Where We Belong

by Shann McPherson

  “Hey, a-are you sure everything’s okay with you and Harley?”

  I force my self-loathing thoughts aside. My brows pull together as I open my eyes and look up at him. He avoids my eyes, but I watch as he lifts a tentative hand, nervously scratching at the back of his neck before finally meeting my gaze.

  I swallow hard, forcing another smile to my lips. “We’re fine.”

  He nods, looking down once more, and I can tell his mind is working overtime when he meets my eyes once again. “It’s just … y’all seemed a little distant when you got here.”

  “We had a fight over the radio. You know how terrible his taste in music is.” I shake my head with a nonchalant smile, waving off his concern. “We’re fine.”

  “If you say so.”

  For some reason, his words piss me off and I don’t even know why. If you say so. As if he has any idea. But I let it slide, ignoring his remark.

  Nash looks down at me, his eyes scanning me from head to toe as a grin curls his lips. “T-shirt a bit big, huh?”

  I look down at the embarrassingly obvious Nash Harris Stag Party T-shirt Kevin had made for everyone to wear for the trip. “Yeah.” I chuckle. “I guess he didn’t stop to think that I’m half the size of almost everyone else on this trip.” My designated T-shirt, the one with Murph printed on the back, was swimming on me when I put it on. It fell to mid-thigh—even longer than my shorts—so I had to tie it up at the side, and cut off the sleeves, which came down to my elbows.

  “It looks cute on you.”

  At that, my head snaps up and I meet Nash’s eyes. He quickly looks away, pressing his lips together, and I watch as he closes his eyes briefly as if silently chastising himself. And it sucks. He should be able to say those kinds of things to me. He used to tell me all the time that I was cute, or something I did was cute. Even before we dated. It used to piss me off because I never wanted to be cute. I wanted to be sexy or beautiful. But then, the way he told me I was cute started to grow on me. And I was suddenly his cute girl. But now? Now cute is unacceptable. And it sucks that everything has changed.

  Silence settles between us, and I hate these silences. It’s like neither of us knows what to say or how to act around each other anymore. In the years we’ve known each other, we’ve never had to deal with uncomfortable silences, but now it seems that’s all we have left: uncomfortable silences and awkwardly fleeting glances full of something neither of us has the guts to broach.

  “We should get going,” Nash finally says, looking at me with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The bus will be here any minute.”

  I watch as he turns and walks back inside, and I exhale a heavy breath, looking out at the ocean one last time in the hope of some semblance of clarity. A horn sounds from out front, and I take a fortifying breath, forcing a smile onto my face as I walk inside to meet the rest of the guys as they excitedly make their way to the door. I follow the throng down the steep front steps and we come to a stop at a blacked-out bus idling in the long driveway, deep bass thrumming heavily from inside and seeping out into the otherwise peaceful afternoon.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” A woman wearing what can only be described as lingerie smiles as she steps down from the bus. Her eyes meet me, and her smile falters momentarily before returning. “Oh, and lady.”

  I shake my head, waving a hand in the air at her correction. “Consider me one of the guys.”

  She giggles, looking at Nash’s T-shirt, which clearly indicates that he’s the groom, and she takes his hand without asking, leading him onto the bus first before we all follow. Inside, the place is like a nightclub. Bright flashing lights, loud music, and a fully stocked bar. I smirk knowingly at Nash as I pass him, trying not to laugh as he sits looking awkward as hell with the scantily clad woman perched right on his lap. I continue to the seat at the back, sliding in by the window while watching as the guys all pile in, all of them laughing at Nash and taking photos with their phones.

  “Don’t you dare post those on social media!” Nash yells. “Anna will kill me, slowly and painfully.”

  “Nash, it’s your bachelor party!” I laugh. “You’re gonna have nothing but tits and ass in your face at the strip club later tonight.”

  “No strip clubs.” He shakes his head vehemently.

  At the mention of no strip clubs Kevin gasps out loud, flashing me a wide-eyed look of horror and disbelief as if he’s a 7-year-old kid who’s just been told Santa Claus isn’t real. I shake my head, dismissing his concern with a wink, which makes his shoulders sag in relief and his boyish grin reappears.

