Tugging the clean shirt over my head, I nod when she asks if I want a bottle of water from the ice chest.
“You getting hungry?” I ask and catch the bottle she tosses to me.
“Starved,” she groans. “Ravenous.” She gulps down half the water in her bottle then gasps for air. “I think I got too much sun today.” She walks over to me, studying her bronze arms. “I’m always up for a good tan,” she says quietly so as not to wake those still sleeping, “but I’m feeling a little tender.” She presses a fingertip on her shoulder, and when she removes it, the skin is left white for a few seconds. “Yep, stick a fork in me,” she mutters.
I smile and open the grill. “Pull the tri-tip out for me, would you?”
Mac chugs down the last of her water and uses the back of her hand to wipe her mouth dry. “God, I needed that.”
Sifting through a camping bin for barbecue tongs, I ask, “How was your nap?” Although my arms are slightly fatigued from so much rowing, my mind is too scattered and I’m a little too wound up to let exhaustion settle in.
“Wonderful, but interrupted. I’m sure you heard my stomach rumbling from inside your tent.” Mac brings the meat over and places it on a platter I set out for her. “Where’d you learn how to grill? I can’t imagine Mr. Reilly teaching you that, no offense.”
I smile and turn on the grill. “You can’t be deployed somewhere and not know how to grill. There are too many macho guys looking for a reason or opportunity to get together and barbecue—anything to get everyone’s mind off of home.”
Mac smiles. “Great, maybe you can teach Bobby. He thinks he’s a grilling god, but everyone knows even I can grill better than he can.” She winks at me. “I’ll pull out the rest of the goodies for dinner.” She walks back over to one of two large ice chests.
Mac points to a softball-sized container. “This is Sam’s homemade spinach dip, and that,” she says, pointing to a large orange bowl with plastic wrap on it, “is Sam’s homemade potato salad. I guarantee none of your macho friends can cook like she can. You’re going to eat like a king tonight.”
“So Nick tells me,” I say, unwrapping the meat.
On cue, Sam climbs out of the tent, wobbly on her feet and her hair mussed from deep sleep. Steadying herself, she looks up at me. She squints, and a small smile forms on her lips, a genuine-truce sort of smile that makes all the uncertainty and concern humming through me steady.
I smile back at her.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Mac chirps.
Sam waves her away, shoves her hands in her pockets, and slips on her flip-flops, covered in dust and haphazardly left outside their tent. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she mumbles in a half sleep and plods away.
“Hair of the dog,” Mac calls to her. “That’s all you need . . .”
Sam shakes her head, but obviously regrets it. Her hand flies up to her temple and she groans.
“How long for the meat?” Mac asks, setting a bowl of fruit on the table.
“Forty-five or so,” I say.
She shrugs and puts the fruit back into the ice chest beside me. Mac moves to the picnic table. “I’ll get the table cleared off—”
I nudge her. “Hey, Mac?” I say, glancing quickly in the direction Sam disappeared.
Mac stops, blinking up at me.
I’m too concerned Sam will come back before I can ask the questions burning a hole on my tongue to choose my words as carefully as I probably should. “Earlier . . . you were worried about Sam. Does she cut herself?”
Mac pales. “What?” She blinks again. “Um, why?”
I don’t answer, but simply wait for her to respond. When she realizes I’m not going to let it go, she swallows thickly and her surprise turns resigned. She sits down on the end of the picnic bench, facing me. “I don’t know for sure,” she says quietly, glancing from Nick’s tent to the bathrooms. She stares at me a moment, maybe trying to decide how much to tell me. “I saw a mark on her upper thigh once.”
My heartbeat thumps to a stop, and it feels like seconds pass before it starts back up again.
“We were trying on dresses for a friend’s wedding, like a year ago.”
“What makes you think she didn’t just hurt herself?”
Mac scowls. “Because when she knew I’d spotted it, she looked guilty and ashamed as shit.”
