Chapter 19
Cameron
“Until then, if you ever want a repeat performance, you know where to find me.”
What.
The.
Fuck.
Did.
I.
Just.
Say?
As Juli darts away, the words I practically seduced her with swirl through my brain. Sure, I meant every single one of them, including the part about finding the man who can give her more weeks like this.
Her soulmate.
Her one.
Gag me.
With everything I have inside me, I want to be that person for her. But we can’t always get what we want.
It’s a cruel truth, but a truth nonetheless.
Stretching out on the blanket—careful not to let any part of me touch the sand since I don’t have time to shower before our weekly meeting—I cross my feet at the ankles and prop my head up on my elbows.
The sky is still lit up in early morning oranges and yellow, but it’s the pink hue capturing most of my attention.
Living here in South Carolina has its benefits, gorgeous sunrises year-round being one of them.
I’m often up in time to catch it most days, albeit from the safety of my back deck, but I never tire of it.
Kinda like I don’t think I’d ever tire of waking up next to Juli Langley.
“But no. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the case. It’s not reality.” I force the words out of my mouth for a better chance I’ll believe them.
I set a timer for forty-five minutes and stare up at the sky. I’ll allow myself forty-five minutes to wallow in thoughts of Juli, both past and present. When the alarm goes off, I’ll get up, pack up my stuff, and push her out of my mind.
It worked fourteen years ago. It can work now.
My mocking laugh punctures the stillness of the ocean. Even if I say it aloud, it won’t come true.
An hour later, I’m the first to arrive in the conference room we use for our weekly meetings.
The four of us fit comfortably around the oval table, but there’s also room for a few extras if we need to invite other employees in.
Checking over my schedule for the day—my brain anywhere but on work—Preston arrives next, followed quickly by Silas. As usual, Zane rushes in last.
“Who died?” Zane asks the question. I think. It could be Silas.
When no one answers, I remove my head from my phone.
Preston points to me. “You. Zane wants to know why you look like someone stole the last beer.”
I school my features, not needing to give them anything to tease me about. Although it’s not like some of them wouldn’t deserve the same riling lately.
“Nothing’s up. What’s on today’s agenda?”
Preston snaps his fingers, thinking he has it all figured out. I’m glad he thinks he does, because I sure don’t. “She left.”
“Who’s she?” Zane wonders.
“Juliana.”
“Your sister was here?” Silas’s attention bounces back and forth, trying to follow the conversation.
“She came for a wedding. It seems she left with something more. Something you want to share with the class?”
I can’t tell if Preston’s mad. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The week happened, and it’s over now. If he wants to punch me for defiling his little sister, so be it. It can’t hurt any more than my heart already does. Heck, the physical pain will actually hurt less.
“Nothing to talk about. It ended when she left. We’re friends now.” The more I say it aloud, the more it will sink in, right?
“She certainly didn’t look like being friends agreed with her.”
Do not read into his comment.
Get the attention off you.
Do not engage.
For once, I actually listen to my inner self.
“How’s the new chef working out for The Drift?”
Zane takes the bait, word-vomiting about the new chef he hired. The one I could tease him about, except I don’t have the energy to do that, even if I wanted to.
From there, the meeting gets underway with each of us addressing our parts of the resort. I give a rundown of the week’s activities and what events I’m planning for the next few months.
Preston goes through the financial report. We’re heading into the slow season, but this summer was busier than the past two summers. All good news for Whispering Tide.
Silas is next with his spiel about marketing ideas, things he’s going to try to bring in more guests this winter, as well as how general operations are going.
When all is said and done, I race out like a bat outta hell. I grab my packed bag from my office, barely acknowledging Keoni on my way out the front door to my car. Once out of sight of the building, I heave in gulping breaths.
In. Hold. Out.
In. Hold. Out.
Repeat.
I need a reprieve, a pardon from the memories wreaking havoc on me. The problem is, it’s not coming soon.
If at all.
My watch alerts me to an incoming call.
PRESTON. Should have known he wouldn’t let me escape unscathed.
“What?” I bark into my watch, my phone buried deep in my bag.
“Tell me you didn’t hurt her.”
“I would never.” Not intentionally or unintentionally. It’s not possible.
“Want to talk about it?”
“About as much as I’d like to re-experience poison ivy from STEM Camp.”
“Ouch.” I swear he shudders, and I can’t help the smile breaking through my crap mood. “Surf tomorrow?”
“Six a.m. I’ll be there.” Probably won’t share my story, but being on the waves will help my mental mood.
“See you then. Here if you want to talk.”
“I won’t.” I go to hang up but quickly add, “Thanks.” I want to say more, for every opportunity he’s given me, for letting me have this . . . whatever it is with Juli, for not kicking my ass, but my mouth won’t form the words.
“If you hurt her, you’re dead to me.”
“Message received. Thanks for the blessing.”
He’s quiet for a minute, only speaking when I think he’s actually hung up. “I’m not sure it’s a blessing, but there are worse guys she could find than you, Cameron. You’d treat her right, give her the life she deserves.”
I don’t know what could make him think that, but I’m not about to argue.
“Later.” I disconnect the call.
I’ve made it to my car, but I can’t make myself open the door. Because her scent’s going to be inside. And in such a small area, it’ll be too overwhelming. Ditching the idea of driving home, I start off on foot, my flip-flops not making the best walking shoes, but at least my shower beckons.
