Return to You (Letters to Nowhere Part 3)

by Julie Cross

  “Uh-huh.” TJ picks up his pace, walking a few steps ahead of me. “He’s your boyfriend, aren’t you supposed to cry on his shoulder and shit like that.”

  “I’m not crying!” My increased volume projects a little farther than I would have liked and the three counselors that cross in front of us turn and give me strange looks. “Just back off, okay?”

  He shrugs. “You’re the one who told me you’d do another bar dismount and then you didn’t. So what am I supposed to assume except that you’ve got some head issues.”

  Point taken. I do have some head issues. “Just leave Jordan out of it, please.”

  “Making more girls miserable, TJ?”

  We both turn and see Stevie coming up the path, toting a giant flashlight, pointing it at various spots on the path and off to the sides. I’ve gotten the impression, rooming with her for nearly a week now, that she’s not too keen on bugs. And by that, I mean she’s petrified of them.

  “The girls I know call it pleasure, not misery.”

  Stevie rolls her eyes. “Well, I saw the girls you were coaching today and they looked miserable.”

  TJ’s jaw tightens. “Whiny ass rich kids. It’s like they’re made of glass.”

  “Or maybe you have the intuition of a pigeon,” she says, smiling sweetly.

  I guess I should have known Stevie would have this fierceness inside her. She spent several years on top and I think that tough skin is the reason our former coach, Jim Cordes, always saw more potential in Stevie than in me. TJ can keep playing this banter game with her, but I don’t think he’s going to come out ahead.

  “Are you going to the scavenger hunt?” I ask Stevie trying to break up the glare session between the two of them.

  “No, I’m hitting the practice gym and run through my new choreography. I already cleared it with Nina.”

  I’m immediately wishing I’d thought of getting excused from the tonight’s activities for some extra practice time. Not just to stay up there with Stevie, though that is a priority, but also because this morning’s falling incident in front of almost the entire camp, plus the YouTube video that I’d heard was online—I’m not letting myself look at it— makes hiding out in a near empty gym sound like a good idea right about now.

  “Well, good luck with your practice session,” TJ says to Stevie. “I’m sure all that dancing around and finger-flicking fun will do wonders for your crappy tumbling.”

  Oh boy…

  I turn my walk into a jog so I don’t have to hear Stevie’s rebuttal.

  ***

  I’m driving my dad’s car. I’m driving and they’re in the back. Why am I driving? There’s no time to process this fact before the semitruck hits us head-on. I should be hurting, I should be crushed to death, but suddenly I’m in the grass on the side of a dark interstate.

  And they’re lying beside me. My parents. Whole, but barely. Bruised and bloody. And dead. They’re dead. Grief crushes me from all sides, pressure so heavy against my chest that my mind fights it. Fights the dream. And I shoot upright, smacking my head into Stevie’s bed above me. My heart is pounding against my chest with such force I can barely take in air. I grapple around in the dark for my flashlight and even though I know that I need to figure out a way to deal with this on my own, I can’t seem to stop my feet from moving in the direction of our cabin door.

  A section of my mind is still lost in the horror of that dream and it causes me to run, instead of walk, to the cabin next door, half expecting to spot dead bodies lying on the ground. Even with the noise from the woods, I still hear that blaring sound of the semi barreling at us, the driver laying on the horn the whole time. My hands and legs are trembling by the time I open the door to my old cabin. I click my flashlight off before entering Jordan and TJ’s room, hoping only to wake the bottom bunk resident. My teeth are chattering noisily from both the fear and the cool night air.

  All it takes is one tiny tap to Jordan’s shoulder and he raises his head, squinting in the dark. “Karen?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” My voice is shaky and a few tears fall just from the effort of talking and the shame of being weak, not being able to handle this on my own.

  Jordan tosses back his covers and slides in toward the wall, clearing a spot for me. “Are you okay? You’re not sick, are you?”

