“I didn’t say this beach. I said a beach.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the five-car garage connected on the side of the house. “We have to drive to the marina and then use…alternate transportation…to get to my beach.”
“Alternate transportation?” My belly flip-flops. When Jett starts using vague terms, it usually means he’s cooking up some scheme. Something that’s going to test the limits of my comfort level. “If we have to leave from the marina, why’d you come here first? You’re already in your swim trunks,” I say, pointing toward his orange and teal plaid shorts.
He shoots me a sly smile as we walk into the first bay where the golf cart is parked by the wall. “Figured we might as well get in a little practice on the way.”
Of course. His commitment to have me driving again before the end of summer. “You’re never going to let this go, are you?”
“A bet is a bet, Cami, and I always follow through.”
A bet is a bet. And here I was hoping our newfound penchant for lip-locking would somehow scrub that score from the board. I sigh and climb inside the golf cart, settling back against the orange vinyl seat.
Jett laughs—a short, almost sinister sneer—and leans in, draping his arm over my shoulder. “Not on that. We’re taking Jenniston’s car.”
Slowly, the realization of his words filters in like ten pounds of concrete on my head. “Jenniston’s car?” I repeat, the blood drumming in my temples. I swallow hard and shake my head. “No. No, I can’t.” I stand up beside the cart, my knees wobbling and threatening to go kaput. “This, okay, but not a real car.”
He loops his arm through mine and pulls me toward the neighboring bay, my feet struggling to actually come unglued from the floor and participate. “Perfect then, because I’d hardly call this thing a real car.”
I peer around the edge of the partition, not immediately seeing any sort of vehicle in the slot. Jett pulls me forward until my focus lands on a tiny blue car that looks swallowed whole in the enormous space, like a little blue fish in the cavernous belly of the whale. “It’s a Smart car.”
“Yep. Compact, eco-friendly, half the size of a standard parking space, and…”
“What?”
“Slow as hell.” He rolls his eyes. “Sea turtles move faster than this thing.”
Okay, so it’s slow. That doesn’t mean it won’t flatten into a pancake in an accident. The fact that it’s about the same size as the golf cart doesn’t give me the warm fuzzies, either. All it means is there’s a lot less room between us and the outside world with speeders and texters and general idiots.
I grapple in the recesses of my brain for an excuse. “I don’t know. Jenniston may not want me taking out her car. Maybe, instead, we—”
“Oh, it’s perfectly all right with me.” Her melodic voice breaks in from behind, shattering my argument to a million pieces as her floral perfume swirls around us. The smell perfectly embodies her personality—sweet, happy, peaceful. A calming force. She steps between us wearing a white sleeveless blouse and black straight skirt, her only jewelry a simple, very Southern strand of pearls. Mr. Ramsey is in tow, standing behind her, hands shoved in the pockets of his khaki trousers. It’s the nicest and most put-together I’ve ever seen him. No team logos or The Shrimp Shack T-shirts in sight. “Jeff and I are going to Beaufort tonight to meet with a potential new restaurant coming on board as a client. And then, he’s taking me out.” She lifts her shoulder to her chin, glancing back at him. His stone face softens around the lips. “Right, hon?”
He nods, almost imperceptibly, and reaches for her hand.
Jett folds his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels. “No harm in mixing a little business with pleasure.”
Jenniston beams, but Mr. Ramsey’s eyes steel as he turns in Jett’s direction. “None at all, just as long as I get the business part done first. And speaking of which, I’ve got the paved track over at Gilmore’s reserved tomorrow for team practice. You’re expected there at 7:30 sharp. No excuses this time. The championship is in just a few weeks, and every bit of track time helps.”
The hard edge in his voice is undeniable, like he’s issuing a warning for Jett to read between the lines. I figure he’d be much more candid if I weren’t standing here, and my mind begins to dwell on the subtext to his words. Is he indirectly accusing me of sucking up Jett’s time and energy, or have I just become paranoid?
