"Maybe. But you don't see me. You don't know anything about me."
"I used to." I cross the room, sitting at the opposite edge of his bed. "And I'm so sorry I let you down."
He shoots off his bed, stomping to where I was standing a moment ago. "You don't even remember what—"
"What I did to let you down?" I stay seated, not pressing any sort of closeness. "Yes, I do. I never forgot about my promise. And I'm the biggest asshole in the world for not keeping it."
His brows raise when I cuss, and for some reason the innocent surprise throws me back four years into the past.
Jess. Twelve years old. Crying.
A boy he'd gone to school with had taunted him on the beach, telling Jess he'd killed his mother by being born, and Jess was wrecked over it.
He wouldn't tell Sawyer what was wrong, but he told me. And I promised to take care of him. I promised him that he'd be okay because his mom loved him all the way from Heaven—and that he hadn't killed her, but that she'd stayed alive long enough to let him live, a gift she was happy to give him—and until he saw her again, a long, long time from then, I'd take care of him.
A week later, Brock took the family and left town.
And I was so devastated by the loss of Sawyer, so brokenhearted, it was ages before I even thought about the promise I was forced to break to Jess. At the back of my mind, I realize there might not have been anything I could do to keep the promise—but to a twelve-year-old boy? That wouldn't matter. To this sixteen-year-old? I don't think it does, either.
Now he won't look at me when I tell him what I never forgot. "Will you let me be here for you now?"
"You're only saying that because you want to screw Sawyer."
"I…don't know how to address that, but you're wrong. Even if you don't change your mind about whether or not Sawyer and I can see each other." God, please change your mind about that, kid. "I love you outside of the way I love him, okay?"
"Whatever. I don't even need you anymore anyway." But he looks at me now and instead of anger across his face, there's determination. Desperation, even.
"Maybe I need you," I say, keeping my tone light. "I don't have a brother of my own, but I always considered you the closest thing to it. I've missed you for four years."
"I haven't missed you at all." His eyes flash and that determination sinks right back into animosity. "Get out of my room."
I open my mouth, but eat my words when I notice his lips are trembling. He's in pain. Because of me. Still. And my being here is making it worse.
So, mechanically, I do let myself out of his room. I mumble another apology and walk out of the door he's thrown open. Behind me, the sound of something hitting the wall, shattering, fills the air.
I don't see Brock. Maybe it's for the best.
I let myself out.
I go to work.
Jess hates me. Brock…made some good points about my mother that I really don't want to consider. Sawyer's out of my life, and I probably just pounded the final nail in with my attempt to speak with Jess.
And as bright as the sun is, as scorching as its light is, all I feel is darkness.
I survive the next week. I even get used to the stupid hatchback my insurance company rents me. I even go out with Gianna and Chase for a few drinks one night.
I'm still standing.
Yeah, and okay, I'm counting down the days until I head back to school, but whatever.
And I'm seriously considering never coming back to the stupid Outer Banks, but whatever.
I'm standing. I'm working. I'm surfing. (On my new surfboard that's just not the same as my old one, but whatever.) I'm avoiding any place I might run into Sawyer. Which is annoying because this is my town, too—but it's also necessary because my heart isn't strong enough to see him again.
Then Officer Santiago calls to tell me my Jeep's been found, abandoned in a handicap spot in the Kitty Hawk Walmart parking lot.
And finally, finally, a sliver of sunlight breaks through the darkness of my monotonous emotions.
Bitch has been keyed into the side of my poor car, but I don't care. I have it back and I'll paint over it. Or not. Maybe I'll just consider it an extra bit of character to the side of the car that barely opens without force anyway.
I don't have to drive something rented that smells like cigarettes anymore. My Jeep smells like sunscreen and pineapples and, okay, a little bit like weed—which, yet again, makes me think Danny's the one who took it for a weeklong joyride. That, plus the bitch thing. But God I love driving it again.
