Rubbing my stinging eyes, I grab my coffee out of the cup holder, my messenger bag from the back seat, and shut the door, which requires an extra hip nudge to close. I’d normally yell at Bristol for taking too long to get out of the car, but she’s waiting on me this time with no shortage of sad, pathetic sighs.
I feel bad, sick in fact, but I don’t know how to forgive her this time. Being mad at Bristol isn’t something new. I’ve gone an entire day without speaking to her or her to me, and it’s never made me feel physically ill, until now.
We run the two blocks, coffee sloshing, bags jostling, asses bouncing until we’re forced to stop for traffic on Ocean Avenue. “What’s with all the cars?” Bristol asks, both of us looking from side to side at the cars, trucks, and an outrageous number of serial killer vans parked along the boardwalk. Even the day after Miracle Days shouldn’t be this congested.
Bristol’s casual question isn’t enough to get me to end the silent treatment, so I let the question hang. We cross in the middle of the street between two lights and skirt between a parked serial killer van and a black SUV. We continue to jog for the last block of our jaunt, and when Stray Charlie’s should be coming into view, all I can see is a crowd.
“What the fuck?” Bristol’s mouth responds to my thoughts, and as one, we shield our eyes with a hand above our sunglasses. It may block a bit of the sun, but it doesn’t make the scene we’re approaching any clearer.
“Is that her?” It comes from the Stray Charlie’s crowd, and as it does, the middle thins as the people on the ends fan out to look in our direction.
“Which one’s Brenna? There’s two? Are there two? There’s two . . .”
“Bren-nah . . .” Bristol looks at me, a question in there somewhere. I’m at a loss—stone-cold immobile and speechless. “Should we run? We should totally run.”
Six or seven of the hundred-plus crowd break away and begin running toward us, questions spilling from open mouths like squawking seagulls fighting over a French fry. “Brenna! Are you and Van Hatfield exclusive? How’d you meet? Brenna! When are you going to see him again? Brenna! Which one of you is he dating? Is he dating you both?”
They’re on us, cigarette smoke preceding at least one of them, video cameras bringing up the rear. At the moment, the only thing I can think is I’m going to die without a shower and please, let me get out of this without being molested by the guy with his belly hanging out of his unbuttoned plaid shirt.
“Throw your coffee, then run!” I yell at Bristol, and for once today, we’re in sync. We lob our coffee grenades. One hits a pair of shins and the other splatters off the shoes of the guy in plaid. It would be mass casualties if it wasn’t lukewarm coffee shrapnel. The harmless beverage buys us a little time, and Bristol and I, channeling our twin powers, retreat at the same time.
Running with a few of the more agile ones on our tails, Bristol and I take off down the boardwalk. We cross the street at Stricker Bait, narrowly missing a collision with a guy on a bicycle. He yells at us, but after what we’ve faced, he’s not at all scary in his aerodynamic helmet, spandex shorts, and reflector socks. We run up Thurston Street for a block, and then turn right onto San Bari, where we can access a back entrance into Ace Hardware if we need it, but looking behind me for a status check, it’s unnecessary.
“I think we lost ’em,” I shout out to Bristol, who is a little bit ahead of me. Slowing, she cranes her neck and looks over her shoulder before coming to a stop beside a dumpster full of black trash bags and cardboard boxes.
“Holy shit,” Bristol barely gets out between breaths.
“That was insane,” I say through heavy breaths of my own.
She flings herself at me and bear hugs me to her. “You’re talking to me again!”
I try to peel her sweaty body off of me, but she’s stronger than she looks. “No, I’m not,” I say, trying to wedge my arms in between us to see if that will work to pry us apart.
“See,” she chirps right next to my ear, “you did it again.” She bounces us from side to side, far too excited for a girl who just ran four blocks from stalking paparazzi.
“It won’t happen again.”
