Runaway Girl

by Bailey, Tessa

  The distant blasts that were still going off in my ears when I walked out of the house fade some. I don’t want her to be the reason. I want to get rid of the horrible noise myself. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’re not trading humiliations here. I’m not humiliated.”

  “I didn’t say you were. You shouldn’t be.” I’m snapping at her and yet, the soft rise and fall of her breasts makes me want to lay my head there. “Do you want me to leave?”

  My swallow is thick. “No.”

  “Okay.”

  It takes me a full minute to sit down beside her. My veins feel pulled tight and ready to snap, my legs are still aching to sprint until I can’t go any farther. Everything else inside me seems drawn to her, though, and that gravitational pull wins. Her usual scent of cedar and blood orange is softer than usual, probably worn off in sleep. The smell of morning dew and saltwater surrounds us as she starts to talk, her light voice carrying on the easy breeze.

  “The invasion of Normandy was the largest amphibious invasion in history. You’re a diver, so you probably already knew that.” She doesn’t wait for me to respond that yeah, I know a little, but not the finer details. Not the little nuggets of interesting facts she inserts into her stories. “For a successful invasion, the weather needed to be right. A full moon to illuminate the beach, mostly. The Allied forces couldn’t agree on a date for the invasion. The Americans wanted to go on the fifth, but the British were hedging. Finally, an Irish lighthouse keeper on the west coast advised them to hold off until the sixth…”

  I’m halfway to getting lost in Naomi’s words when her pinkie finger nudges mine. It’s so faint, I wonder if I imagined it. But I look down to find her hand right there. Waiting. Without giving my head a chance to talk me out of it, I cover her hand with mine. She turns her palm up and we lace our fingers together. Friendly. It’s just friendly. Apparently not harmless enough to stop my eyes from closing, my skin from enjoying the warm grace of her, though. Her recounting wraps around me as the sun starts to rise over the distant houses. And for the first time since coming home, I return to normal without having to break myself. Holding the beauty queen’s hand in mine, though, I start to wonder if she’s capable of breaking me instead.

  CHAPTER TEN

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  Her palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy…

  …and those are all symptoms of pre-combustion, if you’re interested.

  Naomi

  When I escaped to Florida, I envisioned myself participating in life-affirming feats. Skydiving, cattle roping, standing in the sunroof of a limousine with my arms thrown to the wind. Over the last couple of weeks, though, I’ve found that having dinner in a restaurant alone is panic-inducing enough. I’ve never eaten alone in public. Not once. It wasn’t something I acknowledged to myself as odd before now. I simply always had company. A reason to be out in the first place, whether it was charity planning, celebrating a birthday or attending a luncheon.

  Since moving into the chalet—as I lovingly refer to my studio above Jason’s garage—I’ve been bringing home groceries and trying new recipes out in the tiny kitchen. My creations have become a source of pride for me. Look! Tacos! I can make edible tacos! Growing up, we always had a chef to make meals for us. Occasionally the chef would leave already prepared meals for my mother to pop into the oven and declare herself a cook. Thus, preparing my own food is new to me—and I love it. But I can’t allow myself to hide away in the comfort of the chalet. So here I am, pacing back and forth in front of a seafood restaurant. Afraid to go inside.

  Ludicrous, isn’t it?

  Blowing out a quick breath, I scan the menu, which is posted outside in a mounted plastic frame. On the other side of the front window, I watch a waitress drop off a glass of wine at someone’s table. I could be drinking that wine. All I have to do is go inside and sit down.

  Birdie invited me to dinner again tonight and I’m starting to feel like an awful witch turning down the invitations. If the thought of sitting across from Jason didn’t make me jumpy, I would consider saying yes once in a while. As it is, though…I brace myself every time I know I’m going to see Jason. Whether it’s through the kitchen window or in the garage lifting weights with a cigar clamped in his mouth, I find my toes curling. Which is a polite way of saying my whole body grows flushed and sensitive, tingles running up and down my arms. He’s so intimidating in the daylight. Broad and covered in ink and frowning at whatever I’m wearing.

