I know the feeling. It’s the same one I get when waking up from a dream about Noli-Belle.
When they finally part, Jett tugs me closer. “This is my girlfriend, Cami.”
Red swirls blush Buck’s cheeks as he gives me a slight wave, obviously still suffering in that awkward, just-now-talking-to-girls stage. “Hi. I’m Buck.”
“I know who you are,” I say, patting Jett on the shoulder. “Your brother’s told me all about you.”
Surprise flashes in his eyes, his mouth dropping open. “Really?”
“Of course I did,” Jett insists. “How many brothers you think I got?”
Buck shrugs, fidgeting his fingers against his jeans. “I guess it’s been so long…”
“Too long.” Jett snorts and stubs the toe of his sneaker in the sand. “You get your license in what—a couple months? Then no one can stop us from getting together.” Jett fishes in his wallet and produces one of his promotional business cards. “Here. This has my social media handles, my email, and my number. Call me. Text me. Anytime. I’ll pick you up if I have to.”
Buck slides the card in the front pocket of his jeans. “I’d like that.”
Jett pulls him in for another hug. “I love you. Don’t ever forget it.”
The door swings open again, and the woman emerges with the man hot on her heels. “Buck! You can’t go running out into—” She doesn’t finish the thought. When her gaze lands on Jett, her entire body freezes mid-action. The tension on the sidewalk is more oppressive than the humidity. “Je…Jett? What are you…doing here?” She fumbles and wraps her hand around her throat as if easing out the choked words.
He steps back from Buck and grabs my hand. The hairs on his arm bristle. “Leaving. You should know all about it.” Before she can respond, he yanks me toward his car parked at the far end of the street. Jett’s feet pound the cement, but I sneak one quick glance over my shoulder. Buck stares back at me, lips flat-lined, but Jett’s mom manages a feeble smile before collapsing into the man’s waiting arms.
The salty ocean breeze tousles the ends of Jett’s hair as he sits, sullen, on the small balcony outside his bedroom. He didn’t say much on the drive back from Beaufort. I’d figured our date was over, but when we got back on the island, he never offered to drop me off at Memaw’s. That gesture is enough to let me know he needs me, even if he can’t find the words to express it. At least he isn’t pushing me away.
“Want to talk about it?” I snuggle into his arm and lay my head on his shoulder. He shrugs, then turns and kisses my forehead.
“What’s there to say?” Classic avoidance. I, of all people, know he has plenty to say, but he doesn’t want to. Or know how to. He bites his bottom lip, and we sit, cuddled together in silence. Lightning bugs dance to the wild concert of cicadas and swamp frog croaks floating with the breeze.
“Any advice?” he finally whispers over the bugs’ grating hum.
“Only you would trust me with dispensing psychological advice.” My laugh bounces off the balcony’s stone tile. “But I do have some…if you want to hear it.”
He blows out a hard breath. “Bury the hatchet and talk to my mother?”
“Obviously, because that’s worked so well for me.” Jett smirks when I point toward myself and roll my eyes. “No, you should write out your feelings. Put it in an email.”
“An email?”
“You don’t have to send it. You can save it to drafts. At least for now.”
Jett cocks his eyebrow. “So you do plan on me eventually sending it?”
“Only when you’re ready. That might be now, in a couple months, or never. You’ll know when the time’s right.” There’s no better way to explain it. For me, there was no aha moment of enlightenment. I just knew. “It helps to put it in words.”
“You know this from experience?”
“It’s how I made up with Em.”
A few lines crease the area above Jett’s nose. “I had no idea.”
“I know,” I giggle, nuzzling into him. “I’m such a mystery.”
“No, Cami. You’re the one thing in my life that makes perfect sense.” He leans in and crushes his lips to mine. His absolute faith in me is evident, but any idiot can see we’re the proverbial two peas in a pod. Neither one of us is willing, nor properly equipped to face our demons. At least not until forced.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Could you two be any more sickening?” Gin laughs and nudges my arm. We sit together on the short brick wall near the parking entrance of the Piggly Wiggly, letting our legs dangle over the side. Behind us, the Ramsey racing crew is finishing a last-minute promo event before tonight’s race. “Y’all are so sweet, it makes my teeth hurt.”