I know it's just a car. But it's mine. And I needed a win.
So I work my shift later and I reschedule my appointment to install an alarm and I smile at least some of the time. Because things are getting better. Not great. My heart's still in pieces. I'm still creeped out that someone's messing with me… But at least my Jeep is back.
Then a week later, Officer Santiago calls to let me know they caught the guys who stole it.
"Guys, plural?" I ask.
"Yep. You want to come down to the station?"
"Yeah, I do. I really do." Before I hang up, I have to ask, "Is one of them named Danny?"
Oddly enough, the answer is no.
Then I get there and after the woman at the front desk waves me into the booking area, the first person I see is Sawyer.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
QUINN
SAWYER'S NOT IN cuffs, but Jess is. His eyes are swollen from crying and he's trying—and failing—to wipe his nose with the shoulder of his shirt. Officer Vincent's next to them, his expression so leeringly pleased it's clown-like.
I look at Sawyer again, trying to ignore the jolt of longing that strikes my belly, cutting through my confusion. "I don't get it."
I can't believe we're both back in this blue-carpeted, dingy room.
I can't believe Jess is in handcuffs.
I can't believe how…not shocked I am. Not that I expected it to be Jess—especially because he was with me when my surfboard was stolen. But because…I don't know. I feel a little like I'm dreaming.
Sawyer doesn't quite meet my eyes, but jerks his chin toward the wall and when I follow the motion, I see the red-headed kid I've encountered a few times at the beach, Mason. He's not crying like Jess, but he's in cuffs and standing next to a woman who's clearly his mother. Same red hair. Same stocky build. She's not crying, either, but she's staring at me, worry digging a divot between her eyebrows.
Then I notice he's wearing a polo shirt with "Pop-Your-Lock" stitched into the chest and things start to click into place. No pun intended.
"That's how you broke in," I say. "You work for a locksmith. And you took…" I almost say my surfboard, but I glance at Jess and change my mind at the last second.
"He only works the front desk," his mom says, her tone pleading. "Mason's a good boy."
A good boy who broke into my car. Several times. I feel like I should be angry. Or, again, at least shocked.
All I am is longing for Sawyer to look at me. But he's studying the shabby desks, the two police officers in a back corner sharing some joke, the wall clock tick tick ticking through the air…
"Where's your dad?" I ask.
"On his way." He finally meets my eyes, but only briefly.
"These idiots didn't bother checking whether or not the Walmart parking lot had surveillance cameras. Spoiler alert: it does." Officer Vincent nudges Jess with his elbow more roughly than necessary. Sawyer stiffens, clenching his jaw. Still not meeting my eyes. But I don't need his gaze on me to understand how bad he wants to hit the officer beside him.
If desires were reality, though, he'd have to step in line. Because Jess is cringing in pain and I already freaking hate Officer Vincent. A lot.
"Quinn." Officer Santiago comes through a side door, greeting me with a smile.
I'd smile back…
But my mom's with him.
"It's just so shocking that a Carson boy would pull something like this," she says, looking
straight at Sawyer.
His hands go to fists at his sides and he shakes his head. And if we're forming lines to hit people, maybe my mom can stand in front of Officer Vincent.
"Why are you here?" I ask her, shooting daggers the best I can with my eyes.
"My name's still on the car's registration," she says.
"Dad told me that was all taken care of years ago." God. Why did I ever let them give me that stupid car? Okay, I love my car, but still. I should've paid them for it as soon as I had access to my inheritance. Or, even better, I should've been saving up to pay them back for it with my own earned money. I hate feeling obligated to them in any way.
I hate how ungrateful my thoughts sound.
She waves a hand to wipe my words away. "Apparently we have to let the DMV know, officially. Just as well I'm here, though."
"Why?"
If she says anything about turning Brock in I really will hit her.
"You didn't bother to tell me about your car troubles, sweetie. But now that I know, I can hold your hand through the whole process." Why is she speaking to me like we're old chums?