And free of anything Juli-related.
At a snail’s pace, it takes about fifteen minutes.
Entering through the slider under the back deck, I strip out of my clothes in my bedroom.
I’ll toss all the clothes from this week in the washer tonight, but right now, I need a shower.
A hot one to wash away the sand from this morning and the lingering memories of the week.
As if anything could erase this past week.
The week drags on like molasses poured out of a jar.
I’m going through the motions, but life has lost its luster.
It’s not like the guests notice anything amiss—I can put on a show like nobody’s business.
Humor has gotten me through a lot of hard times, and it’s my choice of coping mechanisms now.
The guys all give me grief, but I’m too bummed to make an effort, amusing or otherwise.
The best I can do is a scowl, a grunted, “Fuck off,” or the finger.
We’ve been friends for too long for any of them to be offended.
Juli’s promise to “keep in touch” lasts exactly one day. One text message to let me know she arrived home safely on Monday afternoon. My response was lackluster at best.
I think about messaging her at least once an hour, but I can’t pull the trigger. As much as I want to know how she is, how she’s adjusting to being back to real life, a sound part of me doesn’t want to know.
If she’s happy, I’ll be more miserable.
If she’s miserable, I’ll feel worse.
I have one picture on my phone of the two of us from the wedding.
She’s smiling broadly, my hand around her hip, pulling her into my side.
My smile’s big, too. Whoever took the photo captured the portrait at the exact right moment.
I’m not ashamed to say I’ve viewed the photo multiple times a day.
I made a copy of the image and cropped myself out of it, staring at her as if she were mine.
At the moment, she felt like mine. Like we belonged together. Like together, we could conquer anything in our path and come out as victors.
Unfortunately, she’s not mine, but that hasn’t stopped me from jerking off to her image.
I keep telling myself the more time that passes, the more days that occur from when we were together, the easier it will be to get over her.
The biggest crock of shit ever.
I’m not exactly sure how to “get over” Juliana Langley, if I “had” her in the first place.
“You seem . . . off. What’s going on with you?”
Seated at The Drift bar, my whiskey on the rocks is already whiskey with a side of water.
Couldn’t tell you how long I’ve been sitting here, not drinking the drink.
I’ve had to swear off Bushwackers for the time being.
I can’t bring myself to tackle those memories.
The one of Juli asking what’s in it. Her first sip.
Her drinking mine when she wanted more but couldn’t handle an entire drink.
Dragging my eyes away from the drink sweating on the bar, Ivan, the other bartender, rests his elbows on the bar top.
“I’m fine,” I choke out, clearly lying.
“Right. And I’m POTUS. Try again.”
For a Thursday night, the bar’s not busy. Then again, it’s still early. I finished my day around five and headed straight here. The silence in my empty townhouse does little to comfort me.
My mouth opens, ready to spill my guts, but something stops me. Instead, I offer, “I wish things could be different.”
“What things?” Of course, he won’t let me get away with a half answer.
“All the things.” It’s a half-assed answer, and his eyebrow peak calls me on it. “You ever wish you’d made different choices in life?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everyone?”
I nod. “I suppose that’s true.” I pause, not sure exactly what I want to say, how to describe what I wish were different about my life.
Knowing how miserable I am, would it have been better not to have gotten involved with Juli last week?
Nope. That’s one thing I wouldn’t change if I had the power to do so.
Do I wish I had more to offer her in terms of a relationship? Absolutely. But how I’d go about being the man she deserves, I don’t have the first clue where to start.
“This about Langley’s kid sister?”
I debate lying to him, but he’d eventually get me to tell the truth. And he has eyes. He saw us here in the bar, witnessing first-hand how close we were.
“Yes.”
“She seems like a great girl. From the few interactions we had. Preston tell you to leave her alone?”
“No. As long as I don’t hurt her, he’s okay with it. Wants her to be happy.”
“Where does she live?”
“Outside of Atlanta.”
“She not want a long-distance relationship?”
“Why would she?” I gulp the watered-down whiskey.
“It wouldn’t have to be forever. Short-term, it could work if both parties are willing. If it makes you less wretched than this.”
“Fuck off.”
Ivan’s hands raise in the air. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Merely a suggestion.”
“It wouldn’t ever work. We come from two different worlds.”
“Well, if she thinks that, I guess it would be a tremendous obstacle to overcome.” My face must cloud with confusion because he follows up with, “She said that, right?”
“Not in so many words,” I mumble. She’s given no sign that she cares about my financial status or that I grew up poor in a rich state. But why would that matter for a fling?
“Sounds to me like you’re the obstacle in this equation.” He spews his advice before another customer requires his attention. Knocking the bar with his fist, he points a finger in my direction but adds nothing more.
My mind spins his words, breaking apart the “advice” word by word, letter by letter, until the comment is unrecognizable. Well, except for the two most important words: you and obstacle.
How am I the obstacle?
That makes little sense.
Why would someone who grew up with every amenity, every convenience, every whim catered to, want to be bogged down with a guy like me?
Who, four years ago, could barely afford to pay his bills?
Whose only “real” job in life was handed to him because of his connection to a friend?
Who’s never had a relationship other than casual hookups? I’m no catch, that’s for sure.
Especially not for a woman who could have any man she wanted.
Why in hell would she choose me?