Page 136 of Bring You Back

“This has nothing to do with anything.” I tone it down, lean closer to her with my next words. “Youmatterto me.” But as soon as I say them, I know my actions have proved otherwise. These words don’t hold the weight they used to, for either of us. Or maybe they hold too much weight now, a crushing weight just pushing us down to the nothing we’re going to become.

And she still doesn’t know the half of it.

Because I’m still acting like a selfish coward.

She shakes her head in disbelief, pulling her arm from my grip, and walks off. I let her go this time. I give up. I can’t keep doing this with her.

I look back to the beach with a deep exhale to see a soaking wet Camille limping from the water, a sight I shouldn’t be seeing yet that leaves me momentarily stunned, but then the limping registers, and I race toward her right as she and the board go tumbling onto the sand.

I slide onto the sand next to her, my eyes latching onto the blood pooled around her big toe. I haven’t seen this type of surfing injury before. “What the fuck happened?” I can hear the fear in my voice as the feeling returns at the thought of Camille hurting herself.

“Calm down,” she says, which makes me do the opposite. I’m already on edge from my argument with Reyna, and Camille doesn’t need to push me off. Not over this.

“What the fuck happened?” I repeat, earning me a side eye. I point my stare, unwavering and waiting.No, I’m not letting this go.

“I’m not Caleb,” she tells me, knowing where my thoughts are, the questions my concern will bring up.

I think of her scars and ask one of them, anyway. “Have you tried to be?”

She sighs. “I just wanted to surf—”

“Of course you did,” I cut in with a scoff.

“—and you were taking too damn long,” she finishes with a hard stare at my interrupting. But really, she’s trying to avoid answering the question.

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“No bullshit,” she mutters, then sighs. “I was doing fine until I stood up, and when I slipped, my toe collided with the board.” She flinches as another sting shoots from her injury, and gestures to her foot. “Can we just do something about this?”

Seeing Camille in pain spurs me back into action, and I lean in to inspect her toe. It doesn’t look broken. It’s not swollen. There’s a ring of blood around her nail … which has lifted from the skin. Not serious, but still unpleasant.Fuck.“How much pressure can you put on it?”

“None,” she says. “Any amount of pressure hurts like hell.” She chuckles. “It’s a good thing I signed that waiver, after all.”

Yeah, no shit,I think, releasing a chuckle of my own despite myself. This definitely doesn’t make me look good. But wondering what my father will think is the least of my worries right now.

“Let’s get you back to the house,” I say as I stand, leaning down to help her up. “We’ll take care of it there.” As soon as I have her in my arms, leaning against me for support, I say, “Don’t pull that again.”

She looks up at me. “Don’t tell me what to do, and I’ll consider it.”

I hold her stare, my face serious enough to soften hers, and she assures me, “I won’t.”

32

Count of Three

Camille

After a thorough inspection that has me hissing through pain and jerking back from Julian’s touch every few seconds, we deduce that my toe isn’t broken. The toenail, however, is hanging on by a thread—a tight, painful thread—and has to be removed. I can’t push the nail back in place; it’s perpetually sticking into the air, leaving me unable to wear socks or shoes ever again. Plus, there’s the fact—one Julian just loves to keep pointing out—that it’ll get infected if we leave it. So, bye-bye, toenail.

Just not yet.

I shift in the kitchen chair Julian settled me on, take a moment to breathe. My foot is propped up on a mini stool he retrieved from the hall closet, a litter of First Aid supplies, including a pair of tweezers he’ll have to use in the quick yanking of my nail, at his feet where he crouches beside the stool. I haven’t seen this stool since I was a kid. Light wood for the legs, cushy teal cloth for the top. I’ve managed to keep a single drop of blood from maiming the fabric. A permanent reminder of the time I lost a toenail when I acted like an idiot.

Haven’t lost yet.It’s still there. If I keep the toe still, I can almost forget there’s a problem.

Julian’s studying me, specifically my wetsuit. His eyes trail in concentration, like he’s trying to place the skin underneath—the scars. He’s curious. And I might tell him. He can have my emotional scars, but, for now, my physical scars are mine, a piece of my past that’s going to stay there for a while.

He meets my stare when he feels me watching him. “Let me know when you’re ready.” He’s trying to be patient, but he’s ready to get this pseudo-operation over with. It’s just as hard for him to have to rip something from my body as it is for my body having to be ripped.

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