  I shake my head, answering no to both questions, but even though I made this middle-of-the-night journey into Jordan’s cabin, I don’t move to lie beside him and instead leave my feet firmly planted on the cool tile floor. My gaze drifts upward toward the top bunk.

  “He’s not here,” Jordan says. “He’s in the cabin on the other side. Director’s orders. He doesn’t want a strep throat outbreak amongst the staff.”

  “My feet are probably filthy,” I say. “I didn’t even bother to put on flip-flops.”

  To prove his lack of concern for dirt in his bed, he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me down beside him. The second my legs make contact with his, I realize that he’s only wearing boxer shorts. I’m still too shaken to blush at this revelation but it does register. It shouldn’t really be any different than Jordan in swim trunks, but the symbolic meaning of “underwear” makes it feel much different.

  “You’re shaking,” he whispers. “If I could see your face clearly right now, I bet it would be completely white.”

  I draw in a deep trembling breath and a few more tears trickle down the sides of my face. “I’m not trying to get you into trouble, I swear. I just couldn’t—”

  He leans over me and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I don’t give a shit about getting in trouble. I do care about getting you sick, though…”

  I shake my head. “I’m not worried about that. If it hasn’t happened yet, it’s not going to happen, especially with the antibiotics.”

  “You sure?” After I nod, he brushes the tears off my face and I’m suddenly enveloped in warm strong arms. “Bad dream?”

  Of course Jordan wouldn’t need to think too hard to draw this conclusion. He fights the same battle, though obviously he’s stronger than I am and can deal with it alone. I’ll figure it out, I promise myself. But right now, I need him.

  I bury my face in the crook of his shoulder and explain my latest nightmare to him. He doesn’t interrupt me, just stays silent and moves his hand through my hair over and over until my muscles begin to relax against him.

  “It’s okay to go backward sometimes,” he says after I’m done talking. “There’s no finish line that you’re trying to reach.”

  “I feel childish,” I admit and of course I’m clinging to him while saying this. “This whole running to you for help feels… icky.”

  “Hey!” He tries to sound offended but I can feel his chest rumbling with laughter. “Maybe your subconscious advised you to crawl into bed with me so you could have some better material for your next dream.”

  “Is that right?” I smile against his neck.

  “Think about it…” His hand makes big slow circles over my back. “Sneaking out at one in the morning, my roommate’s mysteriously gone, and it just so happens that neither of us have much clothes on, this is how every great pornographic film starts.”

  I laugh really hard, feeling lighter already. “There’re great pornographic films? I had no idea.”

  “Hypothetically speaking, of course. I wouldn’t know.”

  Right.

  “And you say porno, I say horror film.” Now that he’s really brought it to my attention, I’ve become fully aware of how much of my bare skin is touching his. And it’s definitely sending my thoughts drifting in a new direction, which isn’t such a bad thing. “The girl walks through the woods, enters the quarantined cabin where her boyfriend is infected with a virus that has yet to be identified. She tells him she’s not afraid of catching it, but as she goes to kiss him, the bacteria literally start crawling all over his face, eating his flesh—”

  “Jesus Christ,” Jordan interrupts, laughing. “That’s horror all right, but real
ly bad horror.”

  I give his stomach a light smack. “You can do better, then?”

  “Challenge accepted.” He slides a hand under the back of my tank top and my cheeks warm instantly. “First of all, that would have to be the first mention of the flesh-eating virus or you’d ruin the surprise element, which means that you’ve killed the chance for a good love story. She’d have to be in love to decide to sneak into a quarantined cabin. Otherwise, she’d be like, ‘Let’s wait and see if he’s got something nasty before I stick my tongue down his throat.’”

  My fingers skim down his side and I don’t miss the shiver he tries to suppress. “What if she’s just arrived and heads straight to his cabin, having no knowledge of the quarantine?”

  “Nope,” Jordan says. “Then he must not love her if he doesn’t want to warn her at least.”

  I have no idea why such a morbid topic is putting me at ease, but it is. Maybe it’s the effort of making my conscious thoughts closer to my subconscious ones, or maybe it’s a relief to have someone to talk crazy with—regardless, I’m not complaining.

