by Gina Azzi
17
Carter
Three days have passed since Taylor and I went to Tybee Island. Three days since I confessed sins I haven't shared with anyone else. Since she told me her secret. Since I captured her perfect lips with my own and was so caught up by the feel of her mouth moving against mine, her hands working along my jawline, that I felt like a beginner all over again. Like it was my first freaking kiss, minus the fumbling and awkward bits. Like Taylor Clarke could straight up own my soul if she wanted to.
That's a sobering thought.
Three days and I haven't been able to stop thinking about her. Her long blonde hair that falls to the center of her back, the deep blue of her eyes and how they sparkle when she talks about something she loves, and the full pout of her mouth. But more than that, how she puts me at ease, makes me laugh, and how she focuses more on our conversations than on her Instagram account.
Three days and I'm dying inside because they feel like the longest three days of my life.
Two days ago, I called her up and asked her out on a real date. Truth, I fist pumped the air when she said yes. But our date isn't for two more days, and I'm too wrapped up in Taylor to focus on anything except counting down that time. I’ve been working crazy hours at Cork’s which has been a blessing in disguise since by the time I get home at night, I drop into bed, too exhausted to be restless.
"That goes in recycling." Daisy swoops in at the last second to grab the yogurt container from my hand before I trash it.
"Oh yeah."
"What is it with you lately? It's like your daydreaming all the time." She throws the container into the recycling bin on the back porch.
"Nah, nothing. Just busy at Cork’s. Tired."
She rolls her eyes, walking toward me and swiping my yogurt and granola bowl out from under my nose.
"I don't think so. You're usually pretty good at protecting your food," she comments, taking a large spoonful of crunchy granola. "You're like a prison eater."
"I am not."
"Who's a prison what?" Denver asks, coming into the kitchen and grabbing a carton of milk from the fridge. He pours the milk directly from the carton into his open mouth, gulping quickly.
Daisy rolls her eyes. "You guys are actually gross, considering you’re no longer in high school." She darts her spoon between us. "It's ridiculous."
"Who's in prison?" Denver asks again, replacing the milk carton and closing the refrigerator.
"No one," Daisy says, laughing, "I was just asking Carter what his deal is lately." She takes another bite of my breakfast.
Denver cuts me a look, his eyes scanning me over. "You look fine to me."
I chuckle, relaxing against the counter top. "Daisy, give me back my breakfast."
She shakes her head, moving to leave the kitchen. "Have a good day, slow poke."
After she exits the kitchen, Den turns toward me, his expression thoughtful. "Okay, for real, what's going on? You in any kind of trouble?" He rakes some flyaway pieces of hair behind his ears.
"No. Why?"
"Dais is right. You've been sort of...flaky."
"Flaky?"
Den sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "I don't know what the hell the right word is. You're being weird. So you're either in trouble or..."
"Or?"
A slow smile works its way across his mouth. "Who is she?"
"Who?"
He laughs now, a quick bark that causes the silence of the house to jump. "The girl that's got you twisted up in knots."
I scowl. "There's no girl."
"Oh yeah, there's definitely a girl." He laughs again, the sound jarring due to its infrequent use. "I can't believe I didn't put it together sooner. Ah, well, who is she?" He pulls a frying pan out from the drawer under the stove and grabs a carton of eggs from the refrigerator.
"There's no girl."
"Come on, kid. No sense in lying to your big brother." He cracks a few eggs in a bowl, whisking them together as the frying pan heats up.
I heave a heavy sigh, walking over to the butcher block island and sliding onto a bar stool to wait for Denver to cook me scrambled eggs like he did when we were kids. It's strange, actually, because for a moment, it seems just like that. Me at fifteen, wanting desperately to ask my big brother for advice about girls. Denver, grumbling to himself as he makes scrambled eggs for all us Kane siblings. This was before his stint at Jackson Penitentiary, before Jax enlisted, before Daisy went off to college.
"Carter?" Denver's voice breaks me from my nostalgia as he pours the eggs into the frying pan.
