by Kim Roshell
Me. Squealing.
Appalling. Until I saw him.
There he stood, his perfect body doing all the right things in that tight, black Under Armour t-shirt and a pair of red Nike basketball shorts, holding a large, steaming Carmanilla Café (my favorite) in one hand, and a bag containing what I knew would be a warm cinnamon-raisin bagel from Friedman’s in the other. I freaking love those things, though I’m not sure how he knew since I don’t recall sharing such information. The scents combined, sweetening the crisp morning breeze as I closed our distance. The fact he did nothing to hide his overly sensual perusal of my pink tank top and Levi’s cut-offs after repositioning his sunglasses on top of his head did not escape my notice. I let the look slide without comment since he came bearing gifts of the best kind.
“Hand’em over, Simone,” Mr. Persistent demands, pressing an issue I’d love to avoid.
Yeah, driving is on my to-do list, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to scratch it off today. I leave the key where it’s tucked in my pocket, crossing my arms over my chest, as much to ward off the breeze drifting inside the open garage door as I am to stifle the urge to provide him with yet another glimpse into my innermost demons.
“When did you become the boss of me, Mr. Devereaux?”
“Since it clicked how much you let fear rule your life, Miss Bruckner.”
Whit moves so fast, my brain barely registers his movement. He plunges his hand inside my pocket, extracting the key fob like a professional pickpocket.
A swarm of warm tingles rush over my hip. My leg quivers, worthless in the battle of maintaining the unaffected front I’ve been praying so vigilantly for, not that he notices. His back is to me equally as fast.
Passenger door open, he bends, taking a quick glance inside.
“Scared of water, scared to meet new people,” he continues berating me. “Scared to really let yourself be my friend. Scared to drive.”
“I’m not scared to be your friend.”
He straightens, primed for a challenge. “Sure ‘bout that? ‘Cause I’m thinkin’ we can go ‘head’n add scared of bein’ honest to the list.”
Positively sure. I’m scared my heart won’t settle for mere friendship. Completely different.
“I . . . you don’t understand.”
“’Kay.” His forehead creases in consternation. He shrugs, “Explain it to me.
If only I could.
“I was trying to touch bottom.” The words tumbling past my lips like a loose sock slipping off the top of the laundry pile. “You know, one good push to shoot me higher?”
The words spill out in my recently acquired style of verbal vomit. Of all the conversational detours I could take, I go and choose my second least favorite memory, confessing my stupidity.
Just thinking about New Year’s Eve reignites flames in my gut. I must exhibit enough physical cues, revealing hints of the turmoil swirling in my chest because Whit shuts the door, then settles his hip against it, crossing his feet at the ankles, right over left. The weight of his gaze locks firmly on my face, softening with compassion as he waits me out.
“My chest felt too heavy, like I had more water than air in my lungs. I wasn’t sure when my feet touched bottom. Not my smartest idea.”
“Ah. That night,” he murmurs, catching on. “Seein’ you sink? Hands down, most terrifyin’ moment of my life,” he softly admits.
“I’m sorry. “
“Didn’t toss yourself in there, babe.”
True.
Of course, he’s right about my about my other fears, too. In fact, there are times I think my survival is contingent on how deep I immerse myself in a constant state of them. I can’t recall the last time I went a whole day without at least once feeling that telltale tightness in my chest over something or another. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had reason to panic: Waking up to find Leann gone—most times, for days. Waking up and finding I wasn’t as alone as a 4 year-old girl should’ve been—also courtesy of Leann’s absence. New home, new family, none of them look like me.
The accident that took them away, yet left me here.
That was the first time I experienced true agony.
Secured in the backseat of my dad’s car, oblivious to the imminent danger ahead, I’d been blissfully happy that day. Mom sang along with the radio, terribly off-key and butchering the lyrics as she was known to do. My first reaction when she screamed was laughter because I thought she was really going for a high note. The impact? The crunch of metal? All the other noises failed to register in my brain until my little brother’s favorite Buzz Lightyear took flight, literally right in front of my nose. Glass shattered all around me.