  After another fifteen minutes of imaginative plot development, Jordan lifts my chin so our eyes meet. “You’re not afraid of my flesh-eating virus are you?”

  My heart rate picks up again. “No, I’m not.”

  His hand cups the back of my neck, drawing me closer. “Good,” he whispers against my lips.

  There’s more electricity in this kiss than I’ve ever experienced. Maybe it’s the forbidden aspect, since everyone has been ordered to steer clear of Jordan Bentley, or maybe it’s the heightened emotions and the need to throw myself into something as consuming as this—the feel of our legs tangling together, of the hint of orange Gatorade my tongue gets while inside Jordan’s mouth. And I’m only distracted for a split second, hoping my mouth tastes as good as his, before he deepens the kiss and turns me onto my back.

  His lips trail down my neck, heading for my collarbone.

  “Are you…” I’m breathing almost too hard to speak. “Are you, like, okay? You feel okay?”

  He laughs. “Uh-huh.”

  My fingers have been in Jordan’s hair for a couple of minutes now, pulling through it with complete abandon. I don’t know when this became so easy. I don’t know when I stopped thinking about where my hands should go and whether I was doing this right. I don’t know when Jordan stopped looking at me for approval before making each move, like he could read my reactions even better than I could.

  Like right now, for example, he’s sliding my tank top up past my stomach and eventually high enough to reveal my boobs. He’s been under my shirt several times but never lifted it to look. But here in the dark, with all these new feelings clouding my usual thoughts, I don’t mind at all.

  His gaze meets mine and holds steady while he gently pushes one arm all the way out of my tank top. His body is hovering over mine, not yet making direct contact, both of us breathing hard. I use my free arm to tug the shirt over my head and then I shake it off onto the floor with my other arm.

  Both of us are frozen for several seconds, Jordan’s gaze flitting to the tank top on the floor and then back to my face, and then he wraps his arms around me. I can’t silence the sigh that escapes when our skin presses together and then our mouths follow. My hands drift down his back and after a slight hesitation, my palms land on top of his boxers. He stiffens and his mouth pauses against mine, but it only lasts a second before he’s kissing my neck again, allowing me grab at his backside. He’s had his hands on my butt before, but always when I had jeans or sweats on and always with the lightest of touch, like my ass was simply a stop on the path his fingers had trailed down my sides and eventually down to my leg.

  But I seem to be transfixed with the incredible tightness of his gluts and maybe it’s a little bit of athlete’s fascination, but either way I can’t seem to put my hands anywhere else. I’m really squeezing him now, trying to pull our hips together, but he’s making an obvious effort to keep that part of our bodies separate. It takes me a good several minutes to realize why.

  And then I’m laughing. “Are you thinking about eighty-year-old women in nightgowns right now?”

  He laughs, too, and pulls back enough to see my face. “I’m trying, but it’s not working.”

  I slide my hands back up to his hair. “It’s okay, you know? It’s not gonna freak me out.” Honestly, I don’t know if it will freak me out, but there’s only one way to find out.

  “It might.” He touches his forehead to mine. “It makes me feel like I’m pressuring you in a way and I don’t want to do that.”

  “Just don’t start using anatomical terms or naming your parts and I’ll be fine.”

  He still doesn’t allow his weight to fully drop on top of me, and instead, he rolls both of us onto our sides, taking one of my legs and pulling it between his. He resumes kissing me and one hand drifts up my thigh and eventually reaches the leg opening in my pajama shorts. He keeps his hand on top of my panties rather than under them. “This feels like the purple pair… am I right?”

  I shake my head, laughing. “I honestly don’t remember.”

  He removes his hand, fiddles with the waistband of my shorts, and says, “I’m going to take these off.”

  I’m immediately reminded of the first time he kissed me—the cold night air, his hand resting on the red brick wall above my head, and the heat of his mouth in contrast to the frigid air.