“I’m not sure I’d call us sweet.”
“You kidding me? The way he looks at you? The way you look at him?” She stares at the broken bit of clam shell she picked up off the side of the road, twirling it in her fingers. “I don’t think that’s ever going to happen for me.”
“Quit talking that way. I hate clichés, but this feels appropriate here, so work with me,” I say, turning sideways to grab both her shoulders. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea, Gin.”
She rolls her eyes and swats my hands away. “That’s the problem. I don’t want some ol’ fish. I want what y’all have. The real thing. The mahi-mahi, not the crappie.”
“Is Jett aware you refer to him as a mahi-mahi?”
“Shut up. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.” Jett’s not just one of the crowd. Both of us are far from perfect, but there’s something about the way we are together. Like a jigsaw puzzle that clicks into place. All the crazy pieces fit.
“What y’all have is the real thing, right? Like forever?” she asks.
Forever. What does that mean anyway? Is forever until the end of all time or just your time on Earth? And if it ends there, what becomes of those left behind?
I still don’t know.
“If I’ve learned anything in life, Gin, it’s nothing is forever. Even when we desperately want it to be.”
She frowns. “Well, that’s a downer.”
“I’m not being cynical. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I leave in a few weeks, and from there…” I don’t finish the sentence, because deep down, I don’t want to face the truth. The red X’s on the calendar prove the greatest test of our relationship is lurking just around the corner. Sure, they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but try telling that to the millions of people who’ve had their hearts broken in long-distance relationships.
“No way. You and Jett are tight. I mean, you’re wearing his ring, and have you…” Gin trails off but searches me with narrowed eyes, a question dancing behind the sapphires.
“Have we?”
“Anything else?”
“What exactly are you asking me?”
She widens her eyes, tilting her head to one shoulder. Obviously, I’m supposed to know what she’s hinting at—and I do—but teasing her is fun. She sighs. “Okay, you don’t have to say it. Just nod if you have.”
I purse my lips and sit perfectly still. Gin’s not breathing, not blinking, while she waits for my signal. I nod my head three times, and she squeals so loud that a few seagulls take flight from the nearby seagrass, and even a few of the racing fans turn to check out the commotion.
“I knew it! Oh my God, y’all are so meant to be!”
Gin’s romantic heart rushes headlong into its wild goose chase of forevers and meant-to-bes and all that other star-fated bliss. God love her.
Across the parking lot, Mr. Ramsey whistles. Once he’s got our attention, he waves us over. Gin and Bo don’t get to attend the race tonight. Their grandma is in town, and Mrs. Johnson insists they stay for a big family dinner. Gin’s only told me fifty million times how sorry she is to leave me alone, but I’m not sweating it. Now that I’ve been to one race, at least I sort of know the drill.
Gin waves good-bye and heads down the sidewalk
toward her house, and I’m left alone in the parking lot. Where is Jett? Everyone else is busy packing the trailers and trucks, but he’s MIA. I navigate the maze of folding tables and leftover fans mulling around the promotional banners. As I step beside the ten-foot decal of Jett on the trailer, I hear them. He’s talking to someone, a female, but I only recognize the hard tone when I slink a little closer and peer around the corner.
Rachel has Jett backed against the trailer doors, wagging her finger in his face while she lectures him. Her pink ponytail flits angrily with each punctuated word.
“Don’t dismiss this, Jett. I’m telling you what I’ve heard.”
“Whatever. I’m not worried.” He looks at his nails, all Joe-Cool style, pretending to buff them against his shirt.
“Are you dense?” Rachel shouts and slaps his hand away. “Tyler’s out for blood, and he’s planning on getting it tonight.”
“I got this.” Jett’s voice is monotone. No inflection. No emotion.
It only pisses Rachel off more.