Daddy.
I saw him first. Looking back, I think I knew instantly. Even in my nine year-old reasoning, something in the way he sat slumped over, head crooked in an unnatural angle meant death. I’m ashamed to admit in that moment, all I wanted was to get away from him. I guess in my mind, death was the equivalent of cooties, some horrible, highly contagious disease that could easily seep into my body from sheer close proximity.
I remember wondering why Ben, his brown hair spiking around his head, and Mom—hers billowing like a blond cloud—looked so calm, when I was beyond terrified. Their eyes were open, but neither of them moved to escape. I worked to get Ben’s seatbelt undone. That was my job, my very first job. The job he gave me as his big sister. I took it very seriously. I’ll never forget how water filled the car, murky from dirt, clouded by blood, barely able to see what I was doing. I swear I pushed Ben’s harness button a thousand times before the latch finally released.
One second, I was watching my little brother’s body rise towards the roof of the car, unable to wrap my brain around how we’d careened into Cedar Pond instead of crossing over the bridge we’d been traveling; the next, clinging to a passerby who’d witnessed the accident and jumped in, unaware he was carrying me to a life without the only people who had ever truly loved me.
“Don’t be down on yourself. You tried somethin’ to save your life. You might well have managed, had I been there, or not.” The positive words help to steer my thoughts away from my negative memories. “Anyway, I wasn’t the only guy to jump in the pool, they were jus’ slower on the uptake. Glad I got there when I did,”
“Me, too.”
Instant tears burn the corners of my eyes, of course, because next to driving, crying is the absolute last thing I want to do right now. Whit’s questioning my ability to be his friend when he should be thinking, “Why do I want to be friends with this complete basket case?” Lord knows I’ve made fool enough of myself over the last few days.
I manage a shaky breath, battle back the tears. Gather my mercurial thoughts and emotions. Muster what I hope is a reassuring smile, point northward.
“Guess He’s not ready for me yet, huh?”
Several excruciating beats pass before Whit shows any signs of hearing me. His face remains impassive. No twitches, blinks. No swallows. He just stands there. Staring. Only his eyes, which I really am getting to know, tells me he’s thinking. A million thoughts I can’t decipher, but I bet all of them are more heart wrenching than the floodgates holding back my tears can handle.
Finally, he moves. One step toward me, then another, advancing until his woodsy, citrus scent is all I know. I pull his essence deep into my lungs as he uses his knuckles to caress my cheek.
“Purpose and a plan for everything, Simone.”
I nod, grateful he’s keeping it short and sweet. “Wish I knew what it is.”
“No need for wastin’ wishes, Simone. Answer’s right in front of you,” he murmurs low, husky. “He knew we had to become us.”
The morning air that nipped at my skin, causing shivers only moments ago works as a soothing balm on my overheated face. The warmth in Whit’s gaze holds mine captive, neither of us speaking. I can barely form a coherent thought, outside of how I’d kill for another wish that would be anything but a waste if he’d lean in a lit
tle closer.
This obsessive desire to kiss him again needs to stop, I know. Ashley is my friend. Lusting over her man, on a break or not, is an embossed invitation to Friendship Hell. Like he told me at Tate’s, neither of us are in this alone. I may not know all his thoughts, but I do know our mutual attraction has become its own life force.
And when he’s this close . . .
“Us?”
For a second, I thinks he’s a mind reader. He dips his head, licks his parted lips. He’s so close, his mocha-coffee breath caresses my face.
I feel powerless. But ready.
To my utter disappointment, Whit finds restraint. Blinks. Drops his hand. Shifts away, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Slowly, the corners of his mouth slowly rise until his gentle, happy-go-lucky grin returns, cutting through the thick air.
