He’s always been a good guy. Super reliable and safe, with just a tiny bit of edge that I can’t help but like so much. If the past has taught me anything it’s that most guys with too much edge have a nasty tendency to break my heart, so I’m hoping Beau is a good balance of both.
We’re having fun, but I don’t see it as anything super serious yet. We aren’t anywhere near moving in together or getting engaged, but I can’t help but wonder if he thinks we might be headed in that direction.
He sometimes talks about the future and the possibility of more – and don’t get me wrong, that sounds great – but I can’t bring myself to do it. Even the thought of marrying someone makes my stomach churn. It’s not because I’m a commitment-phobe or hate the idea of marriage. I actually think it’s a wonderful concept. Loving one person for the rest of your life doesn’t sound burdening, it sounds like a prize to be won. I just…I can’t go there. Not now.
And I don’t know when. I don’t know if when is even a possibility for me. Maybe I’ll know when the time is right. Maybe Beau will walk into my office one day and I’ll see that bright shining light behind him and I’ll be certain he’s the one. I’m not ruling it out. For now, he’s a guy who’s nice and makes me laugh. That’s all I want from a relationship at this moment in my life, or at least that’s the story I tell.
If I quit lying to myself and admit why I won’t commit to Beau, my heart would probably break all over again.
August Wyatt.
Just thinking his name hurts a little.
I don’t think of him often.
That’s a lie. I try hard not to think of him, but living in this town, makes it difficult. His face is usually plastered all over the news or on some damn billboard.
August Wyatt – Hometown Boy Makes It Big, the headlines read as his book, Somewhere Only We Know, hit the New York Times Best Seller list three years ago.
The constant reminder of his presence haunts me but our memories together taunt my subconscious on a constant basis.
The memories of us.
For Belle
He dedicated the book to me. The one line was so simple and left people wanting to know more, but I knew too much. I mean sure, it’s about us. August and I. Cam and Mr. Break-My-Heart. It was our love story. An ode to me. It was also a story he promised he wouldn’t forget, but as of late, it just appears to be nothing more than a money-making machine.
The book has already sold millions of copies with no likelihood of stopping any time soon. Every miniscule detail of what we felt for each other is out there in the world, printed in black and white, for every willing eye. I hate it.
I also love it.
I love it a lot and not so much hate it at all.
I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. I keep a stash of them in my apartment. Some are under the floorboards, while others are in the back of my closet, and I even have a few copies scattered on my bookshelf, hidden in plain sight. It felt a little shameful, but I couldn’t stop.
“Hey,” Beau says over the intercom, breaking my thoughts of August. “There’s a gentleman here for you. Wants you to appraise a rare grandfather clock.”
I clear my throat, and however unreasonable, felt like Beau had been swimming in my brain. “Oh, of course. I’ll be right there.” Straightening my dark plum blouse, I adjust the black cat-eye shaped glasses on my face and make my way out to the front of the museum.
My smile is intact, but my heart is somewhere between the pages of Somewhere Only We Know.
It’s well past six in the evening by the time I walk through the door of my apartment on Edmond Street. My red door screeches and the original wood floors creak, but I love it. They sound like home.
Bradshaw, Georgia, though not founded until the early 1800s, is a little like old school New Orleans. I honestly think the architects had an obsession with Creole culture because this town is a spitting image of the French Quarter. Not that I’m complaining. It’s all very beautiful.
My apartment is my favorite place in the world. The exposed brick and white-paned windows are only the cherry on top.
Closing the door behind me, I throw my purse on my white dining room table and make my way to the kitchen. I’m eager to take off my shoes but don’t want to get too relaxed before Beau picks me up for our date. Pulling out a small glass, I pour a shot of bourbon and down it in one scorching gulp. The pain of the hot liquid provides the numbing sensation I’ve been yearning for since I thought of August earlier today.
I hate that I let him get in my head. He doesn’t even have to try. I do it to myself. Still, even after years of being apart, one tiny thought of him can make its way into my brain and set up shop. He’s a sickness I can’t shake.