“What’s with you? I don’t even know you anymore! This is the kind of shit-talk that used to get you all riled up.” When Jett shrugs, she blasts him again. “You need to get your head in the game and out of your girlfriend’s ass.”
Jett pushes himself off the trailer and bucks up to her, the fire finally returning to his words. “Don’t bring Cami into this!”
“So now you’re pissed? Tyler’s making threats—valid threats—and you blow it off, but God forbid I point out the fact you’re totally distracted by your precious girlfriend.”
Jett nudges her out of his way and walks toward the opposite side of the trailer. Rachel jogs behind him and grabs his shoulder, spinning him back around. “This isn’t just about you, Jett! It’s about all of us—the team. Your success is our success. You used to know that.”
“I still know it. Nothing’s changed.”
“Seriously? Then remember what your dad preaches. Distraction equals death on the track. Every time your mind wanders from the asphalt in front of you and the cars around you is one chance closer to losing it all.” She grabs at her scalp in frustration then plunges her finger square in his chest. “Get your head on straight or you’re gonna get hurt out there…or worse. And it’s gonna be CJ’s fault!”
Fifty laps to go, and Rachel’s words still haunt me. Each time Jett throws in a watch this, Cami or that’s for my girl over the radio, it reminds me his head’s not where it’s supposed to be. Of course I want him thinking of us. Just not now, on this track. Later.
One thing gives me a glimmer of peace. Despite Rachel’s warnings about Tyler being out for blood, he’s underperformed tonight, hanging back in fifth place and never even coming near Jett.
“Twenty-two car on right quarter,” the spotter’s voice crackles over the headphones. “Three approaching your six.”
“10-4,” Jett’s voice answers. “These bitches ain’t shit. Race’s in the bag.”
“Pace yourself, son,” Mr. Ramsey’s voice cuts in. “Last big one before the championship. Eyes on the prize. Need to finish strong here first.”
“10-4.”
For twenty more laps, Jett easily maintains the lead, and the spirit on the platform soars. Mr. Ramsey’s actually sitting on his stool for once, his hand rubbing up and down Jenniston’s back. Seeing that is better than any self-induced pep talk. He’s the professional, and if he’s not sweating it, neither should I.
For the first time since the green flag, my shoulders sink to a more natural position, allowing me finally to take the deep breath that’s proven so elusive. I lean forward on my knees. Jett’s ring, dangling from my necklace, sparkles in the track’s glaring lights, and my earlier conversation with Gin rears its head.
Two weeks.
In two weeks, I’ll go to court and relive the worst day of my life. In two weeks, he’ll be out here again on a championship quest. But what happens after that?
“Son of a bitch! Twelve’s on the move!” The spotter’s angry words blast in my ear, sending my heart into overdrive. Mr. Ramsey lurches off his stool so quickly it topples over behind him.
“He’s got his team behind him! Pushing from the rear!” His fingers curl around the railing so tight his knuckles seem to explode out from the skin. “Dammit! It’s partin’ like the Red Sea out there!”
“Little bitch wants some, huh? Been waitin’ on this all night,” Jett growls.
I jump to my feet and press myself into the railing, leaning over as far as possible to catch sight of his car. Jett’s coming out of the curve, and Tyler’s hot on his bumper. My chest caves in. This is exactly what Rachel predicted.
“Rear fender!”
That’s when it happens. Suddenly, everything that’s been so fast slows into some surreal frame-by-frame action sequence. At least, that’s what it feels like. Like a movie. Not real.
But it is real.
Tyler nips Jett’s back fender, spinning him out. The nose of Jett’s car scrapes the asphalt, the tail end off the ground. Tyler darts high, blowing past him, but the twenty-two car comes underneath Jett’s back bumper, hitting him again and sending him airborne. His car flips mid-air and slams into the fence. Debris flies in all directions before his car comes to a stop upside down.
“Jett! Jett! Oh God, please no!”
Someone’s screaming.
It’s me.
My knees buckle, and I hit the metal platform.
Oh my God. Not again.