“Okay,” she says loosening her hold. “I’ll continue to talk to you, and you can continue not to talk back to me just like you have the last three times. I’ll learn to live with it.” She pulls back, looks me in the eyes, and she smack-kisses me on my forehead. “Ew, if kissing your sweat doesn’t say I love you, I don’t know what does.” She spits and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand.
I fight a chuckle, the first since Bristol betrayed me and Vance decided he didn’t want me. Eating my sweat feels like small penance for what she did.
“So, how do you think they figured out who you were?”
If there was ever a question to end my silent treatment, she dished it on a silver platter. “Well,” I start without the biting tone I’m building toward, “my guess would be you.”
“Me?” She points to herself for emphasis, sweaty forehead crinkled, eyes squinting at the sun. “I didn’t give them your name. I told them Van Hatfield was spotted at The Seam.”
“I was with him, dipshit, wearing a Stray Charlie’s tank top. Did you honestly think they wouldn’t put two and two together?”
Her expression changes, comprehension dawning. “Oh shit, Brenna.” She chomps down on her bottom lip, eyes still squinting but showing regret. “I didn’t even think about that. I . . .” Dropping her head, she doesn’t finish her sentence and covers her face with her hands. Two seconds later I hear her sniffle, tears sparking a tremor in her body.
Watching her cry adds to my heartbreak. Our fights have always been petty. Not talking to her was usually just to prove a point, but this time around, our differences are a little more difficult to wade through. I want to hurt her for hurting me, but retaliation will only hurt us both. Last night and today, I truly had to live without her, in my heart at least, and I found out I like it less than I like what she did. She’s my other half. I can’t stay mad at her and function.
“Stop,” I say softly, before wrapping my arms around her. “For now, we’ll look at the bright side. We ran four blocks with paparazzi on our asses. How many people can say that?”
Bristol looks up, tears glistening in her eyes and on her cheeks. “I screwed up.”
I nod, agreeing. “Yes. Yes, you did. But that shit was fun.”
She laughs through her tears, wiping her upper lip and nose on her wrist. “That was a blast.” We laugh, Bristol with a few hiccups in hers, and in mine, a bit more joy than I would have found an hour ago.
“What are we going to do now?”
“About the paparazzi?”
She nods.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had to deal with them before. But we should probably call Charlie and tell him we can’t come to work.”
Per Charlie, our day at work is canceled and our return date is, “Who the hell knows? I can’t have that kind of crap going on. Stay away. I’ll call you.” He’s crabby on a good day. Throw in not taking in money on Miracle Days weekend, and we have a whole other level of crabby Charlie. He’ll get over it, but whether or not he gets over it in time to save our jobs before the end of the summer depends on whether or not the media tires of us.
As we walk back to the Silver Stallion, I throw Bristol a bone and fill her in on what I withheld from her last night. I should feel better about finally having her to talk to about my heartbreak, but I find myself judging her reaction instead of finding comfort in our bond.
“Brenna, we have a pact.” Her voice is whisper-soft as we reach the car.
“Vance isn’t coming between us, Bristol.”
“I’m not talking about that. I mean, I am, but not really. I’m talking about our pact to live with each other forever.”
“You can’t be serious.” We made that pact after witnessing Mom’s serial short-term relationships, dealing with Uncle Rodney’s heart attack, and finding out our loser dad h
ad another kid. We learned early on that our relationship was the only thing we could count on and control. We were, and are, the only thing solid and accountable each of us has ever had. I think I’m finally understanding that maybe it’s not Vance Bristol is afraid of. I think she’s afraid to end up alone.
“We’ve lost so much. My world can’t sustain losing you too.” Achingly vulnerable, she looks at me, eyes begging me to reassure her, and I’m reminded of how much I love this side of her.
I come around the front of the car to meet her on the passenger side. “I’m not going anywhere, but you can’t chase off everyone I date to maintain a pact we made when we were kids. I want to have a full life, Bristol, whether that’s what you want or not. I’m not going to shove a guy into your life, and you can’t shove them out of mine.”
She nods several times, stopping only when I pull her into a hug. “I’ll try to work with that.”
