by Holly Hall
Make sure we lived.
Even then, I wouldn’t call what we’ve been doing since June, when my mother passed away suddenly from an aneurysm, living. We barely existed.
I nodded to him, though he’d already turned back to the window. My mother planted a tree on that side of the house, a magnolia, which served as his morning fixation. Later he’d be in the den watching baseball while he wrote next Sunday’s sermon, and he’d work right through dinner if I let him.
I locked the door behind me and tossed my backpack into his single-cab Chevrolet. My mom’s car was in the carport, beneath a dirty tarp, and I hadn’t gotten the courage to ask him to drive it. Half of me was afraid to sit in that seat and hold the wheel, as she used to. So for now, we shared the truck. He didn’t need it much.
At school, I stowed my backpack in my locker, grabbed the textbooks and binder I’d need for the first few classes. When I shut the door, I wasn’t surprised to see the face behind it. Violetta, my best friend and confidante.
“Can you get the spitball out of my hair?” she asked, turning so I had better access. I groaned at the sight of her mess of thick hair.
“Why is it there in the first place?”
“Jake Stephens thought I deserved it for ignoring the notes he keeps putting in my locker.”
“The homecoming invitations?”
“Yep. Apparently he still thinks ‘Can I pop your cherry?’ is a great opener.”
I sighed, rooting through fistfuls of hair until I located the spitball. “What did I tell you last week? You need to stand up for yourself or he won’t quit. You’re too—”
“Quiet, I know.” I could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Guys like that just want attention. If I don’t give it to him, he’ll eventually get tired of the dog-and-pony show and quit.”
“Or, he can get his ass handed to him publicly and be too embarrassed to keep on.”
“Did you just say ‘ass’, Preacher’s Daughter? You’re going to ruin your reputation.”
I flicked her hair in her eyes—she did that on purpose, knowing I hated that nickname—and took off toward first period, history. “See you in art.”
“Fine,” she fake-grumbled.
The day started as monotonous, not unlike most days before it. And then I was called to the principal’s office midway through first period, to a chorus of oohs and ahhs from my classmates. I ignored them and took my backpack with me. Who knew what Mr. Prichard had heard now; there was no shortage of rumors circulating the halls.
But he’d only been concerned about my lack of participation in extracurriculars and suggested a trip to the guidance counselor for advice. I’d always been involved, if not to help my father present a well-rounded image to his congregation then to look like an appealing candidate to universities. Until this year. What was the point in participating, when my members and teammates regarded me as someone they had to handle with kid gloves all of a sudden? Nobody pushed the subject before Mr. Prichard; not my classmates, not my teachers.
I damn sure wasn’t committing myself to another painful meeting with the counselor, so I took my time making my way back down the hall. The bell was about to ring, anyway. Once it sounded overhead, I strode to my next class with the efficiency of a programmed machine, and when I reached my desk in calculus, I tucked into the plastic chair and opened the novel I’d dog-eared last period. It was the only thing that dulled the overstimulation of life around me.
Something brushed by my hair. Probably just a classmate on the way down the aisle to their seat.
Then I felt it again. Annoyed, I shifted in my desk so I’d take up less space, tucking in my elbows and legs. A few seconds later, something smacked me right in the back of the head, dropping to the ground with a crumple. That got my attention. Especially since, when I glanced down, I saw it was a greasy McDonald’s bag.
A look over my shoulder revealed the thrower to be Jeremy Evans; all-state athlete and Waterview’s resident troublemaker. He would’ve been the captain of the football team if he’d quit fighting his teammates, but since that had yet to happen, he smugly assumed the role of star wide-receiver, in a way only a self-assured eighteen-year-old with nothing to lose could. And with that status came the perk of not associating with outcasts like me.
“I think you dropped something,” I said, turning back to my book.
He’d been leaning forward, two desks behind me, wearing the smirk of someone who knew how well-liked he was. The pencil in his outstretched hand told me he’d probably used that to mess with my hair before resorting to the bag, and I was already out of patience with him.
“Nah. I put it right where I wanted it.”
I kicked the bag farther away, hoping he had another hash brown in there, something he’d be disappointed to lose.
“Hey. Hey! I threw that for a reason.”
I just shook my head, reading the same line over and over. I couldn’t concentrate with the distraction behind me. But I wanted to finish this chapter. More students were seating themselves, and the bell was just about to ring.
“Please? Seriously, please turn around. I’m sorry I threw the bag.”
