Page 95 of Bring You Back

“Then try again,” I blurt as I come to a stop just outside my bedroom.Like I should’ve done,I think with a look at Camille’s closed door, then I face my father. “Try again,” I repeat. He studies me a moment, then gives me a nod right as I disappear into my room, locking myself inside.

When the front door closes, then Mom’s bedroom door closes, I crack mine open.

21

Cheek

Julian

Light shines through my closed lids, rousing me from sleep. I crack my eyes open to the sun—high and glaring through the cracked curtain at my window. The first thought in my head is,Too late for surfing.It’s the first thought every morning when I wake past dawn. But I don’t beat myself up anymore. Getting better sleep at night has reminded me of how good it feels to stay in bed, body wrapped in warm sheets, head pressed into a soft pillow. So I’ve been letting myself rest when I can.

I’ve gotten the firstsback—surfing. Now I’m reveling in the seconds—sleep.

There’s always dusk. Especially now when the only action my dick sees when the sun sets is the inside of my hand.

On that thought, I’m wide awake, sitting up and reaching for my shorts to grab my phone. I call Reyna. After several unanswered rings, her voice message, said in her cheery, almost flirtatious lilt, tells me to leave her a message and, on a tease, adds, if she likes the sound of my voice, she’ll call back sooner. I chuckle every time I hear it.

The low beep prompts my sigh, and I say, “I’m sorry.” What else is new? “I keep fucking up and saying shit I don’t mean.” I rub a hand down my face, hoping the gesture will help me find words. It doesn’t. “Just come see me,” I say, then glance at the time on the screen. “I’ll be at the house for another hour, the surf shop after that.” I tack on another “I’m sorry” before hanging up.

I make my way to my still cracked door and pull it open enough to look out. The guest room door is open. Camille’s up. Dishes clatter from the kitchen, the fridge emits its suction sound from being opened.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told Reyna to come see me. Camille and I haven’t exactly had time to talk about last night.

What about last night?We weren’t doing anything.Why do I have to keep reminding myself of that?

Because it’s a lie. Anything I do with Camille is something. Last night, simply holding her hand in the back of my Jeep felt like the most meaningful thing I’ve done all year. Reyna would definitely find meaning, hounding me until I told her what she needed to hear. EvenBankswas on my ass.

So, I lie to myself one more time—we weren’t doing anything—and decide there’s nothing to talk about. Not where last night is concerned.

I backtrack, gather some clean clothes, then lock myself in the bathroom.

Camille

“You like tapping things, don’t you?”

My mouth slows around a bite of cereal, and my ears register the tapping just as my fingers stop dancing against the bowl. I start chewing again and eye Julian. He’s standing at the fridge, hair damp from a shower, stray rivulets running down his neck to be absorbed by the collar of his light green shirt. His hard features are softened some, especially around the eyes. His head is cocked as those eyes watch me with amused curiosity. This combination, captured under a bright light, makes him look younger. Boyish. Like the Julian of last summer, with just a hint of those sharp edges. I’m starting to think they’ll never be completely dulled away. Change doesn’t really leave you once it happens. And if my fluttering insides tell me anything about the way his stare is holding mine—I don’t mind.

He's showing himself in peeks.

He’s coming back to me.

I swallow the now mushy cereal. “You could say that.”

Naomi certainly did. She had texted me earlier in the week asking if I wanted to borrow her camera. I wanted to say yes, but I told her I’d think about it.

Julian watches me a moment longer, then heads for the cupboards. “New habit?”

My response is to take another bite of cereal, and he swipes the box once he’s beside me holding a bowl of his own.So we’re doing this again. Game on.

I yank the box back to my side. “Get your own.”

“I want some,” he protests, pulling it back to his side.

“It’s mine,” I say, sliding it back to me, and a full-fledged fight ensues over this box.

“It’smyhouse,” he argues.Slide.

“It’smycereal,” I counter.Yank.

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