And the cure?
Beau. I’m really hoping it’s Beau. He’s been doing the job good the past couple of months.
Rinsing my glass with water, I set it back in the cabinet and look to the bookcase on the back wall of the living room. I try to resist the urge to go to it and shuffle through its contents, but my feet are already moving, making their way to the far-left corner where I’ve concealed one of my many secrets. My hand reaches in without a second thought, the book hidden just behind a copy of my favorite Jane Austen novel. I feel the familiar texture of the object I hold most dear. Pulling out the black, sleeveless hardcover, I sit down on my deep blue couch and turn to my favorite passage. It’s dog-eared and the pages are worn, but the faded ink brings me a calm I can’t quite get from anything else.
It wasn’t that she was so unaware of her own beauty, it was her ability to see the magnificence in other’s that I loved so much. She was so blissfully oblivious. I couldn’t help but fall over and over again. Each new moment was an opportunity to plunge into the abyss of her and every time I reveled in it. I waded in her ocean, praying to be pulled under. Begging to drown.
“What are you staring at, Rush?” Brooke asked, pulling up her legs to lean her head on her knees.
The heat scorched the metal bleachers under our bodies as we waited for football practice to start, but we didn’t move. I could already tell the tank top and shorts outfit she wore for cheerleading practice was beginning to stick to her clammy skin. It was our only time together and we refused to waste time looking for a shady spot. “You,” I simply said, pushing the damp hair away from her forehead.
A smile cracked on her mouth and she looked down, the rose blush taking over her cheeks. “Well, stop it. I’m sweaty and gross.”
I tugged down on my shoulder pads, my football uniform especially uncomfortable that day. “Never,” I promised. “I’ll never stop staring.”
My mouth landed on hers in an instant and everything around us fell away.
My phone rings and I close the pages, which shut with a harsh clamp. No one’s around but I feel judged for reading.
I’m a little breathless and teary-eyed, but I answer anyway. “Hey, Mama.”
“Oh, honey, you sound tired. You okay?” she says. Her light voice makes me smile and roll my eyes all at once. Her motherly instincts never prove her wrong and Lord does she know it.
“I’m fine, Mama. Just got home from work.”
“Good,” she says matter-of-factly. “Have you eaten? You sound like that when you don’t eat. I know you skip meals. Losin’ weight ain’t something you need to worry about.”
That is the last thing on my mind at the moment. I huff and look down at my size twelve waist and long legs. I don’t skip meals. Some days I forget to eat lunch or accidentally skip breakfast, but it’s not intentional. My job can get intense sometimes. Trust me, I love food far too much to deliberately miss eating.
I laugh and push up my glasses. “I don’t want to lose weight.”
I like how I look. I’m not one of those girls who hates her body. I embrace my curves and try to work with them. I’m happy with who I am and how I look, so I don’t beat myself up over a few pounds here or there.
“Well, you don’t need to. You’re beauti
ful.”
I stand from the couch and walk out of the living room down the hall to my room. “You’re buttering me up an awful lot, Mama. What’s going on?”
She sighs and shuffles on the other end of the line.
Moving to my dresser, I take a good look in the mirror, my eyes a little tired. “Uh oh. You and silence are never a good combination.”
“Hush,” she scolds, laughing under her breath.
I smile.
“It’s just…I know the movie starts filmin’ soon…” her voice trails off. I knew she’d bring it up sooner or later, but I didn’t think it would be today.
Somewhere Only We Know is the highly anticipated film being made here in Bradshaw. It’s the reason why my entire hometown has lost its damn mind with August Wyatt Fever. Rumor has it, the production company decided they wanted the feel and look of the movie to be authentic, so they’re filming here. In Bradshaw. For me to watch every damn day until it’s over in God-knows-how-many-months.
“Mmhmm,” I respond, feeling the weight of it already.
“And?” she pushes.
“And nothing,” I say with a little more sass than I intended.