Jett tilts his head from one side to the next, stretching out his neck. His chin dimple disappears into a flat line. “I’ll be there.”
Mr. Ramsey’s gaze zeroes in on him harder, with laser precision, and Jett huffs out a loud breath. “I said I’ll be there.”
The tension in the air is fully-loaded, like a rubber band stretched to the hilt and ready to snap. Jenniston steps toward Mr. Ramsey and pinches his chin between her fingers. “Isn’t he cute when he’s playing the grumpy race manager?” she says in a sing-song voice. His stiff jaw releases and he grabs her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “Jeff, seriously. Let the kids go have fun. You have Jett all tomorrow morning, but tonight…” She steps back and twirls in front of him, her long hair and blouse billowing out. “Tonight, you have me.”
Like that breath of fresh air, Jenniston diffuses the tension with ease, and a big smile spreads across Mr. Ramsey’s face. He glances over between us and gives me a wink. “She’s right. I’m just stressed. It was really nice seeing you again, CJ.” He steps toward Jett and pats him on the shoulder. “Have fun tonight, son, because tomorrow, we work.”
They wave good-bye and head out the garage door, and within a minute or two, his truck fires to life and the engine’s rumble dies away, taking along with it the sour expression on Jett’s face. He turns to me, dimple restored, and dangles the key in the air. “Are you ready?”
Am I? There’s no way to tell, no accurate measuring stick of what’s going to go well and what’s not. All I know is that with Jett by my side, I’m willing to try.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I stand on the dock, looking down at a black and orange jet ski bobbing up and down in the slip.
“You got this,” Jett says, tossing two life jackets onto the wooden floor. “You just drove a car all the way here with no problem.”
Correction. I drove a Smart car—a glorified golf cart, in Jett’s description—for one mile down a two-lane road going twenty miles per hour. I got passed by four cars and flipped off by one in that short stretch. I somehow managed to not break down in a panic attack, though the muscles in my arms still ache from the death grip I had on the teeny-tiny steering wheel.
“I thought you were the one who said it wasn’t a real car.”
“It’s real enough. You passed that test, and this is the next logical step. A harmless jet ski on the ocean.”
Anything capable of going seventy-five miles per hour, skimming the waves with nothing between me and the water’s surface but air, is definitely not harmless.
“I know how fast these things go. It’s like a motorcycle…on water…which is as unforgiving as splatting into the asphalt.” Images of us floating face-down in the ocean, broken, bloody, encircled by hungry sharks, swim into my brain, and I take a few steps backwards.
Jett steps forward, life jacket in hand, and swings it around my shoulders, physically manipulating my unwilling arms into the proper holes. With a click, click, click, I’m suited up and ready to go. He slides his on too, fiddling with the straps until they’re tightened and secured. I walk beside the jet ski and sit on the edge of the dock, per Jett’s instructions, as he lowers himself onto it.
He extends his hand, and I stare at it a moment, not moving.
“Trust me. I’ll take care of you.”
I gather my courage, slipping my hand into his, and step one foot onto the flat footrest. He scoots back on the seat, pulling me down in front of him. His legs and arms surround me, wrapping me into a safe cocoon. Our thick life jackets create a barrier between his body and m
ine, but I lean my head back and he leans forward, pressing his lips into mine.
“We’re headed to that island over there.” He lifts his arm and points toward a small patch of palms and golden sand in the near distance. “All we have to do is cross the Sound. That’s it. And you’re going to help me drive over there.”
He takes both of my hands and lays them on the handles, covering mine with his. Small beads of sweat form between us, giving each movement a sort of burning friction that rockets through me and turns to longing. He plugs in the safety shut-off and turns the key. “We’re going to do this nice and easy,” he says, fingers squeezing into mine as he twists his wrist on the throttle. The engine fires to life and I gasp as we begin to move forward, clamping my eyes shut and sinking backwards into him.
