“I didn’t expect one to be inside my tent,” I tell him. “I read on the Internet that it’s not uncommon for a person to eat a spider while they’re sleeping. I couldn’t go to sleep thinking that thing was about to crawl on my face and stick its fangs into me. This is my space.”
“Well, it’s gone, so you’re fine now. I’m surprised we haven’t heard from the Happy Camper police. It’s quiet hours after ten, you know.” He grabs his toiletries from his duffel. “Your bed is takin’ up eighty percent of the tent. Where do you suppose I’m gonna sleep?”
I point to a sliver of space, big enough if he doesn’t move much. “Right there.”
“You’re kiddin’ me, right?”
“No.”
He shakes his head. “We’ll figure it out when I get back.”
“What about that ugly girl you were talking to?” I ask, trying to hide any trace of jealousy in my voice. “Isn’t she still out there waiting for you?”
“She wasn’t ugly. And no, she’s not waitin’ for me.”
“Did you see her pink hair? I mean, seriously. It’s painfully obvious she’s begging for attention.”
“She’s hot.”
“Yeah, well, what do you know? I think bacteria from those algae smoothies have invaded your brain.”
He turns to me. “You jealous I was talkin’ to her?”
“I’m not jealous. I’m just concerned, but I won’t look out for you anymore if you don’t want me to.”
“You need to look out for yourself, Ashtyn. Not me.”
Derek leaves to wash up. My stomach has butterflies knowing that he’ll be sleeping in the tent with me. I don’t want to admit that I want him to want me. But I do. I want him to say that the girl he was talking to tonight was boring and stupid and . . . not me.
He’s back. The blow-up bed moves as he sits on it. I roll toward the middle . . . toward him.
“Don’t think you’re sleeping on my bed,” I mumble, scootching back to the edge of the bed and hoping he doesn’t sense that I’m totally aware of the electricity between us. If he’s feeling it, too, he’s masking it.
“Listen, Sugar Pie, you didn’t leave me any room. We’re sharin’ a bed. You don’t like it,” he says in an annoyed tone, “I have a pocketknife that I’ll be happy to plunge into the mattress.”
I sit up. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He reaches into his bag and holds up the knife. “Try me.”
Unfortunately, I don’t think Derek is the kind of guy to make empty threats. “Fine. You can sleep in the bed, but make sure you stay on your side. Remember our no-touching rule.”
“Just move over.”
It’s completely dark. And it’s silent except for our breathing.
My back is to Derek. I hear him slide his jeans off before he lies down next to me. It’s strangely intimate with just the two of us alone in the tent. Has he slept all night with a girl before? Did he sleep with that girlfriend from Tennessee who cheated on him?
There’s hardly enough room for both of us on the bed. I keep my body totally straight so we don’t accidentally touch our legs or hands or arms or . . . anything. I have nothing to worry about. While Derek might want to be with me physically because he’s a male, he doesn’t have any desire to hold me and tell me everything in my life will turn out okay.
That’s what I want from a guy.
That’s what I need from a guy.
Suddenly it’s super silent in the tent. Even the crickets are quiet. I’m restless. Silence to me is as annoying as nails on a chalk-board, because when it’s too quiet my mind goes in overdrive. When my mom and Brandi left all those years ago, our house was too silent. All I did was think about what they were doing, why they left, and how awfully lonely I’d become. I filled that void with music, the pounding kind that doesn’t let you think.
Derek is listening to music with his headphones on. It’s so quiet I can hear the songs. Old music from the ’50s and ’60s softly fills the tent. The songs soothe me. I drift off trying not to think about Derek saving me from the spider. Or sleeping next to me. I remind myself that he’s attracted to girls like the one with the pink-striped hair—someone who knows she’ll never see him again.
He’d been my hero tonight without realizing it. He’s being my hero now, by driving me to Texas and staying with me tonight instead of going off and hooking up with that girl.