"I met her."
"Who?" He turns to look at me over his shoulder, a spatula in his hand.
"The girl I hit."
A look passes over his face. "A girl you what?"
I shake my head, trying to clear my mind, so I can talk to Denver without sounding like the fifteen-year-old version of myself. "The girl Gunner and I got into the accident with. I saw her."
"Where?"
"Well, first I went to apologize to her when she was still in the hospital. And then, I ran into her taking a walk."
"Huh? What a small world."
We don't say anything for a few minutes as Denver finishes the eggs and slides a plate in front of me. I pick up my fork, but my stomach turns sour. Denver grabs another fork and stabs some eggs onto the end, lifting them to his mouth.
"Did you talk to her?"
I nod. "I was walking Marco, my little brother from the Big Brothers program, back from the park when he ran up to her and hugged her."
"He knows her?" Denver's eyes widen as he puts down his fork. That's how I know I've got his full attention; he interrupted his own eating.
"Yeah. She's really involved with the Big Brothers and Big Sisters program."
"I thought she was a model or actress or reality TV star or something."
"She was. Is. A model," I clarify.
"Shit," my brother whistles between his front teeth. "Did she recognize you?"
I nod again.
"And?"
"We went for a coffee at Kindred Spirits."
If Denver hadn't already put his fork down, this is the moment when it would have clattered loudly to his plate. "You took her for a coffee?"
"Yep."
"Are you crazy?"
I shrug.
"Holy shit. You like her?"
I close my eyes, exhaling loudly.
Denver's laugh is quick and harsh. "You like the girl you ran over."
"I wasn't driving!"
He shakes his head. "This would only happen to you."
"I know," I say miserably. Because he's right. It would.
"What're you going to do now?"
"We have a date this weekend." I shovel a forkful of eggs down my throat as Denver sputters speechlessly.
"A date?"
"Yep." I take a big gulp of orange juice.
"Where are you taking her?"
"Raf's."
Now, he really has nothing to say because he gawks at me like I'm an insect. Finally, he sneers. "Why?"
It's a fair question. Raf's is a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill from way back when that has a fairly nasty reputation, although it's a favorite among locals. Oddly enough, it was a request that came from Taylor, and I'll agree to anything she wants. "It's sort of an inside joke."
"You have inside jokes? I thought you went for coffee."
"And dinner at Cork’s. And Tybee Island."
"Holy shit." My brother whistles low under his breath. "You're dating her."
I shake my head.
"You are!"
"No, I'm not. I just wish I was."
He smiles then. A rarity in itself. But his whole face transforms, and he looks less scary and more cheerful than I've seen him in a long time. It's ridiculous really, but I grin back.
"I want to meet her."
"No."
"I'll swing by Raf's."
"Fuck off."
He chuckles now, the sou
nd so low it almost doesn't count as a laugh. Holding his hands up in surrender, he aims for a compromise. "Fine, I'll come with you to Marco's baseball game today. Maybe she’ll be there, if she, you know, is as into you as you are her."
I flip him the middle finger and he chuckles again, but the strangest thing is, I kind of want Denver to meet her.
And that, wanting to introduce a girl to my family, is definitely a first.
***.
I start the SUV and shove the gearstick in reverse to back out of my driveway when the back door opens and Jax slides inside.
"Hey," he says, grabbing his seatbelt.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
Beside me, Denver coughs.
"You've got to be screwing with me?" I spit over my shoulder as I ease the SUV onto the main road.
"I want to meet the girl you’re mooning over. She must be really special to even look at you twice after the way you met.”
"Fuck off!”
Both my brothers laugh, and I feel my anger ticking up. I swear, they mess with me for nothing more than a reaction. I try to steady my irritation that morphs into nerves with each block closer to the baseball diamond.
"Just don't do anything to embarrass me," I mutter.
"Yeah, yeah, like tell her about your obsession with your socks?" Jax offers.
"Or how you used to iron your jeans in high school?" Den snickers.