The wind whistles in my ears, tousling strands of hair in every direction, and the seat bounces hard under my butt a handful of times. Leftover wake from a passing boat, Jett says, but I don’t open my eyes, only grip the handles tighter, trying to focus on his legs rubbing against mine and the warm comfort of his body wrapped close behind me, instead of the fact that we’re whizzing across the ocean with nothing to save us but a flimsy life jacket.
“You’re doing great,” he yells in my ear, his voice barely discernible over the roar of the engine and the hiss of the water as we cut through it. “I know you’re afraid but open your eyes. You don’t want to miss this.”
I take a deep breath and slit open one eye, watching the blue water disappear under us like silk, and the yellow rays of the sun sparkling over the top like a thousand diamonds.
“Look to the right!” he yells again, and I glance over just as a gray mass appears, the hump of a back breaking the water’s surface before dipping back below in a trail of bubbles. A dolphin, so free and happy. Not worrying about our intentions or mistrusting us, only content to enjoy its journey. It swims along beside us, playing peek-a-boo in the wake until we approach the shoreline and then divert toward the inlet. I watch the dolphin until it becomes a small dot on the horizon.
Jett lets off the throttle and we begin to slow as we approach the shoreline. A dense stand of palms and sea oats congregate in the center of the small island, but the outer rim is clear, golden sand, dotted only by a few deadwood tree skeletons and some large washed-up shells.
He maneuvers the jet ski into the sand, stabilizing it so it won’t float away, and then helps me off the side. Up ahead, half-buried, a blue and gray conch shell pokes out of the sand. I yank it out, my fingers barely able to grasp it fully.
“This place is amazing,” I say, gripping the shell to my chest as I turn in circles, taking it all in. Jett steps in front of me and grabs my hands, sliding the conch’s open slit to my ear. A loud whirring emanates from deep inside.
“Conchs hold all the ocean’s secret wishes.” The sun glints off his green eyes and they glimmer like polished emeralds. “That’s where the whirring comes from. The conch is remembering and repeating them. Breathing them into life.”
I snort and hold it out. “A hollowed-out shell can do all that? Isn’t this just some sea creature’s abandoned home?”
“I guess it used to be a home of some sort, but just because circumstances have changed doesn’t mean it’s no good.” He takes the shell in his hands, turning it over and over, inspecting every inch. “The conch changes, sure, but it’s still beautiful. Think about it. It’s been through all that,” he says and points toward the waves in the distance, “and it didn’t break. It didn’t give up. It just waited here on this sand for the right person to come along and realize what a treasure it is.”
He steps forward and brushes his hand over my cheek, fiery swirls springing to the surface under his touch. “Sounds just like someone I know.”
My heart somersaults in my chest. I step forward, coming up on my tip-toes, and pull him down until my lips find their home base.
He pulls away and brings the conch to his mouth.
“What are you doing?” I laugh.
“Legend says that whatever you whisper into the conch comes to fruition.” He offers it to me, and I take it with both hands.
“So, what did you wish for? A racing championship? Fame and fortune in NASCAR?”
“Can’t tell. It negates the magic.”
“Magic, huh?” The conch turns to lead in my fingers. If only this little conch could really make dreams and wishes come true. I wouldn’t be a half-orphan with no sister. I look up and meet his eyes. And I’d have him beside me to kiss forever.
I pinch my eyes closed, pulling the conch to my lips, and whisper into the depths. “Him. I wish for him. For always.”
Chapter Eighteen
The sun blazes overhead in a cloudless sky, and the mid-summer humidity thick and heavy, making the beach feel more like an oven stuck on broil than a refreshing reprieve.
Gin and Bo, complaining about the strangling heat and the assault of pesky gnats in the sand, declare it’s time to call it a day, but Jett and I barely notice. We can’t keep our hands off each other, our bodies like magnets sucking us back together every time we’re separated by more than a couple of inches. Holding onto him keeps my head above water, especially when for so long, I refused to let go and focus on enjoying life instead of regretting it.