  I’m gonna kiss you now.

  It had come out of nowhere, but at the same time, it felt like that was exactly what we were supposed to be doing. And that’s how this feels right now. Having my shorts tangled around my ankles freaks me out a little, but not enough that I wish it wasn’t happening. Quite the opposite.

  And then he finally pulls us all the way together, his lips brush my ear, and he whispers, “Nothing else is coming off, okay?”

  I give a nervous laugh. “You think you could fight me if I really wanted to tug your boxers off and make a run for it?”

  “I would only stop you from running,” he says.

  My face flames, but my hands have a lot more confidence. My fingers walk their way down his stomach, but he grasps them the second I reach the waistband of his boxers. “What?” I say, trying to come off as innocent. “Do you have insecurities about that area? Whatever it is, you can tell me. Remember, I spilled about my uneven boob issue.”

  He brings my knuckles to his lips and leans back, eyes dropping to my chest. “Looks pretty even now.” I’m laughing so hard I can hardly breathe, but Jordan stays perfectly calm and covers my right breast with one hand. “Slightly larger too, I think.”

  When I finally calm down and stop laughing, he brings us close together again and lays my hand on his cheek, turning his head for a second to plant a kiss on my palm. “I love you.”

  There’s so much warmth in his voice that any guilt or shame I felt for stripping off most of my clothes, dissolves. “I love you, too.”

  He lays his hand on top of mine. “And you have my permission to touch whatever part of me you want to. As long as it’s something you really want to do, okay?”

  “Okay,” I whisper, taken back by his sudden shift from amused to intensely serious.

  “And by the way,” he adds, “my parts are perfectly normal. In case you were wondering.”

  We start kissing again with fewer walls between us this time, but my hands don’t make it back to the waistband of his boxers and after thirty minutes, Jordan finally says that he really needs to take a shower, which causes me to laugh uncontrollably again. While he’s gone, I set the alarm on his phone for 5:00 a.m., but I don’t put my shirt or shorts back on. Jordan returns smelling of soap and toothpaste, his hair still damp, and I curl up against him and fall asleep while listening to him tell me a story about one of the groups he coached today. Well, yesterday, actually.

  When his alarm goes off, I jolt awake, quiet it before he wakes up, and get dressed again before heading back to my cabin.
Stevie’s still sound asleep so I lie in bed, waiting for her to get up for practice before I make a move myself.

  And yeah, I’m pretty much a grinning fool. Sneaking out to spend the night making out and sleeping in Jordan’s bed feels rebellious and romantic and everything else I’m completely in love with at the moment.

  Dad,

  I really hope you weren’t “watching over me” a few hours ago.

  Love, Karen

  Mom,

  Thanks for giving me that old dusty copy of Forever by Judy Blume in 7th grade. It really came in handy.

  Love, Karen

  chapter seven

  ~jordan~

  I’m fifty percent positive that I’m going to ditch this appointment. I feel completely recovered. Maybe I needed steroids the other times I’d been sick. All I’d gotten before was antibiotics. The whole journey out to the camp parking lot, I’m weighing the pros and cons of lying to the camp doctor about this appointment. There are patient confidentiality laws, so I know that this ENT doctor can’t legally pass on information to anyone without my approval. And he said I needed to get a checkup, not bring back a note clearing me to work.

  But if I’m only worried about the camp doctor finding out what happens at the appointment, and legally doctor ENT can’t give that info out, why ditch? Why not go and then lie about the results if needed?

  Because you’re scared shitless of surgery.

  God, it seems so trivial when I put it like that, but I can’t help it. This has been a longtime fear of mine. Being put to sleep. I can’t rationalize the reasoning behind it. I just know that I won’t be able to go through with it.

  I’m unlocking the door to my car when the sound of gravel grinding underneath shoes distracts me. I turn around and see Karen walking toward me. She’s dressed in jean shorts, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. Her hair is even down. I haven’t seen Karen in much besides pajamas, leotards, and swimsuits over the past two weeks.