“Mm, hmm, bonded for life. Means you need to get with the program, young lady,” he declares, rubbing the spot over his heart. “We’re predestined to be friends, and friends don’t let friends leave their awesome cars parked in the garage. Did you know Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “As soon as there is life there is danger?” Lotta truth in that, when you think ‘bout it,” he continues, not waiting for my reply. “Crap happens when we least expect, babe. That’s why you should live life to the fullest. Do things you’re ‘fraid of—again, paraphrasin’ Emerson. Won’t say I agree with absolutely all the guy’s philosophies, but those resonate.”
Friends.
Whit’s right. I need to get with the program. All of it.
“If I agree to this, and I’m not saying I am,” I throw in when I see the glimmer of victory sparkle in his eyes, despite his sober expression, “We don’t cross the county line.”
“Workable,” he concedes with a shrug. “We’ll take the school route, swing by your work. Scenery don’t matter, long as you’re comfortable gettin’ places you need to be. Trust me, Simone.”
No bridges, no water.
Can I do this now? With him, someone I care about, in the car?
Do what I’m afraid of?
Trust him?
Fear’s cold, cruel fingers flex around my throat, doing their best to rob me of a victory.
“Only this once,” I force out.
He smiles. “One day at a time, as my granddaddy says.”
I close my eyes, send up a silent prayer.
Don’t think I missed that my friend called me babe. Twice.
12:22 a.m.
“Asleep yet?”
“Nope. Still chilling out in the den where you left me. Why aren’t you Mr. I-Have-Another-Early-Practice?”
“I’m in bed. Just flipping through some Homecoming pictures. And technically, I left you at the door.”
“You . . . miss her?”
“Miss who?”
“Ashley.”
“Truth?”
“Of course.”
“Not particularly.”
“Oh.”
“You’re good company.”
“Thanks. Same here. About you being good company, I mean.”
“You mad I don’t miss her? Truth.”
“I should be, I guess, but I’m not. I hate what that says about me, though.”
“I don’t. Wish we’d done this sooner.”
“Like helping me with laundry, eh?”
“Don’t seem to matter what we’re doing, I like you.”
“I . . . like you too, Whit.”
“Oh, man, it’s gonna be a long night.”
“Everything okay?”
“Gonna need to . . . get comfortable.”
“You really should get some sleep.”
“Uh, yeah. Be all right if I swing by after practice? Visit for a bit?”
“I’d like that.”
“Thank you. Night, Simone.”
“Good night, Whit.”
“Hey?”
“Yeah?”
“In these pictures? You’re so pretty. You always are.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
No matter where you go in this life,
remember to act like you got some raising.
—Granddaddy
Whit
When I was younger—six, to be exact—Mama took Coop and me to our first airshow. Sitting still for more than a minute wasn’t the easiest thing for either of us back then. Mama wisely discovered the only way to get anything done around the house without worry of an impending ER visit was to park us in front of a T.V. playing something we liked. Top Gun, with those F-14 Tomcats, worked like Ritalin. A mixing bowl filled with dry Lucky Charms stuck between us, that movie on repeat? She’d hear nary a peep from us.
Anyway, Dev scoring those tickets, providing us opportunity to see a Tom’s Technicolor glory up close and personal, sent our heart rates near stroke levels.
After a dreadfully long week of anticipation, I remember waking that morning, thinking how flawless God made the sky just for us. Cellophane-clear, not a single cloud obscuring the view. Temperature a perfect seventy-seven degrees, the sun shined magnificently. We left early, Mama banking on getting a prime spot on the base after Dev issued his standard excuse of an emergency summons for his presence elsewhere, which was fine by me.
Mama had packed a million snacks for us to munch on, but excitement had already filled every hollow in my body. How I managed to walk without bumping into everything and everyone around me was nothing short of miraculous. My chin stayed pointed towards Heaven for so long that day, I had a crook in my neck for a full week afterward.
We hadn’t long settled when another family—more girls than boys, every one of them rowdy—packed in next to us. Thought their mama’s rounded stomach might have carried a tie-maker, but I wasn’t certain. Our next door neighbor, Miss Annabelle toted some extra pounds around the middle I knew weren’t from a baby. Nana had already given me the 411 about how husbands were needed before any proper woman could have one of those. Everybody knew Miss Annabelle couldn’t snag a husband since she was all vinegar. That woman could’ve coated herself in a ten-pound bag of sugar and still been bitter.