  “Can I sit here?”

  I look up to see Harley standing above me, pointing to the seat beside me. I meet his eyes, finding a knowing look within them, one that matches the hint of the smile pulling at his lips. Once again, I feel my cheeks heat of their own accord, and I roll my eyes at myself before sliding across the seat to allow room for him as he sits down. His body is so close, and I’m fully aware of his thigh brushing against mine. I chance a look at him and he offers me a smile that hints at his dimples, quirking one of his eyebrows. “Can we please put last night behind us and just have fun today?” he whispers close to my ear so no one can overhear him.

  I swallow hard as the memory of last night’s painful humiliation floods through me. It still hurts, but I manage a nod, pressing my lips together with the best smile I can offer. He holds his hand out, palm up, and I look down at it, my brow furrowed in confusion when I meet his eyes once again. He chuckles to himself. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he reaches down and takes my hand in his, his fingers threading mine before resting our interlocked hands on his thigh.

  I wish I had the ability to act cool, calm and collected in those moments where I’m anything but on the inside. But I’m so embarrassing. I always have been. And right now, I sit there frozen—stunned—staring down at our hands. I don’t even breathe. Maybe it’s the unexpected way in which my body is reacting to his touch. Maybe it’s the smile still lingering on his lips. Or maybe, it’s the fact that Harley Shaw is holding my hand despite the fact that we’re seated in the back and no one can even see whether or not we’re holding hands. I don’t know what this is, but I know it isn’t just for show; he wants to hold my hand, and I want him to want to hold my hand. I don’t miss the obvious beats my heart skips as we sit together in an awkwardly companionable silence.

  And in that very moment, with a million and one conflicting thoughts racing through my mind, all I can be sure of is one thing as I release the breath I’ve been holding on to. I don’t just like Harley. I, Alice Murphy, am head over heels in love with the guy, and now I don’t even know what to think.

  Chapter 22

  Dressed in a racing suit at least two sizes too big, I hesitantly walk out into the pit on the side of the track, meeting the guys as they stand around a shiny stock car. The sun is beaming down from high up in the sky, and I can feel beads of sweat trailing down my back as my heart thunders in my chest, slamming against my rib cage in protest as I stare out over the looming track. Swallowing hard, I try to psych myself up, but it’s no use. To be honest, NASCAR isn’t really my thing. I tried to act all excited about it with the guys, but now that I’m here faced with the prospect of crashing headfirst into a barricade and killing myself, that excitement I felt is nonexistent. I hate driving fast.

  Actually, I don’t even really like driving. I’m not the kind of person who likes to get in the car with the windows down and drive to get lost just for the sake of it. I drive only to get to where I need to be. I have enough trouble navigating the streets of Graceville in my trusty little Cruze. I don’t need to complicate things by driving two hundred miles per hour in a NASCAR vehicle. But, this is what Nash wanted.

  The instructor goes over the emergency procedures, which only increases my anxiety, and explains everything else we need to know in regard to safety. The fact that we’ll be driving with a professional driver riding shotgun doesn’t make me feel any better, but at
least if I die, I’ll take someone with me.

  “You okay?”

  I look up to see Harley watching me, his brow furrowed as he studies my face.

  I manage a nod, barely.

  “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “I’m fine,” I snap abruptly, my voice strangely high-pitched.

  “You know you don’t have to do this, Murph,” he says quietly, gently touching my shoulder. “You can just sit and watch. Or you can ride shotgun while the driver takes you around in a pace car.”

  “Really?” My brows climb higher in hope at that last suggestion.

  “Yeah.” He chuckles, obviously witnessing the relief flood through me. “You don’t have to go fast.”

  I look around, for what I’m not sure. The truth is I don’t want everyone to think I’m too chicken. It’s weird enough that I’m the only girl on a guys’ bachelor party trip; the last thing I want is for anyone to pander to me or, worse, call me a girl. Because, let’s face it, I could kick all their asses.

  “Actually, to be honest”— Harley leans in closer, his voice even lower, pulling my attention straight back to him—“I’m not too keen on this, either. I’ll ride with you, if you want …?”

  I meet his eyes, gaping at him. “Are you serious?”

