Page 27 of Bring You Back

“Death in the family.” I’m ripping off the same Band-Aid, reliving the same sting.

I wait for my words to click, and when they do, Brent closes in. “Oh, sweetie.” He tries to hug me, but I take a step back. Still not a hugger. And he’s no exception now.

I divert. “Have you seen Julian?”Passing throughwould be better to add. Julian wouldn’t subject himself to these two, especially together. I’m also asking to gauge Brent’s feelings on the fallout with Julian, see how much he cares. I’ve always known Brent to be a good guy, a good father, a good husband. I want to see thegoodagain.

“No, I haven’t,” he says, rocking on the heels of his slip-on sneakers. “How is he?”

I chuckle. “Terrible,” I say to thatbadresponse. “Like you.”

With that, I turn my back and wander through the crowd, breathing in the questionable smells—there’s too many of them at once—content to look for Julian myself. That was the plan. The plan brought me here.

He wouldn’t be surfing at this time—apparently a morning and night thing for him—and according to Tommy, he’s not working today. Even with that knowledge, and no real reason for Julian to subject himself to the noise and chaos around me, something told me to come here.

When the crowd parts, thanks to me as I push through a family of six stalled right in the middle of my path, I see why.

The family’s complaints at my back are ignored as I stand a few feet from where Julian is sitting. Beside Reyna.

They’re arguing, and I watch them. The picture of a loving, lasting relationship.

The picture morphs, trying to show just that as he takes her hand and they share a laugh. She kisses him, and my insides squeeze with a new feeling. A green, ugly, painful feeling. I didn’t think this would happen. Julian and Reyna. It probably wouldn’t have if Brent Fowler didn’t have a wandering eye and a score to settle.

The squeeze tightens, and I take deep breaths to loosen its hold.

Feeling this is better than feeling—

It’s not real.From here, itlooksreal. To anyone who doesn’t know, itisreal.

I watch him tug her hand when she stands to leave, and it clicks. The way he smashes his lips to her fingers, lingering with his eyes at her feet tells me hewantsit to be real. The way his entire body deflates once she’s turned around confirms to me that it’s not.

I almost feel sorry for him. But this is another battle that’s not mine. A battle that shouldn’t be his, either.

We have our own battle. I’ll bring him back. I’ll fix us. Even if that means other things have to break in the process.

I approach him with a storm under my feet.Life’s short. Cake.

I stop at the bench, close enough for our knees to touch. His eyes jolt to my boots in recognition. His narrowed stare trails up my legs, stopping at the scar peeking through the hole in my ripped jeans—a different, darker pair. He remembers my body, the curves and plains, the marks that should andshouldn’tbe there, without having ever seen me naked. It’s a level of physical intimacy only years of close friendship can give you. His brows fold in a flash of concern that he clearly doesn’t want me to notice because they relax as he continues the trail up. I sit beside him before he reaches my eyes.

He tenses, but stays close. I give a pointed look from the ice cream shop to him that he follows, and at the same time I throw out a disappointed, “What are you doing?” he shuts me down with, “It’s none of your business.”

I watch his knee, bouncing with the urge to flee.

“Why are you here?”

His tone of voice sounds like my answer won’t matter. But he has to ask, because he needs them—answers.

My mind isn’t letting me find them. My tongue feels thick, not letting me speak. Fortunately, he doesn’t wait much longer before asking the next one.

“Would you have even come back if Caleb hadn’t died?”

My tongue pushes against my teeth and I bite down. He’s hitting the hard ones.

Nothing. I have nothing. Everything is stilled but the sound of his breathing. I try to match my own breathing that has picked up speed with the even, albeit harsh, sound of his, try to soothe the sick feeling now swirling in my stomach, my pulse thump-thumping in my ears.

“Camille?” Julian’s leaning forward to eye my face, his hands clenched around the empty Styrofoam bowl he’s holding to keep them in place. God forbid he tries to touch me. To show he cares about me. But I heard the concern in his voice. It’s that sound that makes the come down easier.

I look at him while everything slows and give an assuring, “I’m fine.” His eyes fall to my lips, brows folding in on another scar, and I fall into a memory. A memory I welcome. I involuntarily lick my lips, as I had done that night, the moment he almost kissed me. His jaw sets, nose flares. He’s fallen into the same memory, but the difference is, he doesn’t welcome it.

His eyes find the scar on my thigh, and I feel the urge to pinch. I sit on my hands.

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