“Thanks,” I mumble as I drift off, knowing he can’t hear me with his headphones on. It’s nice knowing that at least for tonight I’m protected . . . Derek is here to make sure I’m not attacked by spiders . . . or hounded by thoughts of being abandoned.
I’m dreaming about Alaska. All I know is that I’m cold and I can’t get warm. I’m stuck in the middle of an iceberg and can’t get loose. I’d do anything to stop shaking. The wind is as cold as a snowstorm. Somehow I magically get off the iceberg. Now I’m walking in the snow, naked, about to freeze to death.
I’m half-asleep as I turn to find a more comfortable position, barely aware that I’m not in Alaska but sleeping in a tent. I’m cold . . . the temperature has dropped and I’m shaking. My hand rests on something warm. An island of some sort. I move closer to the warmth, cuddling into it.
“Ashtyn, what’re you doin’?” a deep, masculine voice says.
Derek. I don’t open my eyes, but I know it’s him. His drawl is unique and undeniable, like warm hot chocolate. I want him to be my protector, just for tonight. If he leaves me, I’ll be all alone.
I don’t want to be cold and alone. Not tonight.
In my sleepy state I tell myself I’ll do anything to keep him here with me.
“Don’t leave me,” I mumble into his chest as I shiver uncontrollably.
“I won’t.” His arms wrap around me and I feel safe . . . away from the iceberg in my dream and the loneliness in my heart and the pain of losing everyone I ever loved.
Chapter 35
Derek
I wake up with a hard-on. And my arm around Ashtyn. We’re spooning like a married couple and her long hair is in my face. The flowery smell of her perfume reminds me that while Ashtyn talks tough and is a football player, she’s 100 percent female. I did my best to stay on my side of the bed, but she kept moving closer. And closer. Then she told me she was cold and asked me to hold her, so I did.
That was my first mistake.
I quickly take my arm off her and manage to get some space between us. I need to cool off. She was half-asleep when she asked me to hold her, so hopefully she won’t remember. I’m not about to play her temporary boyfriend until we get to Texas.
Pink-haired Carrie is my type. She pouted after I turned her down when she’d asked if I wanted to spend the night in her tent. I’d told her I had a job to do as Her Highness’s bodyguard.
Carrie was looking for a good time.
Ashtyn is looking for someone who won’t abandon her.
When she turned to me, was it just because I was a warm body? Or was it because it was me? Doesn’t matter. I unzip the tent and go make a fire. How did I get here? It’s because of that damn pig prank. Fucking pigs are the reason I’m here and not in my dorm room at Regents.
This trip is only a few days. I can do anything for a couple of days, even try to stay as far away from Ashtyn as possible. I hear movement in the tent before she peeks her head out.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.” I point to a Pop-Tarts box on the hood of my car, but I don’t make eye contact with her. Instead, I stare into the flames of the fire I just built. “I got you some breakfast.”
She opens the box. “Thanks,” she mumbles as she takes a bite.
I lean forward on my elbows and wonder what I’m gonna say to her. “We should pack up and head out soon,” I say stoically. “We’ve got a lot of drivin’ to do.”
We spend the next twenty minutes packing up. She doesn’t look my way when we pull out of the campground and head to our next destination.
“Want to talk about l
ast night?” she asks.
“The part where you were flirtin’ with those guys, or the part when you asked me to hold you?”
“I was not flirting with those guys. We were talking football.”
“Oh, that’s right. You only like guys who play football.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” When I don’t answer, she says, “Maybe we should start with the fact that you were getting all chummy with that girl with the pink hair. She just wanted to hook up.”
“That’s what makes it all the better. No emotional involvement. No strings attached. That’s what I call a perfect relationship.”
“That’s what I call skanky.” She curls her upper lip in disgust. “I feel sorry for your future wife. She’s destined to be a very lonely woman.”
“And I feel sorry for your future husband, who’s destined to disappoint you and your high expectations.”
“High expectations? My expectations aren’t high.”