"What whole process?"
"Pressing charges," she says. Oh my God, of course that's what she's here to do. Reap the punishment of the father onto the son. I can't believe I let her little games—letting Brock pay her back, giving me her blessing about Sawyer—trick me into thinking she was a better person than she is.
"Pressing charges?" Mason's mom sucks in her breath, and the rest of the room comes back into focus.
I look from Jess to Sawyer and back to Jess. Jess's eyes are closed and Sawyer's studying my mom. "No," I tell them all. "I'm not pressing charges."
My mom looks at me, her gaze shrewd.
But she doesn't say anything.
"Quinn," Officer Santiago starts. "That's generally how this whole thing works."
"I forgot…" I clear my throat. "I forgot I told Jess he could borrow my car."
"Oh, come on." Officer Vincent rolls his eyes, grabbing Jess's arm and jerking him back toward him. "That's bullshit and you know it."
Sawyer finally looks at me and when we catch eyes, he holds my gaze and it's like the rest of the world falls away. I want to say something to him, or I want him to say something to me, but I don't know what. I just know I never want to look away. But, of course, I have to. Especially when I feel the pressure in the air telling me Officer Santiago's waiting for my attention.
When I give it to him, he asks, "You sure?"
There's no hesitation in my answer. "Yes."
My mom…still doesn't open her mouth. She's not fighting me on this.
"You know we can get you for falsifying a report," Officer Vincent says. "It's you or these morons. Don't be as dumb as they are."
But Officer Santiago's already walking to uncuff Mason. And then Jess, who rubs his wrists and glares at Officer Vincent. Until the officer snaps his teeth at him. Then Jess shrinks back against Sawyer.
"Thank you," Mason's mom says. She steps toward me, her arms out, but then thinks better of it. She pulls her son out of the station. We can hear her yelling as soon as they're through the doors into the lobby. I mean, really screaming. I'd feel bad for him, but, you know, he stole my car.
And speaking of car thieves. I step toward Jess. "Are you okay?"
He opens his mouth, but Sawyer speaks first.
"You won't ever have to deal with my family again," he says. "We'll be out of town before the summer's out."
"Sawyer." My heart shatters. "Didn't you hear me? I don't want to press charges. I don't care about my car. Jess is a kid. He made a mistake, who cares?"
"I care." He shakes his head. "My family can't keep doing this to yours."
He glances at my mom—and then he walks out of the station without giving me a chance to say anything else, dragging Jess by the scruff of his neck.
Jess wriggles out of Sawyer's grasp for a split second to turn and look at me. "I didn't write bitch. I swear."
The door closes behind them before I can reiterate that I don't care.
Officer Santiago offers me a kind pat on the shoulder—and Officer Vincent laughs. Snidely. I scratch my chin with my middle finger. He rolls his eyes.
Then they're walking away, too, and I'm sinking into a chair by the wall. God. This shouldn't skewer me the way it does. It's not like I thought I'd have Sawyer back. I've been working my ass off to get rid of that dream.
But seeing him again.
Seeing him again and watching him leave. Again.
It's excruciating.
My mom comes to stand beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder. "It's better this way."
"Anything you think is better is generally the worst." But I let her hold my shoulder, because I haven't forgotten what Brock said. Especially now, when she didn't push me to press charges when I didn't want to. "Why did you decide it was okay for me to be with Sawyer—not that I need your permission—and why did you call Brock to work it out?" I glance up at her, and her expression is haughty. Stuffy. I don't know why I expected to see a little remorse, or tenderness.
"Because," she says, sniffing. Also haughtily. "I do love you, you know. And I realized…" She pauses, her mouth puckering like her next words taste unpleasant. "You were going to do it anyway, so I might as well give my blessing. Those threats you made—which we will never mention again… Well, I'm fairly certain they gave me an ulcer." Her fingers tighten on my shoulder, as though she's using me to steady herself against the memory.