  He smiles with a shrug. “We can even say it’s me who’s too chickenshit to drive …”

  I don’t hesitate. Immediately my hand is up in the air and the instructor stops mid-sentence, pointing to me with a smile.

  “Um, my boyfriend’s scared,” I say as Harley guffaws from beside me while everyone laughs at his expense. “Can we ride together while one of y’all drives?”

  “Of course.” The instructor offers Harley a dubious once-over before making a note of something on his iPad.

  “Thanks, Murph,” Harley murmurs sarcastically from beside me, nudging me with his elbow. “I owe you one.”

  I smile, and he winks at me before focusing his attention back on the instructor.

  ***

  I rub a hand over Harley’s back while he leans over the trash can in the pit, bringing up whatever’s left in his stomach. Kevin and Seth are in hysterics, laughing and pointing at him and almost falling into a heap on the gravel. I flash them each a warning glare as Harley continues to retch and groan with every contraction of his belly.

  “Here’s some water.” Nash hurries over, holding out an icy cold bottle.

  “Thanks.” I take it from him as I continue patting Harley’s strained back. “He’ll be fine. I think it’s just the heat,” I lie, knowing full well his upset stomach has little to do with the heat and everything to do with the sharp corners we just endured in the flying stock car. And it’s all my fault. I’m the one who was yelling at the driver to go faster once I got the taste for it after the first lap. All the while Harley was in the back seat, squealing like a 12-year-old girl.

  Harley stands, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his race suit before offering Nash a curt nod. Pushing his hair back from his sweat-beaded forehead, he flashes me a sheepish glance as soon as Nash leaves us. He takes the water from me. I smile knowingly, squeezing his arm before turning and heading back to the rest of the guys as they gather around the shiny race car for a group photo. I make sure to keep to the side of the group, but the moment I move next to Nash’s friend, Jake, Nash turns, his eyes finding me, and he makes a scene, running from his place front and center to grab my hand and pull me with him.

  “I don’t want to be in the front!” I hiss, flashing the photographer an apologetic glance.

  “You, me and Harley in the front.” Nash waves Harley over. “My two best friends.”

  I watch as Harley jogs over, again pushing his hair back from his face, looking a little less gray. He moves to the other side of Nash, his eyes flitting to me a moment before he wraps his arm around his best friend’s shoulders and looks straight ahead toward the camera, smiling with his trademark dimples on show. I reluctantly snake my arm around Nash’s waist, but when he returns the action, I jump slightly at the feel of his hand resting so low on my hip, his pinkie finger in dangerous proximity to my butt. I try so hard to convince myself that it’s just an innocent slip of his hand—just an accident—but he makes no effort to move his hand and, in fact, he goes so far as to squeeze my hip ever so slightly.

  What the hell?

  I cast a sideways glance, finding him smiling at the camera with a slightly smug grin, and I don’t know what to think. Is he doing this on purpose? Or, does he have no idea? I should move. Step away from him, out of his reach. But, I don’t. I don’t want to cause a scene. So, instead of making a big deal out of it, I turn to face the camera with a smile I know doesn’t even come close to reaching my eyes.

  ***

  After the awkward encounter with Nash’s hand practically groping my butt back at the Speedway, I’ve done my best to steer clear of him for most of the afternoon. Our party bus hostess, Amber, brought us to the Myrtle Beach boardwalk, and we’ve spent the afternoon going from bar to bar, downing pitchers of icy cold beer and more complimentary shots than I’ve been able to keep track of.

  Somewhere between bars we’ve visited, I’ve somehow managed to lose one of my Converse and I had to buy a pair of kitschy flip-flops from one of the souvenir shops on the promenade. Needless to say, as I now sit perched on Harley’s lap while we continue drinking at a rooftop bar overlooking the ocean, watching Kevin drink a concoction of mixed liquor straight from my one remaining Converse, I’m well on my way to a night of bad decision-making if my fingertips tracing the tattoos on Harley’s arm is any indication.

  “You’re drunk, Murph.” Harley chuckles, and an involuntary shudder runs through me as his soft breath fans gently against the shell of my ear.