Without prompting, we recite our motto together. “Me and you against the world.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Before heading over to The Seam with Tori, Bristol and I drop off our work keys to Charlie, since he officially let us go today. He tried giving us a “temporary leave of absence,” but now that it’s mid-July and the media still hasn’t found a more interesting story to obsess over, he has to hire people who don’t draw the unwanted crowds. I get it, but I don’t like it. The lingering paparazzi are a nuisance, but their presence is dwindling, and in a few days they’ll probably be gone altogether. I wish he’d give us more time. Besides, it’s only feeding Bristol’s argument about Vance not being good for me. He’s gone. What more does she want? I’m not harping on her about having to take on side jobs because she can’t make it to class on time or even at all on some days. That seems like a much bigger deal than me and Vance, even after you factor in the paparazzi and my emotional connection to sex that she loathes so much. Never have the differences in our personalities been more prominent than they have in the last month.
I pull into a spot out front of The Seam, and the three of us jump out. Tori, looking like a pumpkin in her orange dress, sighs heavily, her annoyance no doubt brought on by Bristol continuously bitching about the scholarship review committee. “As long as my GPA remains above the cutoff, who cares?” she repeats in case we missed the last two times she said it. “Oh,” she presses us with a hard glare as she puts her hand on the door to The Seam, “and don’t say a word. I’m not ready to tell Uncle Rodney.”
Confident her secret is safe with us, Bristol ushers us in ahead of her.
“What the hell did you do to that kid?” Uncle Rodney looks and sounds like I killed his pet hamster the second I walk through the door of the bar. His face bears none of the telltale signs of his teasing, and I don’t know exactly how to respond. I usually follow through with something mildly inappropriate, but this time I feel like maybe I shouldn’t.
“Whose kid did I ruin now?” I ask.
“Not you. Her!” He directs a pointed look at Bristol, jaw hard-set in his business-only greeting. “He hasn’t been the same since you called the paps.” Uncle Rodney using the word “paps” for paparazzi draws genuine laughter from me.
We all look up at the game on the television above the bar. I feel my heart trip over a beat and plop my ass on the barstool beside Mr. Davidson, who is watching the fifth inning of the Renegades/Diamondbacks game with Uncle Rodney. Vance is pitching, and based upon Uncle Rodney’s tone of voice, he’s not doing very well and, with a three to zero spread in favor of the Diamondbacks, it’s safe to say he’s given up a few runs.
“Is he sucking?” Bristol asks with a tad too much hope in her voice for a girl trying to get back on my good side.
I watch the television hesitantly, unsure if I really want to see him. Avoiding him has suited me well, and I’m not sure I want to change things up yet. Even as I think it, though, I wait for the camera to pan away from the batter scraping the dirt with his shoe like Ferdinand the Bull. By the time I get a glimpse of Vance, the ball is flying out of his hand and into the batter’s left knee, or it would have if Ferdinand hadn’t dodged it in the nick of time. He throws his helmet and charges toward Vance, who’s already dropped his glove and is ready to duke it out midway between home plate and the pitching mound.
“That damn hot head of his is going to get him ejected, and if that doesn’t do it, his lack of focus will. How many players is he going to walk tonight?” Up in arms, hands flying in all manner of direction, Uncle Rodney testifies bitterly, “I blame you!”
Openly enjoying Bristol’s verbal beatdown, I smile until she glares at me and my lips fall along with my shoulders as I try to look more supportive.
Bristol, opening her mouth to defend herself, is stopped by Uncle Rodney’s hand abruptly thrust out to stop her as the TV commentary continues about Vance’s wild pitch and “questionable focus.”
There is a mob scene between home plate and the pitching mound, with everyone coming out of the woodwork to fight over a stray fastball to the knee. Ferdinand is red-faced and still flinging insults at Vance who is being held back by a handful of guys who are yelling at the both of them.
I feel sick.
“Thanks, Bristol. He’s been ejected.” Uncle Rodney drops his flat-palm stop sign after unleashing his bitter indignation and grumbles beneath a few puffs of released breath.