  That’s why I get nervous. His demeanor. Not because I’m thinking of that almost-kiss. Or how he spoke to me afterward. If this closet door had been closed, we’d be rounding third base on this fucking bed right now, beauty queen, and we both know it. Third base. I had to Google it to be sure I had a clear picture of what he meant. And…wow. That would have happened so fast? Of course Jason has fast, rough sex. Do I harbor any delusions he’d be a gentle lover?

  Not to me, obviously. Someone else. Someone available.

  An image springs to mind of Jason’s powerful, tattooed back flexing as he overpowers a woman on a bed, his mouth rasping inappropriate words in her ears. Acid climbs my throat and sours in my mouth so fast, tears spring to my eyes. I’m sure that’s why my curiosity slips past my willpower and I replace the woman with myself. A moaning, messy, straining version of myself, fingernails scraping down Jason’s closely-shaved scalp. Down further, traveling over his sharp mountains of back muscle to his—

  Mid-pace, I trip over the uneven sidewalk.

  What am I thinking?

  I’m not. I’m not thinking of Jason. Not like that.

  Maybe what I need is a phone call with my mother to remind me I’m on borrowed time. I’m sure she’s ready to throw me to the wolves for staying away this long. And it’s only going to get worse, because I’m not ready to go back to Charleston yet. Birdie and I have finally begun making progress on her walk. The final turn of the dance is yet to click, but we’re nearing a breakthrough. I can feel it. I am invested in Birdie being successful.

  More invested than you are in salvaging your relationship with Elijah?

  I let the reminder of Elijah sink in. Since the day I met my ex-fiancé, Elijah was kind and caring, but distant. So distant. Smiling and attempting to respond with the proper remark to whatever I was saying across the dinner table, but never taken off guard. Never peppering me with questions, the way I would try to do with him. Because of this—because I cannot imagine him pining away for someone who stoked so little a fire, I haven’t wondered overmuch if he misses me. Did I hurt him by calling off the wedding…or was he relieved?

  Not wanting to examine that possibility too closely, I lean against the wall of the building and slide my new cell phone out of my purse. I managed to make it almost three weeks without one, but scheduling practice sessions with Birdie was becoming too much of a challenge using the smoke signal method. I haven’t synced my email yet out of pure survival instinct, because I’m not ready to read messages with the underlying subtext of: Are you insane? Tapping my finger on the screen for a moment, I open the internet browser instead and search my name. A classic rookie mistake if I’ve ever heard one, but I promise myself to gloss over anything too negative. While I’m curious to know what’s being said about me, I’m freaked about dining alone in a restaurant—I definitely don’t need another complex.

  When I hit search, all I can do is stare at the screen as dozens upon dozens of websites pop up with variations of the headline: Theories on the Naomi Clemons Disappearance.

  Oh dear. That’s rather dramatic.

  I click the first link. It takes me to a site called Conspiracy Crowd.

  Did Naomi Clemons really run from her own wedding? Or was she taken by force? A witness close to Clemons claims she left a note and left of her own accord, but how credible is this bridesmaid? Does she know who kidnapped Clemons?

  “Oh Lord,”
I whisper, clicking over to another site. This one has an old picture of me at a charity event. I’m passing a man I don’t recognize, but the angle of the shot makes it look like we’re handing each other a note. The photo caption reads: What had Naomi Clemons gotten herself into? Inside sources hint at an organized crime ring dating all the way back to Prohibition. Debutante or mob shill? “You can’t be serious.”

  Despite my better judgment, I’m moving on to a third site when Birdie’s face pops up on my phone and it begins to vibrate. Still in shock over the conspiracy theories floating around about my disappearance, I answer with numb lips. “Hello?”

  “Naomi, can you please, please come home?”

  Hearing the tears in the younger woman’s voice, I push off the wall. “What’s wrong, Birdie?”