I put down the tongs I’m holding and cross my arms over my chest, trying to steady the raw nerves and energy coming alive inside me. “Did you ask her about it?”
She shakes her head. “No, she obviously didn’t want me to see it, which meant she’d probably have lied to me anyway. And—”
“And?”
“And to be honest, I think I was a little scared what she might say.” Mac stares at me, almost through me, like she’s lost in thought. “So, let’s just say that when I see Sam bleeding like she was this morning, I jump to conclusions.”
I reach for the tongs, squeezing the handle, and I stare through the trees in Sam’s direction.
“I haven’t told anyone, Reilly, so don’t say anything. Please.” Her voice is suddenly deep and threatening. “I don’t know anything for sure, it’s just a sickening feeling I get. And if it’s true and you say something, Sam will think I told you. She’ll be pissed and she might do something even more stupid.”
I step over to the grill, running one hand over the back of my neck. “What the hell is she thinking?”
“She doesn’t need more demons, Reilly.” Mac is suddenly beside me, her hand clutching my arm. “That’s why I wanted you to canoe together today. I figured some alone time might help remedy whatever’s going on between the two of you. I was a little worried when I heard you guys fighting. I just hope it didn’t make everything worse.”
Suddenly, I’m a little worried, too. A fleeting concern about what she’s doing in the bathroom comes and goes. All I can do is wonder how many of my decisions have contributed to this.
I let out a deep breath. “Yeah, me too.”
Twenty-Three
Sam
I lose myself to the sound of zipping harmonicas and anthems about bayous, outlaws, and rambling men. The wistful sound reminds me of happier times, despite the pang of sadness it elicits from nudging, less-welcome memories, too. There’s something about classic rock ’n’ roll that makes me feel at home. Maybe it’s that Nick listens to it—that Papa used to. Then I remember that Reilly used to, too. Maybe it’s a guy thing . . .
I let the music and the amber liquid that once again flows through me dull the pain. It makes me feel lighter as I dance and sing around the fire with Mac and Savannah. And it just so happens that Mac had been right, hair of the dog—a lot of it—was just what I’d needed to perk my wilting mood right back up again.
“So is this like a Native American beer dance or something?” Nick asks, and Reilly barks a laugh, clearly amused.
“You’re just jealous you’re not having as much fun,” Savannah drawls.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what it is.” Nick smirks and pulls away from her as she tries pulling him up from his camping chair.
“Come dance with us.” Her voice sounds more like a whine, and I can’t help but laugh at how drunk she is.
“No, no, no,” he says. “I don’t dance, especially not like that.”
After another song, the three of us girls decide a drink refill and greasy, fatty snacks are in order. I can hear Bethany and Claire snickering as they walk through our site, toward the bathrooms, both of them simpering at Reilly, though I can barely hear it over the crinkling of the potato chip bag I open. I focus on the salty, crunchy, earth-shatteringly delicious chip in my mouth, savoring every crunch. However, the fact that Reilly gives them no notice, other than a returned wave, makes each chip all the more enjoyable.
Mac tops off my screwdriver and we plop down in our seats, mine to Reilly’s right, and I kick my feet up on a small ice chest, which is no doubt filled with Reilly’s cold beers. I lean over and check. “I’d expe
ct nothing less,” I say and smile over at the boys.
“So, you’re a dancer now,” Reilly says.
I stick another potato chip in my mouth and look over at him. He and Nick are both holding beers in their laps, their eyes twinkling in the firelight.
“If you can call it dancing,” Nick scoffs, then leans his head back against the headrest of his chair. Savannah playfully smacks his shoulder.
“Oh, it’s dancing,” Mac says as she brings her cup to her lips as carefully as possible so as not to spill her nearly overflowing drink. “Mmmm.” She licks her lips. “Perfect.”
Smiling, I plunk another chip in my mouth, then offer her the bag. Mac takes a few more sips and places her cup in her arm holder, accepting the bag of cholesterol happily. I tell myself it’s the fire that’s warm and soothing on my skin, instead of Reilly’s gaze, as I nestle deeper into my chair beside him. He smells like campfire smoke and s’mores, and I want to devour him.