Tonight, we’ll all attend the annual Fourth of July bonfire on the beach, but for now, we plow through the burning sand, heading toward Memaw’s to relax before we have to get ready. Jett clutches me to his side, gently massaging my left shoulder as we walk, and I circle my arm around his waist. His leg rubs against mine, the wiry hairs tickling my fresh-shaved skin. They’re all part of a string of subtle touches and gestures kindling the heat between us. The July sun can’t even compare.
It continues all the way back to Memaw’s house where we shower off the excess sand and sit around on her new patio set, the oscillating fan on high, drying off and relaxing in the shade.
In the middle of Bo’s story about an epic, record-winning cantaloupe on display at the market, a car creeps down the road and turns into the driveway. The conversation stops as we stare at the stranger in the driver’s seat, who’s straightening his hair in the rearview mirror.
My stomach drops, my brain unable to make sense of why he would be here. Especially now.
Oh God, is that really who I think it is?
Jett visors his eyes with his hand and squints at the silver Honda Accord purring in the midst of a swirly sand cloud kicked up in the driveway. “Who’s that?”
I plant both feet in front of me and slide off the swing’s edge, still clinging to Jett’s hand. My heart slams into my ribs as the car door squeaks open and the sun’s rays illuminate the baseball-sized dent below the driver’s window. I put that dent there nearly a year ago on one of the last truly fun days I remember having pre-accident. We’d been goofing off and I told him to think fast, and, well…he didn’t. I swallow hard and push down my shoulders, standing arrow-straight.
“Trent.”
Gin gasps and slips forward on the edge of her chair, craning her neck toward the tall boy now sauntering toward us. She turns her head in my direction, clicking her fingers. I glance over at her wide eyes and gaping mouth, the perfect mirror to my internal state. “The Trent?” she whispers.
Bo frowns and throws his hands in the air, palm-up. “Who’s Trent?”
The sand on the concrete pad crunches beneath his sneakers, and everyone freezes except for four sets of eyeballs following his movement. He stands there smiling, hands shoved deep in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I’m Trent. CJ’s…um…boyfriend?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I can’t believe you’re showing up here unannounced calling me your girlfriend.” I glare at him, coming up on my tiptoes as if my vertically-challenged 5’4” self could stare down someone a foot taller than me.
He shrugs, his eyes nearly black from the expanded pupils. “You are!”
“No, I’m not!” I glance over my shou
lder, my words rebutting Trent as much as they are meant to reassure Jett. But his flat-lined lips and steely glare don’t look reassured in the least. “We hadn’t been together in months before I came down here, but that break-up email pretty much sealed the deal.”
“I didn’t send you a break-up email. God, give me a little more credit than that!”
Is he really standing here offended? That’s laughable, considering he’s shown up here out of nowhere claiming we’re still an item after I clearly saw The Email.
A river of fire courses through me, starting at my toes and racing upward until the pressure throbs beneath my skin. The sweltering coastal humidity is a feeble contender with the inferno raging in my gut. Exactly when did I enter the Twilight Zone where my ex-boyfriend who dumped me crashes in on a perfect day with the new guy in my life? Never mind the fact I already know Trent’s crushing on my best friend back home. Does crazy stuff like this happen to other people in the world, or has fate decided to kick me in the teeth once again?
Better go back. A dead mother and sister aren’t enough. Let’s nix the only person who she’s made any connection within the last year. That’ll teach her.
“You did.”
“Did not.”
“Yes, you did!”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Oh my God, so you’re saying I imagined it? I’m so not having this stupid conversation with you right now!”
“Then pull up this so-called email, CJ. Read it out loud.”
“Fine.” I glower at him over the rim of my phone. Beside me, Jett blows out a loud breath and crushes my fingers in his palm. A lopsided grin is plastered on his face, but I’m not stupid enough to trust it. When Jett smiles—really smiles—it lights up his whole face. It pulls everything toward the corners of his hairline. His eyes, eyebrows, even the bridge of his nose crinkles when he’s happy, and then those creases across his forehead appear. Right now, everything’s smooth and hard, except the flimsy twist of his lips. Nope, so not trusting that.
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