“Campbell Hadlee Potter. Don’t you ‘and nothin’ me! August will be there soon. Are you going to see him?”
Holy hell, she just three-named me. “No, Mama. I’m not planning on it.”
“Cause why?” Her southern accent is thick now. Anger usually brings it out in her.
“Why would I? He left me, Mama. Five years ago. No goodbye. No explanation. He just up and left our dorm room in Athens without so much as a backward glance. So, no, I don’t think I want to see him.”
Liar.
Plus, it doesn’t help that we haven’t talked since that dreadful day. I’d like to think if I saw him or heard from him I’d be okay, but considering I get all gooey-eyed reading his book, I doubt I’d handle contact well.
She sighs, again. “College was five years ago and you’ve moved back home to work. You’re gonna have to see him.” She pauses. “Darlin’, you’re gonna to have to let him go eventually.”
“I have.”
“Don’t lie to me. I can hear the passion in your voice. You know you aren’t good at hidin’ your emotions.”
I turn away from my reflection, mad at myself because she’s right – and even angrier because I hate to admit it – but I harbor unresolved feelings toward August. Like she said, my emotions play out all over my face. Many people can’t recognize it, but she can. “I’ll be fine. Anyway, he’s far too busy.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Mama!” I shout-laugh. “Stop it. They’re going to film the movie and it’ll be over with.”
“And how long will that be? Weeks? Months?”
I shake my head and walk to my closet, pulling out a dress to wear to dinner with Beau. “Months, probably. I don’t know.”
“Well, hell’s bells, months is a long time to fall back in love.”
“No,” I say, slamming the hanger down. “No love. Besides, I heard he’s dating some model.”
And I’m kind of dating Beau.
“Honey, we’ve all heard that. It’s all over the news, but you know what?” Her voice becomes so kind I can practically feel her reach for my hand to squeeze it the way she does to calm me.
“What?”
“She ain’t you.”
I slip out of my heels and tug off my dress pants, throwing them in the hamper along with my shirt and all I can say is, “Yeah, well…”
Someone knocks on my door and I quickly grab my dark green dress, zipping it up carefully so I don’t catch my skin. “Shoot, Mama, can you hold on?”
Stuffing my feet into another pair of heels, my favorite black pumps, I run to the front door. Opening it wide, I smile as Beau leans in to kiss me softly on my cheek. “Hi,” I mouth and hold up a finger.
“I’ll let you go, honey, but remember what I said. Bradshaw is a small town. You’re gonna run into him and you need to get your feelings sorted out, one way or another.”
I pull Beau through the threshold. “I hear, you, Mama,” I say. “Love you.”
“You, too.” And she ends the call.
“Hi,” I say as I breathe him in, sliding my arms around his torso.
Beau smiles, a content look on his face. “Hi.” He kisses the top of my head and lets go of me.
“I need to freshen my makeup, but then I’ll be ready.”
“Take your time.” He winks, taking a seat on the couch and turning on the television.
I make my way to my room, grabbing my bag of makeup from the vanity. I quickly reapply my mascara, lipstick and powder and do my best to give myself a pep talk in the mirror as I do every time I go out with him. You don’t need a fairytale.
Fairytale…
“Ready!” I say, walking to the living room, grabbing my pearl earrings off my dresser as I pass it.
Beau clicks off the television and smiles. “You look great, Cam.”
I shyly look down at my feet and grin, thanking him. “Want to take your car or mine?” I ask, walking to the door.
Beau grabs the doorknob, skirting his hand around my body, opening it for me. “Let’s walk. It’s nice out and we can go to your favorite café.”
I force a smile because, yes, the café down the street is my favorite, but it’s also August’s favorite. That was never an issue before because he was all the way in New York City living his best-selling-novelist life, but now his movie is being filmed here and I have no idea when he’ll be in town.
Instead of voicing my qualms, I rally in my mind and grasp Beau’s hand to pull him along. “Sounds amazing.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulders and guides me to the elevator and out of my apartment complex.