“Really? Then don’t expect me to be your heater every night.”
“I won’t.”
Ashtyn insists she needs to practice every day while we’re on the road. The girl is dedicated, I’ll give her that much. She searches for nearby parks on her phone, but nothing comes up, so I end up driving around looking for an open area.
We come upon a high school with a football field out back. “What about there? It’s better than a park because you can actually kick through real goalposts and not imaginary ones.”
Ashtyn shakes her head. “I can’t practice there. That’s private school property. Besides, there’s a fence around it and it’s locked.”
I look at her sideways. “So?”
“You’re not thinking about breaking in,” she says.
“Yeah, I am.”
She keeps protesting while I park in the lot next to the field. “Come on,” I say. “It’s summer and nobody’s here. Trust me, it’s not a big deal. Nobody’s gonna care.”
I walk toward the gate. Ashtyn stays in the car for a few seconds, then follows after grabbing a football and ball holder from the backseat.
“This is a bad idea, Derek,” she says in a panicked voice. “I don’t do illegal things. I can’t do illegal things. If we get caught—”
“Keep your panties on, Sugar Pie. We’re not gonna get caught.” I examine the lock and know it won’t take me long to get it open. At Regents my friend Sam and I spent weeks practicing how to jimmy locks so we could get into the cafeteria and snatch food from the refrigerators at night.
“You are a thug,” Ashtyn says when the lock clicks open and I lead her onto the grassy field.
Thug or not, she’s now got a place to practice.
I lean against the post and watch her set up. “I don’t suppose you want me to show you how to hold the ball so I can kick it from a live person?” she asks.
“Nah,” I say. “I’m good.”
She shrugs, then kicks the ball effortlessly from the one yard line. It sails through the posts.
“Want to get the ball for me after I kick it?” she asks. “So I don’t have to run after it after every kick? It’ll go much faster.”
“Nah,” I say again. “I’m good.”
“You’re a lazy ass,” she mumbles as she fetches the ball and sets it up, this time on the five yard line.
She spends over an hour setting up the ball, kicking it, then retrieving it. Each time she kicks, the ball sails through the posts. I see the concentration on her face as she takes a calming breath and calculates how far she’s got to kick it before her foot touches the ball.
The girl is impressive.
After her practice, we’re back on the road. She’s leaning back with her eyes closed, nodding as she gets lost in the music through her earbuds, oblivious to everything else around her.
I drive to the next campground, a small private campground near Oklahoma City. There are only four campsites on the property, and two are vacant. Ashtyn is quiet as we set up our tent in our assigned spot before it gets dark and wash up in the bathrooms at the front of the property.
Our site is surrounded by trees. An old couple in a pop-up tent who introduced themselves as Irving and Sylvia are in the campsite next to us. We met the old couple on the way back from the bathrooms, while they were sitting next to their pop-up tent at their fold-out table.
It’s still light as Ashtyn takes footballs out of the car and practices kicking again. She stretches first, and I find myself watching her as if she’s the star of an exercise show and it’s the most entertaining thing on television. She looks back at me. “You watching me?”
“No.”
“Come here.”
“Why?”
“Just . . . come here.”
I walk over to her. She picks up one of the footballs by her feet and hands it to me. “You remember how to throw one?”
Yeah. I look at the ball as if I’ve never held one in my hand before. “Not really.”
“Didn’t your dad throw a football around with you when you were a little kid, Derek?”
“He was kind of busy protectin’ our country,” I say, although that’s only half-true. He was busy protecting our country most of the time, but he did teach me how to throw a football. I must’ve been three when he first taught me how to throw a football. By the time I was eight, I begged my parents to constantly play football with me so I could practice my perfect spiral. I never stopped throwing the ball after that, and would recruit anyone who was around to go to the field with me so I could practice.
I hand the football back to her, but she pushes it in my hands. “Are you a righty or lefty?”
“Righty.”
