by Easton, BB
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Carter whispers, crowding my space.
I can smell the tequila on his warm breath, and the inside of my hoodie suddenly feels like a sauna.
“I thought about you every single day, Rainbow,” he slurs, leaning down to press his forehead to the side of mine. “Every single second.”
I place my hand on the fountain ledge beside me to help support his weight.
“I wanted to come home to see you so bad, but I couldn’t stand the thought of having to say goodbye all over again. It’d almost killed me the first time.”
Carter slides a hand up the outside of my thigh, and all I can hear is the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
“I missed you so much, ba—”
The second I feel his lips graze the corner of my mouth, I grab my phone and jump up. “I’d, uh … better go check on Quint,” I mumble, walking away backward. “Night, Carter!”
I turn and sprint toward the tuxedo shop as the voice coming from my fist sings about not being the person their partner used to know.
I shut the device off and shove it into my pocket.
You and me both, Tyler. You and me both.
May 2
Rain
“Knock, knock.” I peek my head over the empty shelves and breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t see Carter. “Anybody home?”
“Rainbow!” Sophie squeals, using her whole arm to wave at me from her seat on one of the black vinyl shoe store benches.
Mrs. Renshaw’s face lights up too, but her husband—who is lying flat on his back on his own bench with his splinted leg propped up on an empty shelf—won’t even look at me. He throws his elbow over his eyes and grumbles something unintelligible through his wiry gray beard.
“There’s my hero!” Mrs. Renshaw stands and spreads her arms, ready to pull me in for a hug as soon as I make my way through the maze of aisles.
I walk directly into her embrace but find myself gritting my teeth to get through it and pulling away sooner than usual. My reaction surprises me. I love Mrs. Renshaw.
But she’s not my mother.
I don’t have one of those anymore, and hugging her only reminds me of that fact.
I quickly add Mrs. Renshaw to my mental list of triggers to avoid at all costs.
“I can’t thank you enough for taking care of my big, stubborn baby over here,” Mrs. Renshaw says, casting a sideways glance over at her groaning husband. “We are so, so blessed that the Lord brought you back into our lives.”
“Uh … you’re welcome?” I feel my cheeks heat as I follow her gaze over to my latest victim. “But I’m not so sure he’d agree with you about that.”
“I can hear y’all, ya know,” Mr. Renshaw growls.
I smile and walk over to him. “How’s my favorite patient doin’?”
“Don’t come near me, devil woman.”
“I brought Advil.”
Mr. Renshaw props himself up on his elbows. “‘Bout damn time.”
I glance down at his splinted leg while I dig the bottle of painkillers out of my hoodie pocket and smile when I see that it’s not too swollen.
“You probably need these more for your pounding head than your leg,” I tease, dropping two little brown pills in his palm.
“That damn Mexican tequila gets me every time. Now I know why they call it Montezuma’s Revenge.”
I laugh, nervously glancing around as Mr. Renshaw swallows his meds. “So, did you, like, send Carter to his room as punishment or something?”
Mrs. Renshaw snorts. “Oh, he’s around here somewhere.”
“He went looking for yooooou,” Sophie adds in a singsong voice, batting her eyelashes.
Ugh. Great.
“So …” I change the subject back to the bearded elephant in the room. “Mr. Renshaw—”
“Oh, just call me Jimbo, dammit. This ain’t no time for formalities.”
Somebody’s grouchy. Jeez.
“Okay, Jimbo. I think I straightened your shin bone out, so as long as you keep it in the splint and don’t put any weight on it for a few weeks, it should heal correctly.”
Or at least, better than before.
Maybe.
I hope.
“A few weeks!” Mr. Renshaw plops back down on his back and throws a meaty arm over his face.
“Oh, stop bein’ so darn dramatic. As bad as that wreck was, you’re lucky to still be alive,” Mrs. Renshaw snaps.
“Yeah, Dad,” Sophie chimes in.