"I really hate you both."
Jax leans forward and messes my hair over the headrest. I shrug off his hand, relieved I have a baseball hat to pull on when we get to the park.
"Relax," Denver says, his voice low and measured, "we promise not to tell her about the time you were so wasted, you pissed on Meaghan Santor in bed."
"Oooooh." Jax throws out from behind me. "I almost forgot about that."
"I'll never forget about that." Denver smacks my shoulder.
I flip them both the middle finger and their laughter grows.
I bite back my own laugh at the memory, at Meaghan Santor's shocked expression, and at the hell my brothers gave me for months, years, afterwards.
Not that I'd ever admit it, but it's almost—almost—nice for them to be cracking on me so harshly. Because it means the three of us are together again, clowning around and acting like old times. And it's one of our last times to do so since Jax and Evie are leaving for Texas this Sunday.
I shake my head at their jokes and jabs, but inside I'm laughing with them.
18
Taylor
The crack of the bat against the pop fly sends a thrill down my spine as I watch Marco position himself under the trajectory of the ball, his glove raised. The baseball sails into his glove with a thud, and he grabs it quickly, angling his body to throw to third for an out. Double play!
I cheer in the bleachers, clapping wildly and stomping my feet along with the parents and families of Marco's team. Whistling loudly, much to the amusement of the people sitting closest to me, Marco turns and lifts his hand in a half wave when he sees me. Then his eyes cut to the right, and I follow his line of sight, my breath catching in my throat when I see Carter.
Standing casually, his forearms braced against the top of the outfield fence, he claps his hands at Marco and nods in encouragement. He fits in naturally, easygoing and casual. It’s as if he’s always been a regular at Marco’s baseball games. Parents of Marco’s teammates stop by to say hello or shake Carter’s hand, the kids jump up and down and call out to him when they see him. Marco straight up beelines to Carter and fist bumps him. It’s as if Carter belongs here just as much as Marco does.
Cut-off sweat shorts ride low on his hips and a dark, grey T-shirt hugs his muscled chest and biceps. A navy baseball cap is pulled low, shading his eyes from the sun.
But the strange thing is, I can picture them. The bright green that glows almost like a cat.
A movement next to him grabs my attention, and I slide my gaze to the left to take in two more men. Jesus. These have to be Carter's brothers. It's almost unfair, for one family to be so freaking attractive. While Carter is all agility and smoothness, the guy standing next to him is all bulk and brawn. He's tough looking, hulking, with dark shades and a mysterious presence in opposition to Carter's light features and sunny disposition. His hair is pulled back in a messy bun at the back of his head, stray strands escaping and sticking to the side of his face and forehead with sweat. He's wearing a tight black tank, tattoos staining both of his arms from the tops of his shoulders to the base of his wrists. Still, there's a similarity between them in the shape of their faces, in the cut of their jaws. My eyes slide down, fastening on the third brother. He bears a much more similar resemble to Carter. Lighter hair, longer on top and cut close to his head on the sides. He's strong like his brothers, but his muscles seem honed; he's in shape in a way that lets you know he works out and eats well, takes care of himself. Clad in cargo shorts and a white T-shirt, he's reminiscent of an Abercrombie & Fitch advertisement. He claps his hands at the play taking place on the field and leans over to say something to his brothers. Carter and he laugh at whatever it is while the middle brother shifts his stance, his mouth set in a straight line.
I watch them for several more moments, my cheeks coloring when I realize Marco's calling my name.
I turn back to the dugout, and Marco waves to me. I wave back and he smirks, shooting me a knowing glance. I duck my head, totally embarrassed to be called out by an eleven-year-old kid. But what a smart eleven-year-old he is.
Marco's team is now at bat; he's second in the lineup. I sneak one more glance at Carter and involuntarily lean in his direction as he waves his brothers off to be quiet, his focus trained on Marco. I know I need to turn my attention back to the game, too, but something about Carter, the fluidity of his movements and the serious expression on his face, has my eyes glued to him. As if he senses someone staring, he turns his head toward me. Our eyes meet. The warmth that flickers in his irises quickly deepens into pleasure, and a wide smile cuts his mouth as he lifts a hand to me in greeting. The guy next to him looks over, too, and I watch as his eyes narrow in on me. The third brother grins, offering a small wave as if we've met before.