That raven-haired woman encroaching on our territory seemed nothing like Miss Annabelle. She flashed Mama an apologetic smile. Looked real sweet—limp from a chronic case of fatigue, barely able to keep her eyelids apart, but still sweet.
The daddy, on the other hand, had as much energy as his kids. One of those guys you could just tell wasn’t afraid to cut a rug on the dance floor, always ready with the best jokes. He struck me as proud. Different than Dev, but the same, too.
Fast as their mama spread out their blankets, those kids sprawled on their backs all over the small grassy knoll I’d been hoping we’d have to ourselves. I’d been looking forward to having plenty of space for spreading my arms wide in imitation.
I slipped them a disdainful glance or two until Mama reminded me of my manners.
Right before the show started, their daddy said something that stuck with me. In the most serious tone I’d ever heard from anyone who looked so carefree, he boomed, “Don’t stare at the sun, or you’ll go blind.”
Scared the bejesus out of me. Toms were worth a sore neck, but blindness? Well, that was another matter altogether.
That man’s dire warning may have put a damper on my enthusiasm for Toms watching, but the picture before me today has me immensely grateful to him for the warning. Because of him, from that day on, I’ve kept a pair of sunglasses within reach.
Is it possible for fabric to shrink the longer you stare at it? If so, I’d put money on the hem on those shorts she’s wearing having lost an inch or two. They’re made like those blessedly tiny practice shorts Ashley and the cheer squad wear.
I nudge my Oakleys higher on the bridge of my nose. Pray at least an ounce of my blood remain above my waist as I watch Simone bend to retrieve a basketball Coop left between some bushes after our last game of Horse. The girl’s legs are ridiculous. For someone who’s so glaringly athletically-challenged, her thighs and calves are sculpted to
perfection. She straightens, and I’d weep real tears over having to avert my gaze if not for how amazing the scenery continues to be along the journey.
Honest to God, I’m beginning to think pink may be my favorite color. Moreover, that t-shirt may be my absolute favorite article of clothing, ever. This one is blessedly fitted, cut for stellar cleavage revelation.
In a word? Yes.
“Thanks for getting me out of the house today. Aunt Katie and Mark are beginning to make my teeth hurt.”
Thank you for choosing that outfit.
I take a swig of water, not that it does a bit of good to cool me off. “Seems to me I should be thanking you. Entertaining my baby sister can test the patience of a saint. Coop and I ain’t big fans of Barbie. Chirp hasn’t had anyone to play with her since—”
“Since you and Ashley took this break.”
“Yeah.”
“Cheyenne’s a sweetheart. I had fun.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, though I do believe she’s being sincere about spending time with my sister.
Simone’s back to being edgy again. I say again because that’s how she was when I picked her up. Usually, her anxiety flares when she has to climb into my Jeep, but today she practically hurdled onto the front seat. Something’s bugging her. Don’t think it’s about her aunt, either.
I set my water bottle down next to the goal post. “Ready to tell me what’s been bothering you all day?”
She spares me a sidelong glance, volleys the ball between her palms a few times before clasping it firmly. Her nails dig into the leather. Even with distance between us, I see the corner of her mouth quiver, half of her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Not meant to be sexy at all.
It is.
“I, uh,” she starts, stops. Takes a breath. “I’ve been wondering, has Ashley told you things about me? I mean, like about the time before I lived with my family, or whatever?”
“Some.” I know the obvious, about the accident, of course. Know she hates riding in cars with anyone because of it. Her adoptive parents, prominent doctors who made a lot of financial contributions all over the city, as well as serving as major benefactors for our school’s science program, didn’t make it. Neither did their son. Simone miraculously escaped without a single, visible scratch. “Wanna tell me the rest?”