  I glance at him, meeting his knowing gaze, and I can see from his heavily hooded lids, to the way the whites of his eyes are slightly bloodshot, that I’m not the only one who’s drunk. “Well, this is a bachelor party.” I shrug. “We’re supposed to be smashed, man.”

  He gapes at me, offering a somewhat mock look of shock.

  “What?”

  “Did you just say we’re supposed to smash?” he asks with a dramatic gasp.

  I bite back my own smile, shaking my head at him. “No.”

  He quirks one of his brows. “I think ya did …” he says with a teasing lilt.

  “Well, we could’ve smashed last night, but you—” I snap my mouth shut, realizing what I’ve just said, my cheeks flaming.

  Harley watches me a moment, one eye narrowing as a crease pulls between his brows. “But I thought you said you don’t remember anything about last night?”

  At this point, I’m fully aware of his hand splayed against the small of my back. Fully aware of his other hand resting on my thigh. Fully aware of the fact that I’m practically sitting on his crotch. I press my lips together, pulling them between my teeth as I consider what he’s said, racking my brain with what I can possibly say without giving myself away. But then I’m reminded of how many lemon drops I’ve consumed this afternoon, and hell, it’s not the first time I’ve made a fool a myself.

  “I lied.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal, turning back to the table and reaching for my beer. I feel his eyes boring into me as I take a big swig in the hope of buying myself some time. But sadly, it seems Harley isn’t nearly as drunk as me.

  “Well then, should we talk about it?” he presses, whispering.

  I release a sigh, looking up to the afternoon sky a moment before meeting his eyes once again. His face is full of a seriousness I wasn’t expecting to see, one I definitely don’t feel like dealing with right now, and it actually sobers me up ever so slightly.

  “Murph, we should talk about what happened,” he urges, offering me a knowing look.

  I shrug again, shaking my head. “What’s there to talk about? I made a move I shouldn’t have. You swiftly turned me down. The end. No harm, no foul.”

  His face remains stoic a
s he processes my words.

  “It was a stupid, drunken mistake, and I’m sorry.” I take another drink from my beer, watching as his eyes seem to bore into mine, his gaze so penetrating I’m forced to look away so he can’t see straight through my nonchalant façade to the painfully shameful truth. “Anyway. I need to go to the bathroom.” I stand from his lap, feeling his hand fall from its place on my lower back, and immediately I feel an obvious void at the loss of contact.

  Harley just continues watching me, his face expressionless.

  “Do you want anything from the bar?” I ask.

  He pushes his hair back from his face, and his hands come together behind his head, resting at his nape, which only makes his T-shirt ride up ever so slightly, flashing a hint of the taut skin just above the waistband of his shorts. I quickly avert my eyes, zeroing in on his gaze once again, raising one of my eyebrows expectantly.

  “No, Murph. I’m good for now …” He shakes his head, the slightest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, a smile I can’t quite decipher, one that makes me suddenly nervous, but in a good way. I don’t miss the hidden innuendo behind his words, but I turn away as quickly as I can, hurrying off in the direction of the stairs that lead down into the main bar.

  I don’t even need to go to the bathroom. I just need some kind of reprieve from Harley’s intensity before the alcohol coursing through me causes me to do something embarrassing like, I don’t know, trying to kiss him again.

  Chapter 23

  I successfully managed to avoid both Nash and Harley for the rest of the afternoon by playing a few games of pool with Seth in the main bar downstairs. My excuse was that it was too hot up on the rooftop, and my pale skin just doesn’t fare well in such a heat, but that was only a half-truth. Now that we’re back at the beach house getting ready for our night, I’ve been sitting on the floor of the shower beneath the cool running water for so long I’m shivering while I try to get myself to sober up.

  So, Harley knows I was lying when I told him I didn’t remember what happened last night? So what. I’m sure he can understand my need to avoid any further awkwardness. But from the look in his eye when I ditched him to play pool, I know for a fact he wants to talk about it. And if I think I’m going to get through the rest of this night avoiding him, then I’m just as stupid as I often think I might be. We’re staying in the same room, for Christ’s sake. I force myself out of the shower, doing what I can with my face and hair, opting for minimal makeup and a messy bun before coming out to the bedroom. I release a breath of relief to find the room empty, and I hurry to find my clothes for tonight.