“What I did was weeks ago. I don’t think his lack of focus tonight is because of me.” Bristol’s whine draws another dirty look from Uncle Rodney. “Just sayin’.”
His eyes briefly dart to mine, and Bristol’s face hardens, resolute in her belief she’s been misjudged. She’s right. I’m pretty sure Vance hasn’t sucked for weeks because of paparazzi, but Uncle Rodney needs his reasons, and tonight, his reason is Bristol, who continues to offer helpful comments.
“Did it ever occur to you maybe he sucks or he’s a one-hit wonder?”
“One-hit wonder?” Uncle Rodney’s eyebrows settle near his hairline. “Bobby Day was a one-hit wonder. You, if you don’t stop meddling, will be a one-hit wonder. Van Hatfield is no one-hit wonder.”
“You’re as bad as her,” Bristol says, pointing to me.
I tune them out, focusing on the game instead of their fight.
The camera, nosy little shit that it is, focuses in on Vance as he heads to the dugout for what I’m assuming is an ass-chewing based on the spit flying from the guy yelling at him. As he enters the dugout, the camera gets a good shot of his face, and for a split second, my heart beats a little faster for him, which it hasn’t had a reason to do since I left his house feeling like a fool.
Between being let go from work, Bristol and her verbal opinions, and trying to stay out of my mom’s relationship with Joe now that she doesn’t consider wandering hands as cheating, I haven’t had time to figure out my feelings for Vance. Not that it matters. I could pine all day long for him and it wouldn’t change where we are right now. He doesn’t want me.
“Excuse me?”
Everything, including Uncle Rodney’s and Bristol’s argument, ceases as the five of us turn to find the source of the soft voice asking for our attention.
She’s a cute brunette, petite and narrow-hipped with a huge smile to balance her out. She looks familiar, but I don’t know how or where from, and while I’m trying to figure it out, Uncle Rodney addresses her.
“You can take a seat anywhere, and we don’t bite if you want to sit at the bar and watch the game. The Renegades could use a cheering section if you’re about that.”
Clearly as enamored as I am with his bushy black-and-white eyebrows and the small paunch that precedes him, she smiles. “I’m actually looking for Brenna Sloan.” She looks at both me and Bristol, curiosity written but not expressed.
She’d be cute if she wasn’t a reporter, or some other vulture, preying on what’s left of my decaying flesh since the last time someone came in looking for me. She obviously knows what I look like, so I can’t deny anything. I should throw Brist
ol under the bus for this one since she owes me, but I don’t think she’d serve me well. I’d come out looking like a redneck wind chime—noisy and simple.
I jump off the barstool and extend a hand toward her, far more polite than she deserves, but what I do now, she may print later. I’d like to avoid a repeat of the headline “White Trash After His Cash.” Instead of taking my hand, though, she embraces me in a hug that is way too familiar for our two-second courtship.
“Ohh-kay,” I say taking a step back. “What brings you by The Seam? The story is over. The baseball player has moved on, and I’m a nobody. I highly doubt anyone wants to read about my irritable bowels.”
She’s grinning from ear to ear, blue eyes sparkling like she has a secret she’s dying to share. “He said you were a spitfire.”
“Who’s ‘he’?” Bristol asks, appearing from behind me in total defense mode. She should come to my aid; she’s the reason people know how to find me.
“Van.” Her smile broadens, but her eyes don’t leave mine, not even for Bristol. “I’m Camille Hatfield.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Frozen, I stand a bit stunned, sucking my bloated stomach in like some self-conscious pubescent girl. I miss half of what she says before she has to ask me if I’m okay.
“I’m fine,” I manage, before Bristol pipes in with her unnecessary checks and balances.
“If you’re here to make trouble,” Bristol says, pointing a finger at Camille, “you can leave now. For us, this is over.” Bristol looks at me to corroborate, but I can’t. Maybe for her it’s over, but I’m still feeling the effects of heartbreak and sister betrayal.
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