I whipped around. “Okay. What? What do you want?”
His teeth were strikingly white against walnut skin, and he held up a sheet of paper with nothing written on it but neatly boxed numbers. “I did the assignment, but I didn’t have time to write out all my work. Football practice. Can I see yours?”
Right. That excuse.
“I’m not an idiot. And I don’t do other people’s work.”
Before I could turn around, he brandished the paper more desperately. “I’m not asking you to! I got the answers! Look at ’em if you want. Please. I can’t fail another assignment in here.”
I was so aggravated, I was hardly aware of the teacher in the room. I snatched the paper out of his hand so he’d shut up. Laying my own homework on the desk, I checked my answers against his. We only had one that differed, and upon checking my work, I saw it was me who’d gotten it wrong.
“Okay, fine.” I was on the verge of turning back to him when the papers were whisked away from me. Our hawk-like teacher, Mrs. Lim, held them just out of reach, switching her gaze between them.
“Cameron, please explain to me why you have Jeremiah’s paper.”
I wracked my brain for an excuse. “We were checking our work.”
She looked down her nose at me. “This was a solo assignment. All of our out-of-class assignments are solo assignments. You were aware of that?”
“Yeah, but—” I started, just as Jeremy said, “It wasn’t her fault.”
She held up a hand to interrupt us both, bending closer so only I could hear. I got the feeling everyone in a three-desk radius was leaning in to eavesdrop. “I think I’ve been very understanding of your family matters, Cameron. The lackluster assignments, the lack of participation. But this is completely out of character for you, and what I will not tolerate is cheating.”
“I was—”
“I’m not in the mood for excuses. Detention after school. Pick up your slips after class.”
I was struck by the strong urge to curse in her face, see how out of character she thought my ugly words were, but I slumped back in my chair instead. What could I do? I’d been in possession of Jeremy’s paper, for one. All because of the asshole now trying to argue his own case. Mrs. Lim wasn’t hearing it. It was the first and last time I’d have detention.
I managed to avoid Jeremy the rest of the day and all through detention, but I didn’t notice him leaning against the door of my dad’s truck until I was a few steps away. By then it was too late to pretend I hadn’t seen him.
His hands were in the pockets of his letterman jacket as he stared off into the distance. I realized he was looking toward the football field, where practice had already started. I could hear the whistles from here.
“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” he said.
“Too late.”
&nb
sp; “Yeah.” He stared at the ground.
“Anyway, I’ve been here long enough. I should go.” I hoped he’d get the hint and move. He was too big for me to push.
“Right. Can you give me a ride?”
I scowled. “Don’t you have practice?”
“Nah. Coach’s rules. He said if we couldn’t make it on time, don’t come at all.”
“You sound like you’ve heard that a lot,” I crack. “Anyway, where’s your car?”
“Got taken away.”
“Why? For not doing your homework?”
“For mouthing off to Kevin Diaz in history.”
That was believable. Jeremy Evans had a bit of a reputation. I always wondered why he felt like he had something to prove when he was so good-looking and athletic and smart, but I didn’t care enough to ask.
“You should maybe stop flapping your jaws so much.”
“I do my homework,” he said, as if that redeemed him, then another smile appeared. He knew he’d already won. After all, what was the preacher’s daughter going to do, turn him down when he needed a ride?
My shoulders caved. None of the excuses I could come up with held any weight. “Just this once. Get in.”
The cab of the truck seemed to shrink with Jeremy inside it. There was a bench seat, my backpack in the middle, but still, he felt too close. Too overwhelming. We knew each other but didn’t know each other, if that made sense. Our school was just big enough that kids could slip through the cracks, unnoticed. I hadn’t realized that before this year, when I’d needed to disappear.
“So,” I said, finding the silence awkward. The radio wasn’t helping. “If you knew how to do the work, why didn’t you just write it out the first time? Wouldn’t that have been quicker?” I suspected he’d gotten the answers from someone else, but I didn’t want to accuse him when I didn’t know for sure.
Jeremy shrugged. “My mind just doesn’t work that way. I can work out the answers in my head, for the most part, but writing it all down just messes up my thinking. Jumbles me up.”
“Or you just got the answers from someone else,” I mumbled.
He looked at me, and when I glanced back, there wasn’t defiance there. Just that smirk. “I can see why you’d think that.” He raised one shoulder, emphasizing the WHS initials on the breast of his jacket. “You think I’m so focused on playing ball that I forget everything else and get my homework from someone last minute.”
