Page 51 of Bring You Back

I shouldn’t have looked at her. We’ve both dropped our shields. I see her. I see me. That same need in both of us. Her parted lips, her searching eyes, her face open and vulnerable in a different way.

My head shows me the highlights of this failed night, of everything Camille’s said to me up to now. Then it rewinds, taking me back toNot yet, and one of the most honest things I’ve said since she came back into my life slips past my lips.

“Then fight.”

Those parted lips come back together, those searching eyes blink in resolve.

I just gave her permission to prove herself. To prove some of that honesty she likes to throw around. With two words, I just showed her that we’re not completely lost, that I don’t actually want her to go away or leave again, which is the exact opposite of protecting myself.

But she has to show me that I don’t have to. Iwon’tlet her hurt me again.

If she wantsmeback, I’ll needherback first.

A noise jolts us, and Banks comes barreling through the front door, hollering, “Will youfuck off?” I’m guessing he snagged his shorts on the door handle—it isn’t the first time. I’m also guessing he struck out with his beckoning middle finger, and he’s trying to bring the party back here.

On the one hand, I’m thanking fuck for the reprieve, but on the other hand, I’m saying, “Shit.”

“Where?” The dumbass spins in a circle with a disgusted look pointed at the ground.

“It just walked in.” Camille sneers at him, and it’s the last thing I see before I stalk the hall to my bedroom, blocking out Banks’s comeback with a slam of the door. I need a break from her eyes,and a fucking lock on my door.

First thing tomorrow, I’m getting that done.

I flop back on my bed, and wait for the sound of Camille’s door to close so I can get the fuck out of here.

I’m tired of having to leave my own house. I’m tired of wanting to.

But I can’t stay here right now. I can still feel the steam that refuses to dissipate. It’s heating my skin, tightening my muscles, clouding my vision. The fight with Camille—if you can even call it that—helped, but not nearly enough. It didn’t exactly go the way I needed it to. And dealing withCamille, I should’ve known it wouldn’t.

I try to literally blow the rest out with deep puffs through my lips that dissolve to bursts of laughter that end with a groan into my hands.

I need Reyna.

Of all the damn nights. . .

My hands release my face and fall to the bed. There’s just one thing left for me to do. My original plan that I should’ve pulled off at the beach.

The click of the guest room door closing finally sounds, and I spring to my feet. It’s time to take the party back out.

Thankfully, Banks is exactly where Camille and I left him. I see his legs first as they swing off the side of the couch. I see his hands next as they flail in the air to the sound of “Sunday Morning Coming Down”. This is the last song my dad listened to while he prepared dinner on the last night before trading us in for a new family.

Real fucking hilarious that Banks landed on it.

The song is low enough that I couldn’t hear it from my room, so my mom can’t hear it from hers.

“Yo,” I say to get his attention, and his head pops up, his mouth widening into a smile.

“Dude, this song issick.”

“Yeah, it’s sick,” I say. “Turn it off.”

His smile drops. “I just started it!”

I rip the remote from his hand and silence Johnny Cash. I toss the remote to the side table, out of Banks’s reach so he can’t turn it back on before I get his ass moving with my next words. “We’re drinking. Let’s go.”

“Hell yeah we are!” He cheers as he jumps up and follows me out the door.

I can already feel more sand accumulating inside my shoes as I shuffle down the side of a dune, my way guided by the light from the stars and the moon. The party’s over, this side of the beach vacated, save for a couple barrels, flames all out. The waves sound choppy now, frustrated—every slap against shore a small, comforting reminder that they have shit days, too.

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