She takes my fingers and places them on the ball, then proceeds to tell me how to throw it. “The key is to let it roll off your fingers. I swear it’ll come back to you once you try it.”
I pretend like this is the first time holding a football and try not to crack a smile when she gives overly detailed instructions.
“If you’re such an expert at throwin’,” I tell her, “why aren’t you the quarterback?”
She laughs. “I can’t throw as far or as accurately as Landon.” She shrugs. “Some guys are just born to throw footballs. Landon is a natural.”
“I’m sure there’s a slew of dudes who’re better.”
“I haven’t seen anyone, especially in our division. His dad played professionally.”
The way Ashtyn talks about Landon’s talent, you’d think he was some superhuman quarterback. It almost makes me want to show off my skills. Almost.
She jogs away from me. “Okay, throw it!”
It’s not easy for me to toss a football awkwardly, like I’m rusty, but I manage to do it. The ball tumbles through the air, then bounces on the ground with a thud. It’s not even close to the target.
“That was pathetic, Derek.”
“I know. I was an average ball player.”
“Try again,” she says encouragingly. “Remember to let the ball roll off your fingers as you throw it.”
I throw it again, this time managing to get it within ten yards of her but still out of reach.
“You sure you were born in America? You sure don’t throw a football like you were.”
“Not everyone can be as good as Landon, the ‘God of All Quarterbacks,’ I guess.”
She tucks the balls under her arm. “Lesson over for today. And if you’re jealous of Landon, there’s no shame in admitting it.”
“I’m not jealous of him.” With a little practice I bet I could outthrow him.
Ashtyn holds in a chuckle. “Yeah, right.”
“What do you love about the game?”
“I’ll explain it to you. To me it’s more than a game.” She touches her chest and says, “When you love something as much as I love football, you just feel it inside. Did you ever love doing something so bad that it consumed you?”
“A long time ago.”
“That’s what football is to me. It’s my passion, my l
ife . . . my escape. When I play, I forget everything that sucks in my life. And when we win . . .” She looks down, like she’s embarrassed to admit what she’s about to reveal. “I know this is going to sound stupid, but when we win, I think miracles can happen.”
“Miracles, huh?”
She nods. “I told you it was stupid.”
“It’s not stupid. I guess havin’ hope is better than givin’ up and thinking life will suck forever.”
We start walking back to our campsite when Sylvia waves us over. “Come join us! We’ve got plenty of food. Irv, go get them chairs.”
Ashtyn and I walk to their small table while Irv does what he’s told and Sylvia dishes out food.
“We don’t want to interrupt your dinner,” Ashtyn says, although she’s eyeing the chicken and rice as if it were a gourmet meal. She looks exhausted, but that chicken sure does bring a light to her eyes.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I take a seat.
Sylvia does most of the talking while we eat. She tells us how she and Irv met when they were young and have four children. One is a doctor, one is a lawyer, and one is a pharmacist.
“I don’t know what the hell our son Jerry does,” Irv says.
Sylvia taps Irv on the shoulder. “Don’t say ‘hell’ in front of these nice kids, Irv.” Irv mumbles a quick apology before chowing down.
Ashtyn and I are chowing down, too. The chicken is tender and the seasoning makes my mouth water. The rice tastes damn good, too. I haven’t had a good home-cooked meal in forever. Ashtyn must feel the same way, because she’s done with her chicken and is chowing down on the rice.
“How long have you two been dating?” Sylvia asks.
“We’re not datin’,” I answer.
“Why not?”
Ashtyn looks up from her plate. “Because he only likes stupid girls who want one-night stands.”
“And she only likes jocks who play football,” I say, challenging her.
Sylvia tilts her head as if she’s scrutinizing my choice of girls while Irv looks at me appreciatively.
“You don’t want to let the girl of your dreams get away,” Sylvia tells me. “Tell him why, Irv.” Irv is busy eating and doesn’t seem to want to stop. “Irv!”
Better than Perfect Page 16
