Chapter 12
Sadie
Bowl a perfect game – from Sadie’s list of things she’s never done
“I hate running,” I mutter, closing the door behind me after my four-mile run.
“Then why keep doing it?” Cam asks, startling me as he steps out of the kitchen. His hair is wet, and he wears nothing but low-slung sweatpants that almost reveal the tattoo near his abdomen. What does it say?
“Because I don’t actually hate it. I just complain because it’s hard, but I want to prove to myself that I can,” I answer, walking past him.
He sips a can of watermelon sparkling water, leaning casually against the doorframe. “What is it you want to prove you can do?”
“Something that feels big .”
“Have you ever won something?” he asks, brushing a droplet of water from his expressive brow.
“I’m not trying to win the half marathon,” I laugh.
“I figured the big thing would be finishing , not winning. But for me,” he presses a hand to his chest over the ‘ No Risk No Story’ tattoo, “winning is the biggest thing there is.” His head tilts. “Actually, that’s not true. Going fast is the biggest thing. It feeds my soul. Winning is second.”
“Cam,” I say, filling a cup with ice, “it sounds like you’re suggesting I race motorcycles.”
“Never say never.” He shrugs. “But no, I was thinking go-karts.”
“Go-karts? Like at mini golf?” I ask.
“A lot like that, but they make bigger, faster ones that are a hell of a lot more fun,” he says, tracing his thumb around the rim of his can. “People race them competitively.”
I shoot him a look, swallowing an entire glass of water before refilling it under the filter.
“It’s one of the safest ways to race,” he explains. “The center of gravity is extremely low, and the ones I’d have you racing top out at around sixty-five miles an hour. I don’t know anyone who’s been injured racing one.”
“Safe is good,” I nod. “But what about it makes you think I’d like it?”
A broad smile fills his mouth as he pushes off the wall, like he’s been waiting all day to talk about this. “You get to go fast—that sixty-five is a lot when you don’t have a car body blocking the wind. And I think you could win some races.”
“You think I could win races?” I ask.
“If you decide to do something, you follow through.” His eyes—more blue than green today—focus intently on me. “You’ll put in the work.”
“I’ll consider it,” I answer as I walk away to shower.
His confidence in me is a surprise, but maybe it shouldn’t be . I used to like going fast. Maybe if I felt safe enough, I’d like it again. Would he race with me? Teach me? Would it be part of our arrangement?
I’m still rolling the idea over when I get back to my bedroom after the shower. Collapsing onto the bed in my towel, I check my phone and find a text from Hanna. I’m still not a fan of hers, but I don’t harbor the anger and hurt I used to. She helped my ex cheat— which is abhorrent —but holding it against her isn’t worth the energy anymore.
Hanna: I get to see you soon!
Me: You see me on the call every morning?
Hanna: No, in real life! I’m coming to Palm Springs in July.
Me: What for?
Hanna: I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but it’s not like you’ll care now that you have a sexy motorcycle racer boyfriend. Kelee and Jared are getting married there! Don’t tell anyone I told you though!
Instead of the gut drop I used to feel about Jared and Kelee’s relationship, I’m overcome with petty amusement. He refused to visit my friends here because he doesn’t like the heat . And now he’s getting married in Palm Springs— in July .
Laughter bubbles up, uncontrollably. I wipe tears from my eyes, trying to catch my breath. This is hilarious. Either he’s so in love with his fiancée that he’ll endure anything to make her happy—which, fine , good for them —or Bea’s right, and he’s obsessed with me.
It’s not lost on me that I’ve spent a significant amount of energy making him jealous, too. But no matter how it started, pretending to date Cam is helping me move on. He treats me better than Jared did, and even just pretending to be with him is raising my standards for the next guy.
My not -boyfriend enters the room then, plopping down next to me on the bed. If he feels awkward about me lying here in my towel, he doesn’t show it.
“You’ve got to share this joy with me, sunshine,” he says. “What’s got you laughing so hard?”
“We are definitely winning the breakup,” I say, laughter returning. I fill him in quickly. Jared’s taken up enough of my life already. Even though he’s the reason we started this arrangement, talking about him now seems like a waste of valuable time with Cam.
“Think I could talk you into going to Voyeur Café for a drink with me?” Cam asks.
It’s not a date, but my heart flutters anyway.
“You’re lucky you came in when you did,” I answer. “If I’d had the energy to change out of this towel into pajamas, the answer would have been no.” I lie, and for once he doesn’t catch me. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
We’re going to the bar our best friends own, which doubles as a coffee shop during the day. It’s not a dressing-up situation. So, I end up in a floral-print midi-length dress with a thin cream-colored sweater over top, deciding it could lean casual or dressy.