“I mean it, Mr.—er, Jimbo. No walking or standing on it. For at least … eight weeks.”
I don’t know if that’s even right. I just figured, if I told him eight, he might make it at least four or five.
“I can’t find her anywhere, Mom. I don’t know where else to—”
All of our heads swivel toward the entrance as Carter comes stomping into the store. His frustrated gaze lands on me, and I see a glimmer of embarrassment surface in his eyes before it’s quickly masked by a bright, overconfident smile.
“He still breathing?” Carter chides, glancing down at his old man.
“Yeah, but I don’t think he wants to be.” I smirk back, appreciating that he’s keeping things light and friendly.
“Boy, yer lucky I can’t walk, or I’d be kickin’ yer ass right about now.”
Carter snorts out a laugh, all long, dark eyelashes and floppy black curls, but as I’m watching him, I get the feeling that someone else is watching me. I turn and glance over my shoulder, thinking I’m just being paranoid, but the smitten stare of Mrs. Renshaw is definitely glued to the side of my face. She flicks her eyes from me to her son, and I swear, if her irises weren’t such a dark brown, I’d be able to see big red hearts floating in them.
Ohhhh, no. No, no, no.
“Well, I’ll let y’all get back to your day. Just … let me know if you need anything,” I say with a smile, speed-walking back through the haphazard rows of shelves between me and the door.
My eyes meet Carter’s as I pass, and just when I think he’s going to let me walk away without making it awkward, he spins on his heel and follows me out the door.
“Rain, wait!”
I don’t wanna talk about it. I don’t wanna talk about it. I don’t wanna—
I turn around and force a smile. “What’s up?”
“So, about last night …”
Damn.
“Carter, you don’t have to—”
“Do you remember what I did with my flashlight? I can’t find it anywhere, and everything is kind of a blur after you went Karate Kid on my dad’s leg.” He winces and rubs his forehead. “I’m pretty sure that tequila was just rat poison with a worm floating in it.”
Carter gives me a small, sheepish smile as he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his athletic shorts, and of course, I know that smile just like all the others.
Carter’s giving me an out.
Gratefully, I return the favor. Cocking my head to one side, I give him a scowl. “You mean, you don’t remember running down the halls, shining it in everybody’s rooms last night? You were shouting something like”—I put my fist to my mouth and lower my voice—”‘FBI! Hand over all your marijuana, and nobody gets hurt!’”
Carter laughs and wraps an arm around my shoulders, steering me in the opposite direction of the atrium. “Man, I turn into a damn genius when I’m drunk.”
You turn into something all right.
“Where are we going?”
“To have some fun.”
My feet freeze, and for the second time in as many days, I feel the urge to run away from Carter Renshaw.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. People don’t run away from Carter; they run toward him. Literally. They can’t even help it. He’s just that magnetic. His smile, those eyes, that tall and chiseled body, his cocky swagger. I was just as much of a fangirl as every other female—and some of the males—at Franklin Springs High School. The only advantage I had was that I’d found him first.
I fell in love with the boy next door before he became the big man on campus, but once he became the big man on campus, I got the distinct feeling that he’d outgrown the girl next door. I saw his wandering eye, the way he let the cheerleaders feel him up in the hallway. I knew he wasn’t always truthful about where he was or how often he had practice. And overhearing Kimmy say that they’d made out senior year only confirmed what I’d suspected all along.
That must be what this no feeling is about. This is about Carter breaking my trust and leaving me behind. It’s definitely not about a certain Hawaiian shirt–wearing, gun-toting, green-eyed loner who’s out there somewhere with my heart in his pocket.
Nope. It can’t be. I deleted him.
“What? You don’t like fun?” Carter asks, giving me a lazy grin.
“What kind of fun?”
“You’ll see.” He starts walking again with his arm still around my shoulders, obviously expecting my feet to just magically do what he wants, like everything else.
When they don’t, Carter looks down at me in shock. Nobody tells him no. Especially not his sweet, eager-to-please little girlfriend, Rainbow Williams.