I feel like maybe I should tell her I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have been quite so nasty about it all. But when I open my mouth, the words won't come. I can't apologize because she still hasn't. And right now all I can see is the disdainful purse to her lips; right now all I can remember is that her decision in the past is a huge part of why Sawyer and I can't be together now.
And, at the base of it all, all I can think about is the way she lied straight to my face. It hurts, a raw sort of pain. I'm not how long it'll take to get over it.
So I need more time before I can apologize to her. Because to make the words sincere at all, I have a feeling I have to forgive her first. And that is going be a process—one that might be more than I have to give, because I know she won't make it easy.
But we'll see.
Then she says, "Obviously, you aren't associating with him anymore. And, truly, sweetie, it's better this way. Erika Covington told me about the scene those boys caused at the pancake house. I told you about trash in families. It sticks."
I stand, shoving her hand away from me. "Don't say another word. If you ever want to have any kind of relationship with me—which even now is going to take a long time to form—I'm begging you. Just stop."
Before she can say anything else, I walk away. Out of the station, to my Jeep, and I blast Gold Rush Standard all the way home.
I call out from work and I turn my AC down to frigid, and I change into ratty old sweats and a way too big for me T-shirt. I sit on my couch with a half-empty pint of ice cream, a salad server spoon, and a beer. And I dig in until the ice cream headache is strong enough to reprieve my heartache for a minute.
Then I repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
SAWYER
HALFWAY BACK TO my father's place, I almost turn the car around and go back for Quinn.
I can't believe I left her. Again.
Because of my family. Again.
Other than to tell him to call our father and let him know to come home instead of to the station, I can't bring myself to say a word to Jess. I'm so fucking mad I'm pretty sure I'll say something I'll regret.
My dad beats us there, and I shove Jess through the front door, growling, "Tell him."
The damn kid breaks down crying again. I don't know what the hell to do with his tears; I'm too used to his shitty little attitude. I pat his back a few times, and push him further into the room until he drops into the armchair across from
our dad. He's still crying, but he's not getting off the hook. I stay standing, crossing my arms. "Now."
He takes a shaky breath and stares at me instead of my dad. "I stole Quinn's car."
"That's why they took you to the station?" My dad's on his feet now, looking between the two of us.
"My friend—this other guy, stole it, I mean. I was just there for a ride." He picks at a few of the threads sticking up from an arm of the chair.
"Goddamn it, Jess. You know what? I'm done," I say, speaking before the thought's finished crossing my mind. But it's the truth. Between my dad looking so shocked that Jess could've done something like this, when it's not even the first time he's been called by the cops because of my brother, and Jess trying to pass the blame off on his stupid friend, I'm really fucking finished. "I can't keep putting you both first if you won't do it for yourselves."
"What are you talking about?" my dad asks, still looking confused.
"Quinn," Jess says, bitterly, rubbing his eyes. "He's talking about Quinn."
I move to him, leaning down to grab the chair's arms, and put my face an inch from his. "Listen, kid, I'm still going to be on you to get your shit together, and if this incident—that you fucking lucked out on—didn't scare some sense into you, just wait until you see what I have in store." I stare at him until he swallows, making sure my point sinks in. "But I'm not staying away from her anymore."
He takes a shaky breath. "I don't even care, okay? She came over and tried to talk to me, but I already took her car so it was too late and I couldn't tell her it was okay. But I don't even care."
"She came over?" I straighten, dragging my eyes from my brother to my father, who's very pointedly not looking my way. "When?"
"Couple weeks ago." Jess shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, but his face is tense and his eyes are still red. "Tell her I'm sorry, okay? Tell her I'm really, really sorry."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Neither of them has an answer.
"Wait." Jess jumps up as I'm about to leave and dashes to his room. I hear the squeaking slide and the thud of his closet door forced open, and a second later he returns with a surfboard. "Give this to Quinn."
Surf & Surrender Page 27