I wave back, way too enthusiastically, and feel my face flame from my obvious excitement at seeing him here.
What is wrong with me? It was one kiss; my heartrate shouldn’t accelerate just because he’s at the same baseball game as I am. Nerves shouldn’t prickle my skin at the thought of meeting his brothers. I shouldn’t be this invested in someone I’ve known for such a short amount of time, someone I’ve met under such bizarre circumstances.
Even as my mind runs through these logical points, my eyes cut to Carter and my breath freezes in my throat.
He’s just a guy.
A crazy, charming, stupidly intelligent, incredibly hot guy who looks at me as if he sees me.
He's a man who can cause me to free-fall into the unknown with one kiss that literally left me senseless.
And that's really dangerous.
Because deep down, I know men. I've known them my whole life, and they are all the same. At some point, I'll realize he wants me for something that has absolutely nothing to do with me. They always do. And if I let him in too deep, I'll be the one with more scars than I care to wear.
I lower my hand and turn back to the game. I need to stop daydreaming about Carter Kane and focus on Marco. On the Big Brothers and Sisters program. On my future. On finding an education program and applying to college again.
Still, I catch Carter's movement out of my peripheral vision as he cups his mouth to call out and cheer for Marco. I see the way Marco's smile widens, and he ducks his head sheepishly.
Damn it.
But Carter's one of the good ones. He has to be. No other guy has ever apologized to me as sincerely as Carter did. Not even Gunner, the one driving the car that night. No other guy has ever messaged to me to make sure I'm sleeping well and not pushing myself too hard. No other guy has ever shown me a sh
red of the respect that Carter does.
That has to mean something, right?
My heart swells at his attention and affection, even as an ever-present nagging thought reminds me that means he has the power to hurt me deeper than any other man has before.
I force myself to keep my eyes forward, locking my attention on Marco and his game. At the top of the seventh, his team is tied, and he's next at bat. He fidgets with the bat, his helmet already propped on his head; he's nervous.
Carter moves toward him, hanging onto the chain-link fence until he catches Marco’s attention.
Marco looks up expectantly, and I watch as he dips his head toward Carter, walking over to talk to him from the other side of the dugout, his face obscured by the helmet.
Carter leans down and speaks to him, Marco nodding in understanding. After a moment, Carter steps back, clapping a few times as Marco turns and heads to the plate. Two outs. He needs to get on base.
Curiosity burns me. I want to know what Carter said to Marco, but I'm too nervous to turn away from the game. To even blink.
Marco steps up to the plate and raises the bat over his right shoulder. The pitcher rubs his hand along his pants, wiping away the sweat. The sun beats down mercilessly as the entire bleachers train their eyes on Marco.
The first pitch whips by and Marco doesn't flinch.
"Strike!"
A few sighs and titters sound out.
The pitcher winds up and throws the next pitch. It's right down the center. Marco twists his body, stepping into the pitch, swinging his bat perfectly, and the bat connects with the ball, a loud crack reverberating throughout the bleachers as the ball sails out, out, out, and over the fence.
Oh, my God!
Marco drops his bat and takes off running to first base. His team cheers wildly from the dugout, their fingers clasping the fence as they bounce up and down with excitement. Marco rounds the bases and crosses home plate.
He raises a hand in the air as he walks back toward the dugout where his coach pats his helmet and smacks him on the back. His teammates pound his shoulders and wrap him into headlocks. People on the bleachers are standing and stomping and calling out his number. He drops his helmet, and I can see the pride and excitement and maybe even a little embarrassment blaze in his cheeks. He looks right at me, waving as I flash him a thumbs up sign. And then he turns toward Carter and the gratefulness striking his features is everything.