But that girl, Rainbow, she was lying to him just as much as he was lying to her. About the music she liked, her favorite movies, how much she loved to watch sports and suck his dick. Rainbow tried to be everything he ever wanted, and he still left her behind.
So, now, all he gets is Rain.
And No is that bitch’s middle name.
“Tell me now, or I’m not going.”
Carter’s dark eyebrows pull together. “Seriously?”
I respond with a glare.
“Listen, I don’t know what’s up with your whole … attitude, but … it’s kinda sexy.” He grins.
“Ugh!” I huff and shrug off his arm, turning and stomping off the way we came.
I make it all of two steps before his hand clamps down around my bicep, and his boyish laugh bounces off the walls.
“Simmer down, Rainbow Brite.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, trying to wriggle out of his grip, but his hand is so big his fingers practically wrap around my arm twice. “Let me go!”
“If I do, will you listen to me?”
I grunt and give up the fight, crossing my arms over my chest the second he lets go. I still have my back to him, so Carter walks around and stands in front of me. He’s looking at me the way he looks at Sophie when she’s being a brat.
“The guys and I are gonna play hockey in the old Pottery Barn, okay?” He points over my shoulder, but I don’t look. “I thought you might want to come along. You always loved coming to my games back in the day. You can be my cheerleader.”
He smirks, and I want to slap it off his face.
Be his cheerleader. Puh-leez.
“I’ll come but only if I get to play.”
The second the words are out of my mouth, I regret them very, very much. I don’t know the first thing about hockey. I’m probably gonna make a total fool out of myself, twist an ankle, and …
Oh, whatever. None of this matters, and we’re all gonna die. Right?
“You wanna play hockey?” he scoffs.
“You heard me.” I crane my neck back to look him in the eye.
As Carter studies me, I decide that putting that puzzled look on his pretty face is worth whatever sprained ligament I’m about to suffer.
Finally, he shrugs. “Okay, but they’re not gonna go easy on you.”
God, if you’re listening, please make them go easy on me.
We walk inside what used to be Pottery Barn, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever been in one. I used to stare at the gorgeous window displays when I was a kid. Everything looked so shiny and expensive and stylish. Of course, Mama would never take me inside because she knew I’d probably break a four-hundred-dollar lamp within five seconds, but that only made my longing stronger. I told myself that the day I became a real grown-up would be the day I came here and bought the first thing that caught my eye without even looking at the price tag.
Well, here I am, and even though I’m ten years too late to do any shopping, I can still feel the spirit of every glittery picture frame and smell the essence of every scented candle that used to line these shelves. Even though they’re covered in dust and water stains now, the wall-to-wall hardwood floors and white custom shelves lining the open space still feel just as luxurious as they did when I was a kid. And lucky for me, everything in the store is totally free now … as long as you’re in the market for a mildewed cardboard box, a crate of broken dishes, or a random, cracked toilet seat.
A group of runaways is gathered in the center of the store, chatting. I recognize all four guys from Q’s table—the accordion player in the patched-up jean jacket, the lanky teenagers with matching bullet belts and ripped skinny jeans, and the heavyset, bearded banjo player who’s wearing suspenders to keep his threadbare corduroy pants from falling off.
“Well, if it ain’t The Lumineers,” Carter teases as we approach the group.
All eight eyeballs land on me, and instead of widening in predatory lust—like I was used to back in Franklin Springs—they narrow in disgust. These guys look at me the way their queen looks at me—like I’m a threat, a liar, an outsider who needs to be disposed of as soon as she’s no longer useful. On the one hand, it’s kinda refreshing to have a man look at me like something other than his next victim. But, on the other hand, I also kinda need to keep living here, so it might be time for me to dust off my Student Council smile and make some new friends.
Uggggggh.