When I meet him in the living room, he looks nicer than usual too. He’s wearing an olive-green linen button-up with charcoal-colored pants, and his hair is combed into place instead of left in a wild tousle. Oh, my word. Is this a date?
That question is answered the moment we step inside Voyeur Café . A short girl with perfectly coiled dark brown curls rushes straight into Cam’s arms.
She giggles as he picks her up in a tight hug.
Whelp. I hate this.
Jealousy I don’t deserve burns the back of my throat.
He’s never had a girlfriend before, but he has to know—
He sets her down unceremoniously, and she stumbles to regain her balance. Fixing her hair, she scoffs at him and then addresses me. “He’s so dumb,” she says conspiratorially.
Cam steps behind me, draping an arm across my stomach. “Sadie, this is Skye. She’s a pain in my ass and Luke’s little sister. Skye, this is my girl, Sadie.”
His girl . Maybe my jealousy was premature.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you for so long,” Skye says, surprising me.
Before I can respond, Allie appears. “Okay, perfect. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. Skye can stay with you guys.”
“Yes, please ,” Skye says, pointing at her big brother. “I’m only in town one night, but their couch sucks.”
“I guess our couch is comfier than—” I start.
Allie cuts me off, “Not your couch . Don’t you guys have an extra bed now that you’re together?”
It’s a logical assumption, but it’s not true. At all. Shit.
“Actually, how does that work since you were roommates first? Which bed are you guys sleeping in?” Allie asks.
Cam and I both answer, “Mine,” at the same time.
We’re caught. This is it. What will Allie think when she finds out I’ve been lying to her? What will Skye think? She just met me, and—
“This is pretty much the only thing we disagree about,” Cam laughs. “My bed is better—it’s bigger, softer, and my bedding’s much nicer—”
“It is not —” I protest, not actually sure what his bedding feels like, but knowing Devon custom-ordered mine from one of her specialty interior design places.
“See?” Cam says, “She won’t admit that my bed is better, so we end up switching back and forth constantly.”
Without thinking, I offer, “You should stay in my bed. You can help me convince Cam it’s better.”
The conversation moves on to plans for the rest of the evening— bowling, randomly —but I barely hear a word of it as I realize what I just committed to. Sure, Skye can sleep in my bed. But that means I’ll be sleeping in Cam’s— with him .
It’s still all I can think about in the truck on the way to the bowling alley, when we rent those ugly shoes, and he plugs my name in as Sunshine to show next to my score.
But if he’s nervous, he doesn’t show it. He plays the part of my boyfriend without a hitch.
It’s natural and easy, and for a few brief moments, I indulge the idea that this could be real. It would be just like this, wouldn’t it? But just as quickly, I shake it off. I might feel better after we talked about the reasons racing scares me, but that doesn’t mean I’m no longer scared.
He pulls me into his lap after I bowl an eight. “Not bad, Sunshine.”
“Got a long way to go if I’m ever going to hit three hundred,” I laugh, leaning into him.
He runs his hand up between my sweater and dress, holding onto my low ribs. “I think I need to get you one of those bowling shirts—a yellow one with ‘Sunshine’ embroidered in cursive on the front,” he says.
“Oh, you do ?” I ask.
“I do,” he says, nodding solemnly. “If you’re going to bowl a perfect game, you need the gear to pull it off. Actually, I should get you a ball and shoes, too. And lessons.”
“That’s a lot of things for you to do so I can—”
“ Cameron ,” Allie’s voice cuts in. “Quit flirting with your girlfriend. You’re up next.”
He lifts me from his lap and sets me on the seat next to his. “It’ll be a strike, just for you.”
“I’m so happy he found you,” Skye says, leaning in from my other side as soon as Cam walks away.
“Found me?” I ask.
“He’s been looking,” she says, spinning to face me. “I think he always wanted a girlfriend.” She glances up to make sure he’s not coming. “We always joke that I was his prom date, but I was only ten. I remember he ended up babysitting me while Luke went. He asked a girl he liked, and she said no. He made me spaghetti for dinner, and we danced in the kitchen to Britney Spears. My mom still has a picture of us on the fridge from that night.”
“That’s so sweet,” I say, imagining a seventeen-year-old Cam spending prom night with his friend’s little sister. “But also, kind of sad.”
“Yeah, it’s both. He’s such a good guy,” Skye agrees. “That’s why I’m glad he has you now. He deserves the happiness.”
The sound of a ball hitting pins draws both our attentions, and we see Cam with his arms in the air. He rushes back over, moving me back into his lap. “I told you I’d get a strike for you.” Narrowing his eyes at Skye, he asks, “She talkin’ shit?”
“Of course,” she says, shoving him in the arm. “You’re the worst .”
Bowling is such an unexpected good time, I completely forget about sharing a bed with Cam until Skye gets in his truck with us at the end of the night.
