Page 42 of Bring You Back

“T.M.I.,” he says.

“F.U.,” I say back, and we share a knowing smile at our old inside joke. Whenever one of us deems somethingtoo much information, the other has to clap back with afuck you.

He remembers this, too. I was only gone a year, as he teased when he also remembered my favorite breakfast from A Flying Grit, but still. It warms me.

Tommy stares off ahead, smile slipping as he says, “Reyna’s never seen me the way I see her.”

“You’ve never given her the chance to.”

“You make it sound so easy. That all I have to do issaysomething.” His eyes meet mine, wide with torment, his hand tightening around the cup. He could very well crush it with his fingers. “I’ve loved her for as long as I can remember. Did she ‘give me the chance to’? No. She was justhere. Existing. Being herself. And it just happened. I’ve been here, being myself, and. . .” He looks back over his shoulder on a sigh, back at Julian. “I see her, and she sees him.”

His next words rush out in defeat and acceptance as he looks back out ahead of us. “Telling her how I feel will make things awkward, possibly push her away, and I don’t want that.”

I still think he’s making a mistake by not lifting her blinders, opening her eyes to the idea of him, but. . .

“I get it,” I say, shelving the subject. We haven’t even seen the subject of this conversation here tonight. Reyna likes everything to do with a party. Music, dancing, socializing, and she’s still nowhere to be found. “Where is she?”

Tommy shrugs, downing the rest of his water. “She told me to go on ahead and she’d meet us here. I need another.” He makes a swift exit from my side, on a pretty hasty hunt for a clear liquid that provides no change in mental state or flavor. This is why he doesn’t get to have the liquid that does, if I’m around. He was much younger when that incident with the alcohol happened, so he may be able to control his consumption now, but considering he can’t even control his H2O intake, I’m not taking that chance.

“Water,” I call out a reminder.

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls back, and I watch him tilt his empty cup over Banks’s head as he passes him, prompting Banks to jump back, then flash him aha haface.

I laugh as Tommy smiles back at me.

Julian

When Camille laughs, it transforms her whole face. Her sharp features lose their edge, leaving a welcoming softness in their place. She’s open, vulnerable—friendly, even. She’s letting you know she likes what you’re saying, and she’s giving you an invitation to say more. And if you play your cards right, little by little, she’ll let you in, let you see what’s beneath the hardness she shows the world.

Her bitch face is beautiful, but her unguarded warmth is a privilege to see.

A privilege not many people have or get.

A privilege I tell myself I don’t want back.

Bad liarshould be stamped on my forehead.

My eyes find her again—they always find her, despite my best efforts to point them anywhere else—and she’s huddled at a separate bonfire with Tommy. My eyes found her every time hers found me, but it isn’t her stare that keeps drawing mine to her now—it’s that laugh she keeps sharing with Tommy. She hasn’t looked my way for the past hour since they started in on whatever hilarious conversation they’re having. Whenever there’s a brief lull, her eyes will slide to one of the coolers like she’s considering swiping a beer.

I haven’t known Camille to drink a day in her life. Besides a drunken mishap from Tommy a few years ago, that practice is reserved for me and Banks. Mostly Banks. I actually hadn’t consumed a sip of alcohol until tonight, since I started surfing. It helped that, not long after, I stopped being friends with Banks whose parents were the major suppliers. It’s sort of funny that Banks and his parents have nothing to do with why I drank again tonight.

My jaw sets the longer I stare at Camille, the longer she laughs with Tommy. She shouldn’t be having a good time. She should be complaining about the crowd, the noise, making jabs about whoever’s shit taste in music and being surrounded by idiots, then going back tomyhouse, to the bed inmyguest room to rewatch her favorite movies or read a book.

She shouldn’t be able to just waltz back into our lives like she never left and cut us off.

Yeah, I know she lost her brother, but shechoseto lose me. Us.

And yeah, I like knowing she has somebody familiar to turn to, but why do I have to be the only one she doesn’t?

Simple answer. I’m the hurt asshole.

If I was able to get over myself, even for a minute, I’d crack open another beer and sip it right in front of her, daring her with my eyes to do the same.

That’s the problem with knowing someone well enough that you can communicate without words. That’s why I try not to catch Camille’s eyes no matter how hard it is. We can have a whole conversation with one damn look.

I finally avert my look to the guy smoking a joint near my right. From the somewhat raggedy look of him, and the fact that he’s smoking weed instead of drinking beer, I’m guessing he’s a recent addition to the skaters. He’s so high he hasn’t said a word to me since we started sharing this bonfire. And I’ve tried striking up a conversation. He just smiles with glazed eyes at the fire, occasionally releasing a random laugh.

I’ve been there before, too. Another thing I stopped doing once I started surfing. And I’m not counting on a contact high.

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