With a deep breath and dead soul, I reach way down inside and find a tiny glimmer of the girl I once was. The one who could turn into whatever she needed to be, whenever she needed to be it. Usually, what I needed to be was Carter’s agreeable little trophy at school, or Mama’s picture-perfect daughter at church, or Daddy’s gentle voice of reason at home. But right here, right now, all I need to be is one of them.
I scan their clothes, shoes, and visible tattoos for anything we might have in common, but I can’t find a damn thing. I don’t have dreadlocks. I don’t recognize any of the band logos on their T-shirts or jacket patches. I can’t even read their terrible tattoos. And they’re all just wearing busted, old black Converse and combat boots.
I glance down at my jeggings, brown hiking boots, and Franklin Springs High sweatshirt and sigh.
“What’s up, man?” the banjo player asks Carter without taking his eyes off me. “I hate to break it to you, but bringing your own personal cheerleader ain’t gonna help you win.”
More cheerleader jokes. Awesome.
“Oh, she ain’t my cheerleader.” Carter glances down at me with a smirk. “She’s the nurse. I brought her, so she can patch you up as soon as I get done beatin’ yo’ ass.”
The guys all laugh and walk toward each other, meeting in the center of the deserted store to high five and slap each other on the back.
Okay, I don’t get it. Carter’s dressed like a quintessential jock in his basketball shorts, three-hundred-dollar limited-edition sneakers, and Nike swoosh T-shirt while these guys look like something that crawled out of a punk rock band’s tour bus after it rolled down the side of a mountain. And yet, here they are, laughing and talking shit like old friends.
Oh, right. Sports. They have sports in common. And penises.
I roll my eyes and sigh even harder. I should just go. I’m way out of my element, and I obviously can’t muster the appropriate amount of enthusiasm or personality needed to make new friends right now.
Or ever again probably.
“Guys, this is Rain.” Carter extends his hand backward and gives me a wink over his shoulder. “She’s totally in love with me.”
His grin is friendly, but his words land on me like a piano. I was in love with him—for my whole entire life actually—but now, those feelings are just a punch line for another one of his stupid, cocky jokes.
I glare at hi
m, feeling hurt. Feeling embarrassed. Feeling like I want to spin around and retreat to my nice, safe cave and never come back out. But then I scan the expectant faces of the four strangers staring at me, and I realize something. He made fun of them too, and they didn’t storm off like little bitches. They dished it right back out. Maybe that’s what friends do here. Maybe Carter is just trying to be friends with me.
Maybe I can play this game after all …
“Carter,” I deadpan, “the only person in love with you here is you.” I tilt my head in the direction of the banjo player. “And maybe that guy.”
The bullet-belt twins look at each other and then howl in unison, slapping their knobby knees through the holes in their skintight jeans. The accordion player snickers under his breath, and the banjo player’s face pales for a second before splitting into a massive grin.
Cocking his head to one side, he raises a furry eyebrow and glances at Carter. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, placing a delicate hand on Carter’s forearm, “I thought we agreed we weren’t gonna tell nobody.”
I snort through my nose as I try to keep a straight face, and the entire group bursts into laughter.
Carter shakes off the banjo player’s meaty hand and introduces me to the world’s finest homeless hockey team. “Rain, this is Loudmouth …”
The denim-vest-wearing accordion player drops his eyes and tips the brim of his paperboy hat at me.
“Brangelina …”
The bullet-belt twins throw me a wink and an air kiss.
“And my secret lover, Tiny Tim.”
The banjo player extends his proud belly and slides his thumbs behind his suspenders.
“So …” I shift my attention to the skinny gutter punks in the middle of the lineup. “Which one of you gets to be Angelina?”
“Ooh! Me!” they both shout in unison, raising their hands.
“Dude, your name is literally Brad,” the one on the left snaps at the one on the right.
“That’s just semantics. I make a way better Angelina. Just look at the cleft in this chin.” He tilts his face toward the light streaming in from the hallway.
“What cleft?” The guy on the right squints and leans in closer. “Oh, that little thing? Here, let me make it bigger for you.”