We all sit in a comfortable silence, the sound of roaring flames and acoustic bluegrass the perfect lullaby. I want to crawl into the fire and fall asleep.
“Oh, Niiiick . . .” Mac sings. I smile, knowing whatever she’s thinking can’t be good.
“Dear God, she wants something,” Nicks says, pausing as he lights a cigarette. “What is it, devil-woman?”
“Can I bum a smoke?”
“What?” I screech. “You said you quit.”
Mac flicks my shoulder and screeches back at me, “I did, but I’m drunk and it’s our last night here. Give me a break.”
Nick chuckles as he gets out of his chair. “Follow me, my lady. I need to open another pack.”
Mac jumps to her feet and winks at me before she skips after Nick and Savannah to their tent.
I’m smiling like an idiot, but I can’t help that I’m having such a good time. When my gaze lands on Reilly, expecting to find a smile curving his lips as well, I’m startled to find that he’s not smiling at all. He’s watching the fire. I can almost hear the wheels turning in his mind. I hadn’t realized how much I’d miss his smile until it’s gone, replaced with deep contemplation.
“Are you okay?” I ask hesitantly. I stare into the fire pit, trying to see what it is he sees. When I glance back at him, his focus drifts to me, fire shadows making his eyes glow with blue flames. I’m restless under their intensity, under their focus, and I moisten my lips.
His silence is suddenly weighted and awkward, like I’m an exhibit to be studied and scrutinized. I try reeling myself back to the present, to what remains of my self-control, and I remind myself not to get too comfortable around him. We have too much of a history for anything other than friendship to ever be healthy between us, and even friendship seems like it’s asking too much sometimes.
Clearing my throat, I take a small sip from my cup.
“It’s good to see you having fun,” he says. “I was worried our argument—that after this morning . . .” He shakes his head. “It’s just . . . it’s nice to see you smiling.”
The fact that he was worried he’d ruined my day makes me regret being upset with him earlier. But then, if I was upset with anyone, I knew it was really myself.
“Do you ever wonder,” Reilly starts softly, “what it would’ve been like if that day on the beach had happened a month sooner?”
Before he signed his paperwork. I think about it all the time, wishing things had been different.
I look away, not wanting to acknowledge what his question implies.
“Sometimes,” I finally say, and I’m suddenly too warm, my armpits sweating. “What about you?” I glance at him again. He’s staring at me, still. His eyes are pained and radiant and luring me to him.
He nods.
I straighten, but whether it’s the booze or just exhaustion, I answer easily. “We were really young,” I say. “I don’t think we were really thinking—about any of it.”
Reilly lets out a deep breath. “I’m sorry I left you,” he says, surprising me.
I lean my head back, gazing up at the night. What internal struggles I have always seem smaller and less significant when I stare up at the vastness of the sky. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you.” My head lolls to the side so I can see him. “I was angry that you didn’t stay with me, even though I knew how bad things were with your dad.” I gaze back up at the stars. It pains me to think about how ignorant I was, how young and stupid we were to think we could’ve made any of that work anyway. “Papa sort of disappeared on me too and I panicked.”
Tapping the side of my cup, I watch Reilly from the corner of my eye. He’s staring into the fire again. Relieved, I continue. “I missed you . . . thought I needed you to feel whole, but you weren’t there and Mike was. It’s as easy and stupid as that.”
Reilly says nothing, and after a while, I turn to him. His face is cast in shadows, but I watch as his jaw clenches.
“And now what?” he says, finally looking at me. With a single blink, his expression changes from something hardened to something curious and hopeful.
I let out a humorless laugh. “I’ve asked myself that more times than you could possibly know.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know,” I say defensively and take another sip of my drink. I swallow and stare down into my cup, uncertain what answers he wants from me. “I hate what happened,” I say simply. “I hate that I hurt you, and if I could take back everything—the letter, Mike”—Papa—“I would, but I can’t, and—”
Reilly leans toward me, and by the time I register that he’s going to kiss me, his mouth is already against mine, his scruff rough and burning against my skin in the most deliciously familiar way but it’s different too, and my lips part willingly. I lose myself to a hypnotic, light-headed daze.