  She blows out a shaky breath. “Remember when you suggested I tell Natalie’s friends about my plans to compete in the pageant?”

  “Yes.”

  “I took your advice and—like, I fucking doubled down for some reason. I was feeling all confident and in charge, which is totally your fault, by the way. And I invited them over. They’re coming over. Here. To hang out.”

  “That’s great, Birdie. Good for you!”

  “No. They’re coming now. Now.”

  “Oh. So soon. Well, order some pizzas and…” I drop my voice in deference to the people around me. “Tell Jason to wear a shirt.”

  “He’s not even home yet. Naomi, I can’t do this by myself.” She pauses. “I barely knew how to talk to Natalie, okay? And her friends aren’t forced to endure me out of sibling obligation. When I bend over backwards to out-awkward myself, they’ll just leave.”

  “You’re not awkward.”

  “You’re not at school. You don’t know how everyone looks at me.”

  Birdie is right, of course. I have no perspective on her high school experience. Mine was exactly as it was supposed to be. Junior committees and homecoming dances and football games. Smiling for yearbook pictures and gossiping between classes. It almost seems like I watched a movie about someone’s life instead of living it myself. Birdie lives in an awareness right now that I didn’t achieve until I was getting ready to walk down the aisle. There’s no one to guide her through this phase of her life, either. Jason isn’t ready to handle teenage drama while he’s battling his own demons, is he?

  For a moment, I get stuck in that morning on the back stoop when he held my hand and I let his sweat soak clear through the side of my nightgown. I’m not sure I’ve felt more…real. Vital. Helpful. In a way I’ve never been before. The fear of getting too close to Jason and Birdie is why I’ve been eating dinner alone. Why I’ve been spending my days exploring St. Augustine and getting comfortable in my own company. My own skin. I can’t help but feel like I’m about to cross the line I’ve drawn…but I close my eyes and cross it, anyway, knowing full well I’m making things harder on myself in the future.

  “How long do we have?”

  I start down the sidewalk with a burst of purpose. Now that I’ve made the decision to go from pageant coach to slightly more than a pageant coach (read: it’s complicated), I’m ready to dazzle these teenagers within an inch of their ever loving lives. Being that I ran away from a life of entertaining and frippery, I shouldn’t be so excited to help Birdie play hostess. But I am. Maybe I’m allowed to enjoy making things pretty and being the classic Southern hostess I was trained to be. I’m also allowed to want more. To be more.

  A quick stop at the market and I’m standing at the back door of the main house. My hands are full, so I use my foot to tap on the door. “Birdie?”

  Jason opens the door while my foot is mid-knock and I almost do the splits right there on the threshold. He catches me around the waist before I drop, though, steadying me on my feet. Amid the tangle of limbs and grocery bags, his fingertips brush the underside of my breast and we both suck in a breath.

  “Shit,” he grunts, deep gray eyes running over my face. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say in a high-pitched voice, praying my nipples aren’t hard. They feel hard. Oh God, they are. They have to be. Trying to move before he has a chance to notice, I start to sidestep Jason, but he refuses to let me carry the bags, taking them out of my hands one by one. My breath remains poised in my throat as his gaze darkens to the shade of thunderclouds, letting me know he most definitely sees my pointed nipples through the thin, red cotton of my tank top. “I can manage the bags,” I whisper. “They’re t-tight—light. I mean light.”

  Without breaking our eye contact, he reaches out with the fist full of bags and sets them on the nearest counter. “You don’t carry bags when I’m around.”

  Why that causes the private place between my legs to cinch up tighter than a girdle, I don’t know. It startles me into sounding breathless. “Thank you, Mr. Bristow. That’s very gentlemanly of you.”

  Look out, Scarlett O’Hara. There’s a new, simpering Southern belle in town.

  “Jason.” Slowly, he rubs the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “And it doesn’t have anything to do with being a gentleman.”

  “Oh no?”