Where’s Jenniston? And why hasn’t anyone come to tell me anything? Unless…
No. I won’t consider it.
I move toward the nurse’s station, but the hard stare from the heavyset, gray-haired one stops me in my tracks. She responded politely the first six or seven times I checked in. But the last time, she told me curtly I wasn’t immediate family and there was nothing she could do until one of them came out to speak with me.
So instead, my shoes burn grooves in the tile floor just outside the big double doors. What’s taking so long? I’m not a blood relative, but dammit, that boy means everything to me. We’re as close as any two people can be. I need to know he’s okay.
I grab a paper cup from the dispenser by the water cooler and fill it but can’t choke any down. The moment the water hits my tongue, my throat gives a violent thrust, and I have to spit it back out into my cup. I chuck it in the trashcan so hard, droplets spray the wall and floor.
Dammit. This sort of thing was never supposed to happen to Jett. Two people I love have already been taken this way. Sure, I realize the inherent risks of his job, but everyone knows lightning doesn’t strike twice. Unless I’m some sort of bad luck charm.
Or distraction.
Shrill screaming echoes in the ER’s vestibule as Rachel and Trévon push their way past the security guards. Rachel charges toward me, double-fisting my shirt and throwing me into the wall. My head smacks into the painted concrete; the impact radiates pain down my neck.
“Are you happy? I knew you’d eventually kill him!”
Trévon waves off the nurses who, upon hearing the commotion, shoot evil glances our way. He threads one arm between us, pulling Rachel back into his hold, mumbling, “He’s not dead.”
“Do we know that? Do we know he—and all our dreams—are not gone?”
“Jett’s tough. He’s always—” Trévon reasons, before Rachel cuts her fiery eyes back at me. Whatever he’s selling, she’s not buying.
“He’s always been focused until she got here.” She lunges at me again but Trévon’s tight grip holds her back, her arms and legs swinging erratically. “You won’t be happy until you’ve ruined all his chances, right? Kill him or hurt him bad enough so he can’t race? Is that your plan? His championship is in two weeks!”
“Come on, Rachel. This isn’t helping.” Trévon again tries dragging Rachel away, but she fights against him.
“This is your fault, CJ. Jett’s in there because of you!”
The words drop in my stomach
like a ton of bricks. Everything’s my fault. She’s right. Mama and Noli-Belle are dead because I overcorrected. Jett had to be rushed to the hospital because he was too focused on me instead of the race. Now he’s paying the price somewhere in a cold hospital bed unless…I killed him, too.
Oh God, no.
I can’t go through this again—watching the people I love die because of me. They deserve better, and I can’t stand any more loss.
I feel behind me for the wall, using it as a crutch to make my way to the blue padded chair where I sink down and bury my face in my hands. My tears free flow, coming out so fast and heavy they squeeze into the cracks between my fingers. “I care about him,” I mumble. “So much.”
“If you care about him, then leave him alone before you kill him,” Rachel growls in my ear. “If you haven’t already.”
“That’s enough,” Trévon says again, jerking her away. Their voices fade beyond the sliding glass doors, but her words still ricochet in my brain.
It’s my fault. I’ll ruin his future. I could kill him.
I can stop this. I have to.
Unless it’s already too late.
The overhead lights smear across my vision and begin spinning like a pinwheel as a strange blackness creeps in from my periphery. I stagger to my feet, desperate to search for the nearest restroom. But everything’s hazy, the sounds all muted, and I’m covered in sweat. Someone grabs me by the shoulders and puts me back in the chair. They push the back of my head until it ends up between my knees.
“Breathe, child. Just breathe.” As my vision clears, a pair of white, chunky support shoes stare back at me. Someone helps me sit back up; it’s the cranky, gray-haired nurse. Only this time, she wraps her arms around me and gently rocks back and forth.
A click-clack of heels stops behind the wooden door. It eases open, and Jenniston walks out. Her cheeks are streaked with mascara and a wad of tissues are clutched in her fingers.
As Much As I Ever Could Page 20