Reilly’s lips urge mine apart, his nose brushes against my cheek, and he touches the side of my face with his burning-hot palm, which sends a sting of excitement bursting through me. The camping chairs creak and groan beneath us, but I don’t care. Something about his kiss is so fulfilling, so wholesome, it feels like one of the missing pieces of myself I’ve been looking for. It’s so perfect and warm, I never want him to stop.
But he’s leaving again soon. This thought sobers me, and I pull away, groaning to myself.
His brow furrows.
What are we doing?
Reilly’s chest rises and falls like mine, but all I can focus on is the rushing of my blood, the fire of wanting desire against all the uncertainty and horror of him leaving, one day soon.
“I can’t,” I say. “I—we shouldn’t have done that.” I lean back, away from him and temptation, needing more distance between us. I don’t want things to be even harder when he leaves again, to regret another broken heart, one I could’ve prevented.
“Why not?” he asks, his voice rough. I can hear his frustration, snarling just below the surface of his words. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”
“I can’t do this again,” I whisper and stare into the fire. I can’t lose you again. I hear Mac, Nick, and Savannah chatting at the edge of camp and see the ember of their cigarettes glowing when I finally look up. I wish they’d hurry up.
“Alright,” Reilly says, finally, and he rises to his feet. He tosses his empty bottle into the recycling pile. “I’m ah—going for a walk.” And without even looking at me, he strides past the fire and disappears through the trees.
Confused, wondering if I’m being stupid or smart, I lean my head back and stare up into the sky again. My mind is racing—a triathlon of questions and memories, hopes and maybes, but I can’t collect them, they don’t make any sense. I blink a few times, but everything is blurry, and I can’t focus.
What I do know is that Reilly will be leaving soon, and even knowing that, the unbridled, liberated side of me wants to live again, to be with him and be happy, even if it’s just for a little while. The emptiness that lingers, just from him walking away, tells me I’ll regret never even trying.
Leaving my
screwdriver by the fire, I stand up, taking a few breaths to gain my bearings. With drink-infused resolve, I shove my hands into the fleece-lined pockets of my sweatshirt and head in the direction Reilly disappeared.
My feet drag every so often, but my mind is too busy to care much. I have no idea what I’m doing or what I’m going to say, but tonight’s the night to say it, whatever it is.
As I step off the wooded path at the clearing just before the bathrooms, I find Reilly, standing with his back to me. I open my mouth, maybe to apologize, when I see Claire lean up and kiss him. It takes me a second to digest what I’m seeing.
I don’t have time to overthink it or analyze what’s happening. All I know is that my stomach churns and I want to throw up. I take a step back, turn, and hurry back toward camp on unsteady legs, toward the safety of my tent.
“Sam!” Reilly’s voice echoes, but I’m in too much of a hurry to get away, too busy keeping drunken, useless, brokenhearted tears at bay to pay attention.
“Sam, please stop.” Reilly grabs my arm and turns me around.
I feel a dab of wetness under one eye and swipe it away with my free hand, looking anywhere but at him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to talk.”
“Stop. You’re not interrupting anything—”
I try to pull away.
“Please look at me.” His hands cup my face, holding me—forcing me to look at him. “Whatever that was, it was one-sided. Claire’s been drinking, just like the rest of us, and—”
With more force, I pull away from his grasp. “I know, it’s fine.” I’m sober enough now to realize that anything I was planning on saying or doing would’ve been a huge mistake. “You don’t owe me an explanation.” He doesn’t owe me anything—he and I are nothing, not anymore and that’s the way it needs to stay.
I plaster on a smile I’m so good at faking. “It’s fine, really. I’m just being drunk and stupid.”
Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Page 22