I was already shaking my head in denial. “No, that’s just what makes the most sense.”
“Mhmm,” he said. “What’s that on your hands? Chalk? You been playin’ hopscotch?”
I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel. I guess I’d been in a hurry when I washed them after art. “Pastels.”
“What’s that?”
“Kinda like chalk. Sticks of pigment.”
“You an artist?”
I breathed out a laugh. “Not even close. I just like art.” I’d always doodled in notebooks and stuff, but this year, it’d turned into a haven of sorts. Whereas theater and track and student government had become draining, art was freeing. Effortless. I could escape in my own mind.
“Doesn’t mean you’re not an artist,” he said dismissively, staring out the window again.
Other than relaying the directions to his house, the conversation was over. He was out the door as soon as I pulled into the driveway of a long, brick ranch, but he poked his head through the passenger window as he was slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Thanks for the ride, Cam.”
“It’s Cameron,” I said, but his long strides had already taken him halfway up the driveway.
**Click here to read more of Somewhere Between Us, available on most platforms**
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More Books by Holly Hall
Somewhere Between Us
A decade after breaking Cameron’s heart and going off to college without another word, Jeremy Evans is back in their hometown, the same one Cameron never left. Only now, he’s different. The history between them is persistent and consuming, and only Jeremy knows what he meant to Cameron. Old flames don’t easily go out, and although Cameron wants to give them a shot, she fears she’ll be the one getting burned. Again.
Smoke and Lyrics
Country star Jenson King is used to burning bridges—in both his career and his love life. He’s lost nearly everything as a consequence, until he runs into the one person who convinces him he’s worth fighting for. Fiery photographer Lindsey Farrar has no trouble calling Jenson out on his shit, and together, they’re fire and gasoline. But Lindsey’s determined to shine on her own, and Jenson casts an enormous shadow.
Love in Smoke
Raven has decided she doesn’t need anyone; not her musician ex-husband, not her traitorous friends who’ve allied with him, and especially not Nashville. Seeking solace in a rural town, she meets Dane, a man only superseded by the rumors spoken about him. But some rumors ring true, and being with Dane is not just a matter of love and heartbreak. It’s life and death.
Forever Grace
Blake has all but sworn off relationships, until she meets the enigmatic owner of a charitable bookstore. Landon is callous and abrupt, and just as reluctant to share anything about his past. Despite the mystery, Blake finds herself enraptured. The more Landon reveals his history, the more alike they prove to be. But sometimes, the things that connect two people can also tear them apart.
All the Pieces That You Left
Prom, graduation; those events are standard when it comes to your senior year of high school. Ansley Carpenter never expected she would lose her boyfriend, Dean, the same year. Nobody seems to comprehend her grief, except for one person: Dean’s old best friend, Kyle. Unfortunately, he’s the only person everyone in their small town expects her to stay away from, yet he’s the one person she can’t help gravitating toward. They soon learn that grief can’t be the only thing that holds two people together.
Acknowledgments
To my daughter. You’ve taught me more about myself in the past ten months than ever. You’ve taught me my strength, what I’m capable of—things I could barely perceive without you. You are my greatest adventure.
To my husband, as always. For the support, the unconditional love, and for showing me what hard work and dedication really is. None of this would be possible without you. You’re our hero.
To my author friend who became my true friend who became my critique partner, Rachael. You showed me things about this story and the characters that I could’ve never seen on my own. You gave it depth and life. Thank you a million times!
To my readers. For picking up this book and accepting my dip into the unfamiliar waters of comedic romance. I needed something to cleanse my palette and help me find the fun in writing again, and this is it! You make this industry more fun. Thank you!
To the bloggers and bookstagrammers. For connecting readers with books, and for the time you put into crafting your reviews, building the blog posts, and creating the beautiful graphics that help do just that. Thank you for using your passion for stories to help authors and readers alike. There isn’t enough recognition in the world for what you do.
About the Author
Holly Hall drinks coffee and wine like they’re going out of style, would love to travel for a living, thinks animals are often better than humans, can count on one hand the things she loves more than reading and Texas A&M football (that might be an exaggeration), and c
ouldn’t handpick a better family than her enormous one. She is the author of five other standalone contemporary romances, Forever Grace, All the Pieces That You Left, Love in Smoke, Smoke and Lyrics, and Somewhere Between Us. She resides with her husband, daughter, and German shepherd in Houston, Texas.