After I get her settled with fresh bedding, I walk the short distance down the hall to his room. “I’m sorry I committed you to this without even asking,” I whisper, closing his bedroom door behind me.
“You know I don’t care,” he says, sitting at the end of his bed, wearing nothing but those low-slung sweatpants again. “Are you gonna be okay?”
“I’m good. No reason we can’t share the bed,” I say, standing awkwardly in front of him.
He gestures toward his en suite bathroom. “You can change in there if you want.”
“Oh shit.” I glance over my shoulder toward my bedroom. “I left all my pajamas in there. I didn’t even think about it.”
“You’re welcome to anything in my closet, remember?” he says.
I’d almost forgotten about that. “I thought that was just for your race.”
“It’s for always.”
Always . Sometimes I think he forgets there’s no one else around to hear him.
He tilts his head toward the closet. “You want me to find something for you?”
“Oh, no. Sorry, I—just give me a second.” Feeling his eyes on me, I grab the first t-shirt I see—a bright yellow Race Naked shirt. When I change, I realize it barely hangs past the black undies I hadn’t remembered being quite this cheeky.
“My bedding is nicer than yours, for the record,” he says, peeling back the covers for me.
“It is not,” I argue again, twisting to avoid pointing my ass at any mirrors as I slide under the sheet.
“No, it’s not,” he admits, “But it made for a good story, didn’t it?”
“It did.” I smile. I enjoy pretending with him more and more lately. But sitting next to him in his bed doesn’t feel much like pretend.
He runs his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back, pausing for a moment as deep copper strands slip past the tattooed letters on his knuckles.
“What does your hand say?” I ask.
He pulls it down in front of his face, like he has to look to remember, then holds both hands out to me in loose fists with his thumbs touching. “Braaap.”
“Braaap?” I repeat, wondering if I heard him correctly.
“Yeah, it’s the sound a motorcycle makes when you rev it.”
Altogether, his fingers spell B-R-A-A-A-A-P-!
“Wait, seriously?” I ask, finding it particularly ridiculous to have an onomatopoeia for an engine rev tattooed on his knuckles.
“Seriously,” he answers, wiggling his fingers so the letters move in a little wave.
Taking one of his hands in mine, I trace my fingertip over the dips and rises of his knuckles. “ Braaap . It’s kind of cute, actually.”
“I’ll take cute,” he answers, his smile almost boyish.
I wonder if he’ll answer questions about more tattoos. Every other time I’ve been tempted, it felt too invasive to ask, but now, sitting together in his bed, the situation is inherently vulnerable. “How about the one under the B-R-A-A ? Why get a horseshoe on your hand?”
Cam doesn’t hesitate. “The horseshoe is because I’m a lucky motherfucker. It’s my job to race motorcycles,” he chuckles, as if the idea is surreal. “There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of racers out there who would crush it on the track if they had the same opportunities I’ve had.”
For me, motorcycle racing would be a literal nightmare of a job. It’s easy to forget that for him , the opposite is true.
“Braaap is there partially because it’s funny, but mainly because it represents the most important thing to me,” he continues. “The horseshoe is to remind me how lucky I am that it gets to be important.”
I set his hand down and look up, finding he’s shifted closer. His head tilts toward me, his eyes locking on mine with a heat I’ve never seen before. A flutter runs through me. He doesn’t usually look at me like that. Hell, I can’t remember the last time anyone looked at me like that. My eyes drop to the wide line of his lips. It’s been a decade since I had a first kiss, but that’s what this look is, right? He’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me.
Swallowing thickly, I tap the bird on the back of his wrist. “And what about this?”
His mouth opens into an oversized smile, followed by an amused chuckle. “You looking for a tattoo tour?” he asks.
“A tattour ?” I respond, snorting at my own terrible pun.
He gives me an oh-my-god-you-adorable-little-nerd look and says, “I’m down, but you have to share with me too.”
“ Cameron .” I tilt my head toward him. “You know I don’t have any tattoos.”
“Sure,” he answers, his eyes tracing from my face down to my t-shirt-clad body and further. “But every body tells a story.”
I look down at myself—the exposed parts of my arms, my hands, the shape of my hips and legs under the blanket—and shrug. “Not sure what story there is to tell.”
“I’ll help you find it,” he says, shifting his leg under the covers to tap my socked foot with his shin. “Do you always sleep in socks?”
“Lately, I do,” I chuckle.
“Why now?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I just—” Maybe I shouldn’t brush this off. Deep breath. “Actually, you like the house really cold.”
“You don’t ?” His shocked voice echoes around the sparsely decorated bedroom and probably down the hall. What must Skye think we’re talking about?
“I thought I did until you moved in,” I say, rubbing my feet together self-consciously.
“What were you keeping it at?” he asks.
Hiding my face behind my hands, I answer, “Seventy-two.”
