Page 99 of Bring You Back

In my Jeep—like I expect her to magically appear next to me.

On the beach when I’m surfing—like I expect her to be there on the sand, cheering me on.

She wouldn’t cheer, I tell myself with a laugh. She’d just stand there, welcoming me back with a teasing remark about my form—which is no longer affected by thoughts of her. But then she’d look at me with pride, showing me a smile that lets me know she’s impressed.

More than half of me is now moving toward her, the parts of me that have held on pushing me to search for what’s behind all of her closed doors.

There’s no time to mull over another decision, because voices carry from the kitchen, my damn curiosity bringing my already slowing feet to a stop.

“I’m so glad it’s helping,” says Mom.

Camille’s laugh is breathy, and the sound pulls a slow sigh from my chest as I rest my head against the wall. “It’s not a magic cure, but yeah. It helps.” She laughs again, but this one is full, touching my ears like she’s right next to me.

“Just give it a try,” my mom encourages with a smile in her voice. “You’ve been thinking about it. And I need some new videos to watch,” she adds on a tease, and my brows narrow. I don’t even let myself try to come up with an answer for what the hell they’re talking about; my head is focused on other words still unsaid.

Something I can work with.

Their voices go in and out, and I need to be closer, but I don’t move, resigning myself to taking what I can pick up.

“Still sore?” Mom’s question comes through, and I lean forward in an attempt to catch Camille’s response.

“It happens,” she says, practically nonchalant about the physical pain of loss.No big fucking deal.Like they’re unrelated. I know from personal experience that they’re not.

I wait for her next words that I know are coming. “It’s okay.”

My jaw clenches as my eyes close. I’m all for Tough Camille. I’m all for her trying to be strong, but this isn’t okay.She’s not okay.

I need inside that guest room. I need to see what exactly we’re dealing with. See what Camille’snotdealing with.

Their voices drop too low for me to make out, and I realize I’ve become an eavesdropper. Among other things I can’t stand. Now I’m a potential snoop.

A definite snoop, I think with another look at Camille’s door.

I’m getting in there.

Camille whips by from the corner of my eye, and I slink back, try to melt into the wall, but she doesn’t see me. The front door opens, then closes.

Dishes clang from the kitchen, and I take a brief moment to lament the fact that the answers are once again at the tips of my fingers, and I can’t touch them. If my mom finds me in the guest room, without Camille, she’ll question me. She hates being snooped on as much as I do.

That’s a funny thought. One I don’t fret over, because now, I have to think of how to get out of this house without having to talk to her.

Maybe if I walk fast, keep my head down, she’ll know I have some place to be. Or she’ll see that I’m purposefully trying to make it out undetected. Either one should work.

I move, feet fast, one after the other—I’m fucking instructing myself on how to walk—eyes on the front door, almost there—

“Julian.”

Her voice stops me. Of course it does.Keep going. Talk to her.Two choices. It’s always two.

The latter wins again.

When she was talking to my dad, right there at that island when I was eavesdropping the first time, she wasn’t thinking about herself, or him. She was thinking about me. She wasspeaking upfor me.

I face her, and she meets my stare with a relieved smile. At my waiting silence, her eyes rove in thought until she releases a slight laugh. “I didn’t think you’d stop. Now I don’t know what to say.”

I do. “Did you know? Before he told you?”

Her relief returns at my questioning while the suddenness of it causes apprehension to swirl in my gut, signaling for me to get away, but I stand against it.

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