  “No.” His smirk is patronizing—and close, so close—but I’m too flustered to admonish him. “You want to unload, I’m just letting you know I’m here to help you do it.”

  If I was damp before, I’m growing dangerously close to soaked now, the area below my belly button in a permanent squeeze. He’s not supposed to make me feel this way, is he? It’s wild and indecent and…I’ve never experienced it before. “I-I thought we were friends.”

  “We are.” A floorboard creaks as he takes a step closer, his eyes flickering to my mouth. “I’m talking about a shoulder to lean on, beauty queen. What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” I breathe, shooting past him to the soundtrack of his low chuckle. “Have the guests arrived yet?”

  “No,” Birdie says, stomping into the room and plowing through the shopping bags. “What’s all this stuff? Tranquilizers? Please say it’s tranquilizers.”

  I shoo her hands away. “You’ll have to wait and see. Is the living room clean?”

  Jason reaches over my shoulder to search the bags. I slap his hand away, too.

  “Well?” I ask, hands on hips.

  “It’s decent,” Jason says, shrugging. “I was told my only job was to wear a shirt.”

  I turn to face him and ram back into the counter when I find him a mere foot away. “It’s nice to know you own one.”

  He flashes his teeth. “I own at least six.”

  Lord, I wish he wouldn’t smile. It’s disconcerting. I’ve just gotten used to the permanent scowl. “Next we’ll work on an iron.”

  “Don’t push it, baby.”

  Birdie’s groan turns me back around. “BRB while I slam my head in a door to forget I ever heard my brother call someone baby.”

  The conversation is making me anxious. Or maybe it’s the giant soldier radiating heat behind me while a T-shirt barely contains his muscle. I don’t know. “Birdie, cut these limes up into little wedges. Mr. Bristow, do you have cocktail glasses?

  He leans a forearm on the island. “What do you think?”

  “Regular glasses will suffice. How many friends are coming over?”

  “Six.”

  “Seven glasses if you please, Mr. Bristow.”

  Jason pushes away with a sigh and I hear glasses hitting the counter with little clinks a second later. It takes some fast handiwork, but by the time the doorbell rings, I’ve managed to whip up seven blueberry Moscow mule mocktails with sugar on the rim, although I leave the sweet stuff off of Birdie’s drink in deference to her diabetes. And I add cute pink straws, just because I can. I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath as I worked. When I step back, though, I find Jason and Birdie watching me with their jaws in the vicinity of the ground.

  Birdie shakes her head. “Holy shit. This is the first time I’ve had the urge to Instagram a food or drink item. You’ve turned me in
to a lemming.”

  “I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.” I adjust a slipping lime. “Well. Go answer the door. I’ll bring these out on a tray after the appropriate greetings have been made and everyone is seated. They won’t have coats to take, being that it’s May in Florida. I’ll give you a three-minute lead time.”

  “Three minutes. Okay, I can do that.” Birdie starts to leave but turns back around. “What is an appropriate greeting?”

  “Comment on the weather. Ask them about school. People love gawking at the insides of other people’s houses, so they’ll only be half listening, anyway.”

  “Right.”

  Birdie jogs from the room and I can no longer ignore Jason’s stare. It’s been burning a hole in the side of my head since I started making the mocktails. “Yes?”

  “You didn’t have to do all this.”

  “I enjoyed doing it.”

  Jason clears his throat. “They look great. I probably wouldn’t have thought to offer them something to drink.” He sends a look toward the kitchen door. “Damn, I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m the furthest thing from parent material there is.”

  I’m beginning to wonder how many complicated layers exist underneath Jason’s invincible soldier façade. I’ve witnessed him twice in the midst of what seemed like a panic attack and I don’t need a degree to know he’s fighting a serious mental battle due to his time overseas. This man is not used to feeling inadequate, and being Birdie’s guardian makes him feel that way in spades. I think that’s what he’s trying to tell me in his own gruff way.

  “You would have thought of something. I just beat you to it.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “I liked your wine. That night you came to dinner.”