Cam is off his bed and moving toward the door in an instant.
“You don’t have to change it for me,” I protest, pulling off the covers. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“You’re ridiculous.” He grabs the door handle, pointing at me as I try to scoot off the bed. “And stay in bed . Evidently, it’s cold out here.”
“ Seriously , don’t change the thermostat for me. I’m having fun buying cute socks,” I say, wiggling my toes to show off the fuzzy, mint-green ones I got last week.
Cam’s mouth drops open in mock offense. “You’ve had to buy new socks because I keep the house so cold?”
I try explaining again how little I mind it, but he walks out to the hall—presumably adjusts the thermostat—then reappears and shuts the door behind him. “Are you cold right now?” he asks.
Glancing down at my bare legs, I answer, “Surprisingly, no.”
His brows lower skeptically as he comes to the end of the bed. “I’d better check,” he says, running both of his warm, wide palms up the sides of one leg and down the other. He passes over the scars left there from my crash, and I’m grateful it’s a story he already knows. I never liked them—what they represent, or how they look. Jared certainly never made me feel any better about the latter.
Finding my legs satisfactorily warm, he gives a nod and returns to his spot on the bed next to me, holding his wrist out for my inspection. He jumps back into his tattour like nothing happened. “This bird is a swallow. You know when people ask what superpower you’d choose?”
I nod, holding his hand just above my lap, taking in the details—thick lines, heavy black shading, red belly and yellow wings, eyes represented by little c -shaped curves, like the bird is soaring through the air with its eyes closed.
“My answer has always been flying. It’s the only thing that seems like it would be more freeing than ripping around turns on a motorcycle.” His lips curl into a grin as he explains, “There’s something about the spirit of a bird—they can go as fast and as far as they want, whenever they want. I appreciate that.”
Cam picks up one of my hands in both of his, cradling it above his lap. What could he possibly want to know?
Smoothing his thumb over a thin pink horizontal line on my forearm, he asks, “This is from an oven rack, right? Baking battle scar?”
I nod. “They don’t last too long, but I always have at least one.”
“Do you remember the first time you got one?” he asks, turning my wrist in the light.
“I haven’t thought about that in forever,” my words come out on a delighted breath. “My mom and I used to make cookies together before Christmas—classic ones like gingerbread, snickerdoodles, and peanut butter. She can make a perfect cookie.” My lips roll together as my shoulders shake with silent laughter. “My mom is a little scattered. Her kitchen is always a wild mess, so she often can’t find an oven mitt and uses kitchen towels instead to pull things out. I was probably six or seven, and I’d seen her do it so many times, but I hadn’t noticed how she would fold the towel over and over again so it was thick enough to protect her hands.” Cam winces, anticipating what I’ll say next. “I tried to pull out a tray of cookies with only one layer of thin kitchen towel to protect my hands. That didn’t burn me, but it hurt enough that I dropped the towel, and when my arm swung down, the inside of my wrist hit the oven rack.”
“Have you called her lately?” he asks, running his thumb along the scar.
The question confuses me until I remember Call Mom is on the first page of my to-do list. I could tell him I don’t want to talk about it, but I’m being nosy tonight, too. “Not yet,” I answer. “But I should.”
He nods along, clearly curious but not pushing.
Deep breath. “I’m not that close with my family. I talk to my older and younger sisters maybe three or four times a year. We pretty much only see each other at the holidays, and that works for everyone.” I shift, adjusting the pillows so I can lean on my side and face him. “A few years ago, Jared didn’t want to come home with me like he usually did. He had a ski trip with friends over New Year’s and couldn’t do both. Honestly, I didn’t care that much. I guess that should have been a sign .” I roll my eyes.
“Maybe,” Cam shrugs.
“But it made my parents angry. They held it against me that I let him get away with it , and after that they did not hold back with their feelings about him. It became really hard to talk to them because they wanted me to move on before I was ready, and they had no patience for me to figure it out on my own.” I flinch. That memory still stings . “It sucked because when I finally was ready, our relationship was so soured, I couldn’t even tell them. I’m sure my sisters did, but I haven’t talked to my parents since I moved down here. I didn’t even go home last year.”
Cam blows out a breath, brows narrowing as he considers. I brace for a speech about how I need to be the bigger person, but instead, he just says, “That must be really hard,” and changes the subject, knowing I need to move on. How does he already know me so well?
“Tell me about this haircut,” he says, running his fingertips through the pink ends and shaking me from my distraction. “In every picture of you from before, your hair’s long and blonde. Why the pink?”
As Allie put it—this is a breakup haircut. But do I want to tell him that? Pulling my knees against my chest, I look up into his blue-green eyes and find that sincere tell-me-all-your-secrets-so-I-can-keep-them-safe-for-you look.