“So, this movie,” Beau says around a mouthful of spinach ravioli, “do you know the guy whose book it’s based on?”
I move my eyes down to my plate and grab for my glass of red wine. The light aroma of oregano and basil drifts through the air. Normally, I’d find pleasure in the smell, but now it sort of makes my stomach hurt. I keep my eyes trained on my plate, taking a big gulp from my glass. “Mmm.”
“He’s a big deal, huh? Went to school here,” he says, spearing a piece of broccoli and shoving it into his mouth. “I mean, how can you live here your entire life and not know the guy? He’s your age.”
I gulp the rest of my wine and wipe my mouth with the clean white napkin from my lap. “Mmm,” I reply, again.
I don’t want him to know about my connection to August’s book. It’d only make what Beau and I have complicated. I won’t be Cam Potter – antiques appraiser. I’d become Cam Potter – August Wyatt’s ex-girlfriend. Lord knows I don’t want to be the ex-girlfriend in his eyes. It’s already hard enough for most people in this town to avoid seeing me as that person. Beau not being from Bradshaw makes keeping my past love life actually in the past a little easier.
I’ve worked hard to move beyond what August did to me. Sure, being in the same town as him, breathing the same air will be difficult, but I can avoid him and keep on keepin’ on. Just like Mama taught me.
“I bet if you knew him, we could get on the set. See what it’s like to be on a real movie. Maybe we could even be extras.”
I let out a nervous snigger. An extra on August’s movie? Wouldn’t that be the pinnacle of irony. No, thanks. “I don’t think they need extras, Beau. Plus, we have the museum to run. It’ll be filming all hours of the day.”
“Still,” he goes on. “Imagine if you did know him. We could find out who the book is about.” He takes a drink of his beer and then sets it back down. “I mean, I heard it’s fiction, but rumor has it, it’s about a girl August dated here. In Bradshaw. They were dating and he wrote this epic love story.” His eyes widen as if he’s enjoying the prospect of knowing her.
Me.
Whatever.
Sweet baby Jesus. I cough, the bile from my stomach forcing its way up my throat. I gra
b for my extra glass of water, the cool moisture helping to tame the past from physically appearing via my insides.
I shrug, taking a calming breath. “I don’t know. Sounds crazy, though.”
“I’ll try to Google it. Maybe someone has some insight,” Beau says, fishing his phone out of his pocket.
My mind races, the gears turning. I’m sure if he dug deep enough, he’d find something about me. Months after the release of the book, countless townspeople of Bradshaw hounded me about the details. There’s got to be at least one or two blogs out there connecting me to him and our story.
“So,” I say with haste, desperately trying to change the subject, “that painting from The Met came today. How did it go?”
Beau’s eyes light up and he drops his phone on the table. Thank the sweet little baby Jesus. He picks up his fork, finishing the last remnants of his food then shoving the plate away. “Amazing. I can’t believe we were able to acquire it. Apparently, they had another big piece come in from Europe and needed some more room. We got selected to take the painting. It’ll be a huge hit when we reveal it.”
“That’s great.” I smile, genuinely happy. Our museum can always use the money and reveals translate to revenue. Plus, it’s a great reason to have a party. It’s not always easy keeping people interested so this’ll be a nice boost in attendance.
Beau slides his hand from his side of the table, taking my fingers. “Thank you for letting me take you out tonight.”
Before I can respond, someone stops in front of our table, her hands hiding her gasping mouth.
Her light blonde hair falls down her back and her blue eyes bug out of their sockets. “Oh my stars,” she says behind her hand. “You’re…,” she stops, her eyes darting back and forth between myself and Beau. I’m not exactly sure which one of us she’s gasping at, but my hands begin to shake out of sheer apprehension.
It’s then that I see the star birthmark on her collarbone. We went to high school together and, though she looks different, I know her to be Samantha Welsh. Gossip Queen of Bradshaw High.
Who Needs Air Page 2