak that seems to encircle a small lake. About a mile down the road, just past a handful of boat ramps, is an old house stitched together with mudded timber. A white sign out front says: HOME OF ELIZABETH WAGNER.
“Found it.” I shut off the ignition and climb out.
Waverly runs to the sign, reading the scheduled tours. “Aw, they don’t start tours until four.”
A red sedan is parked outside the house. “Someone’s here. Won’t hurt to ask.”
I jog up to the front door and knock before checking the handle. The house is unlocked, so I motion for her to follow me.
“What are you doing?” She whispers her words and crouches down, like we’re a couple of burglars.
“Hello? Anyone here?” I call out. The house is small, a sparsely decorated living room to the right and an old timey kitchen to the left. A set of stairs is before us, and the sound of footsteps above tells us the owner of the red car is definitely here. “Hello?”
The footsteps move quicker until we see the feet of a woman at the top of the stairs. She climbs down gingerly, the stairs popping and cracking with each careful movement.
“We’re closed.” Her voice is gruff and old, tinted with small town fatigue.
“I know, but we’re just passing through, and my girlfriend here is a huge fan of Elizabeth Wagner’s work. It would mean the world to her if you—”
“Twenty minutes,” she says. “And don’t tell anybody. I’m just the cleaning lady.”
Waverly’s mouth parts into a smile a mile wide and she gives my arm a squeeze.
“See?” I say. “Ask for what you want and you just might get it.”
She scampers off toward the living room, oohing and ahhing over display cases filled with handwritten notes and letters by the poetess. A desk with Elizabeth’s actual feather quill and inkpot sits behind velvet ropes.
“This was her desk,” Waverly says. “Her actual desk. Where she wrote. She sat here.”
You’d think we were touring Graceland, or something. “Yeah. Very cool.”
She doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm, so I stand aside and watch her fawn over every square inch of this humble dwelling.
“She had twelve children,” Waverly said. “Can you imagine?”
“How many sister wives?” I tease.
“Several. Eight, I think? She was the first, though.”
I follow her into the kitchen, where she ogles teacups Elizabeth Wagner once drank from as well as a pie pan she used to bake her famous boysenberry pies with.
The cleaning lady tromps down the stairs, a plastic caddy and feather duster in her hands. “I’m done upstairs. As soon as I finish down here, I have to lock up. Consider this your ten-minute warning.”
We head up, the staircase barely two feet wide and steeper than shit. The upstairs contains a few small bedrooms—one appearing to be a master bedroom and the others filled with makeshift bunk beds and covered in ancient quilts.
“This is where she slept,” Waverly sighs, running her palm against the multi-colored fabric that covers a bed.
“Lay on it.” I shrug. “No one will know but you and me.”
She swats at me. “You’re a bad influence, you know that?”
“Do it, Waverly. I’m sure if Elizabeth were here, she’d be more than happy to entertain you in her home.”
Waverly laughs. “I highly doubt that. She allegedly wasn’t the nicest person, but man, could she string together some beautiful sentences.” She leans over the bed, inspecting every square inch of the quilt as if she’s fascinated. “I bet she sewed this herself. She was an avid quilt-maker. Best in the county.”
I take the opportunity to gently shove Waverly, forcing her on the bed. “Oops.”
She whips around. “Jensen!”
I fall into the bed, taking the spot next to her. “Oh, my goodness. I think I tripped over the chamber pot.”
I expect her to scramble up off the bed and chide me, but she doesn’t. She lays there, parallel to me, her head resting on her hand. A slow grin captures her face and her hair falls over her left eye. “You’re terrible.”
“You’re easily persuaded.”
“You’re a smooth-talking salesman.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of things I can’t talk you into doing.” I lean back on the bed, tucking my hands behind my head and staring up at the wooden ceiling. God, growing up in the 1800s would’ve been mind-numbingly dull.
“You really think I’m that uptight still?”
“You are that uptight. Still.”
“I’m trying not to be,” she says, her hand across her chest. “I’ve gotten better. Uptight Waverly wouldn’t have snuck out to go to a concert with you. Uptight Waverly wouldn’t have signed herself out of Camp Zion.”
I love how we’re just lying in Elizabeth Wagner’s bed, in her museum, yakking away like it’s the most natural thing on earth. But that’s the beauty of being with Waverly—she tends to make everything else irrelevant.
I won’t tell her that, though. I won’t tell her how much I enjoy her company and the distraction she provides. I sure as fuck won’t tell her I actually might miss her come August.
“Fine. You’re making strides. I’ll give you that.” I trace my finger tip along her arm, connecting the freckles like a game of dot-to-dot. “So what kind of life does new-and-improved Waverly Miller want?”
“That I don’t know,” she says, pulling in a long sigh. “Just one of my own. One where I get to call the sho
ts. That’s all I want.”
“Simple enough.”
“What about you?”
I think about the long answer, but I opt to give her the short one. “Exact same.”
Right now would be a perfect time to kiss her—at least, that’s what my body is telling me. I consider it, mulling it over like I’ve got all the time in the world. But I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. I’m not dating her, and this sure as hell isn’t romantic—at least not to me.
But then something washes over me, an impulse heightened by my racing heart or the way she toys with the gold locket around her neck as she bites her bottom lip.
And so I kiss her.
I press my lips against hers, hard, forcing her lips apart so our tongues can meet. My cock hardens, responding to her sweet taste.
She pulls away, pressing her hand into my chest. “Hey, what’d you do that for?”
“Now you can say you kissed someone in the same bed where Elizabeth Wagner used to kiss her husband.” I ready myself for a slap that never comes, which is a shame, because I kind of deserve it.
“All right, you two, time to go,” the cleaning lady calls up from the bottom of the stairs. “Gotta lock up. Let’s go, let’s go.”
It’s for the best, because the second she pushed me away, something deep inside me wanted more. I don’t know that I could’ve stopped otherwise.
CHAPTER 24
“I had fun today.” I climb out of Jensen’s truck just before three o’clock, before a mass amount of camp goers and carpool mini vans flood the parking lot.
After we left Elizabeth Wagner’s, we grabbed hot dogs, Cokes, and moon pies from a local gas station and had an impromptu picnic by the Glen Oak Lake. The remainder of the afternoon was spent driving up and down county roads, listening to music, and basking in the warmth of the midday sun like we were the only two people on earth.
Jensen gives a tight-lipped nod and salutes me. If he’s trying to be charming, it’s working.
“Guess I’ll see you at dinner.” His gaze lingers on me a bit too long until he shifts his truck into drive.
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