My eyes are on his brown leather shoes, my voice soft. “Hey, Cameron.” I’m trying my best to smile but it feels like my face might crack.
His voice sounds strained, like I said something wrong. “Hey, Vee.”
“Your band’s in the tour too?” I’m unsure of what to say but I need to fill the silence. I force myself to look him in the eyes just for a moment as I mutter, “Small world.”
And really it is, because what are the odds?
“Uh, Vee—” Anders is looking at me like I’ve got two weeks to live and he doesn’t know how to break it to me. “Cam’s inourband?” It’s not a question—he’s gauging my reaction.
Of course he is. The universe hates me.
I’m unable to form a coherent thought. “Oh.”You’ve got this, Virginia. Slap on a smile and get through this.
Logan moves next to Cameron and throws an arm across his back. “We needed to add a fourth guy. We picked him up a few months ago.”
This is thenew guyLogan has been mentioning for months?
Logan’s smile is still assaulting me. “Just like old times, huh, Vee?”
I want to smile, to be happy, because I need to believe that Logan really did believe me when I told him Cameron and I weren’t a serious thing. And he thinks he’s reuniting long lost friends; bringing back joy-filled memories. Because if it isn’t that, then he lured me onto this bus for three months, knowing I’d be trapped with an ex-whatever. Logan and I have been friends since we were nine. He knows how to push my buttons, but I don’t believe he has an actual death wish.
I’m trying to smile, but I’m not sure if my lips are actually cooperating, because my eyes are locked on Cam and my brain is screaming, “Punch that asshole in the face!”
God, it’s hard not to notice that face.
All of the lines that used to be soft are hard. His eyes seem greener. Gone are the preppy polo shirts and khaki cargo shorts, replaced by a tailored, dark blue button-down rolled up his taut forearms. A pair of perfectly worn jeans hangs low on his waist. He is stunning.And I want to punch him in his beautiful fucking face. Is it thumb-in when you punch someone or thumb-out?Too bad twelve-year-old Vee didn’t pay attention to any of Dad’s self-defense lectures.
Logan strides toward me. “Aren’t you glad you came, Vee?”His eyes glow with excitement. “This is going to be epic.” Logan lunges at me, throwing his arms around my waist and hoisting me in the air. Our chests press together as he lifts my feet off the ground and bends backward. He has the biggest grin I’ve ever seen, and it looks like it may split his face in half. Logan thinks he’s making me happy.Poor, delusional Logan.
CHAPTER TWO
THEN
CAMERON
It hurts to move. The beach is nearly empty, my skin is hot and tight, and the walk back to the apartment is beginning to feel like an epic pilgrimage. My sand-covered surfboard, Lucy, is scraping between my ribs and bicep with every step, slowing me down. I could dump her in the woods along the sidewalk and cover her with some leaves.Maybe no one will notice her. I can just grab her tomorrow on my way back.I hesitate along the trees, but can’t bring myself to do it. Lucy feels like the closest thing I have to a friend in this town. Or at the least, the closest I want. It’s a dick move to abandon your only friend in the woods.
I’ve spent the last two months in Riverton doing pretty much nothing. During the day, I walk from my apartment down to the beach that edges the town. A lot of my time has been spent making failed attempts at freshwater surfing. I was sucked in by the bastards who sell the fancy, airbrushed boards downtown. I bought myself Lucy as a belated eighteenth birthday present. “Lake surfing is the next big thing,” they’d claimed.
Those assholes are delusional.
The store is covered in pictures of surfers standing on top of rolling waves. Every one of them looks carefree. Like the two guys in my junior-year Trig class who always had weird half smiles and reeked of weed every time they came back from lunch. From what I’ve personally seen of Lake Michigan, those photos aren’t the real deal at all. Despite spending most of my time staring out at that giant blue puddle, I haven’t seen anything close to a surf-able wave. I should know—I’m from California. I’ve surfed before, onactualwaves. Not freshwater hopes and dreams.
Still, I spent six hundred bucks on the board, so the least I can do is drag it down to the beach with me every day. That way I feel like I’m actually using it. Even if I’m just lying out on the water paddling out of view. If I can’t ride a wave, then I figure lying under the sun—feeling the swells roll under me—is as close to happy as I’m going to get. Just me, the board, the waves. Life’s a lot less complicated out on the water, away from everything. I can shut my brain off for a little while and I’m normal; I feel almost numb out there. Maybe it’s just the chill of the water, but I don’t think so.
***
My new apartment isn’t far from the beach, but by the time I take a shower and change into a fresh pair of board shorts and a polo, it’s nearly seven o’clock—hours past my normal visiting time. Lake Terrace Assisted Living is only a few miles away, sitting along Riverton’s busiest street. It’s a long, curved cluster of gray three-story buildings flanking a kidney bean pond. Tiny evergreen trees line the winding sidewalks. There are small patches of flowers scattered throughout the large yard, and wooden benches are everywhere.
I’ve come here exactly sixty-three days in a row, and I’ve never seenanyoneoutside. Not walking the sidewalks or at thepicnic tables. Or sitting in the rowboat that lies suspiciously next to the pond (which I’m pretty sure is just a wooden prop to make it look like people actually go outside). It probably makes families feel better to think their loved ones are wandering around in fresh, colorful gardens, rather than lying in stale, white beds. A wave of cool air engulfs me as I enter the double doors and goosebumps spread across my sunburned arms. Behind the half-moon reception desk, a nurse absentmindedly waves me on. Everyone visits on the weekends. It’s always quiet—almost eerie—when I come on weeknights, and it’s my favorite time to be here.
A nursing home has become your own personal sanctuary. You’re pathetic, Cameron.
Down a long hallway—covered in a flowery red-and-green wallpaper my mother would hate—room 207 smells like eucalyptus, baby powder, and lavender. It’s a mixture of the two women who share the room—my Gram, and another elderly woman named Evelyn, who, like Gram, seems to be asleep ninety percent of the time.
I sit at the far end of the room next to the bed, facing the blue fabric curtain that acts as a wall, breaking the room into two halves. Gram has one side of the room, farthest from the door but closest to the window, and Evelyn occupies the other. Gram doesn’t talk much, especially in the evenings, but when she does it’s usually to call me by my father’s name.
She usually wakes up to find me sitting beside her bed, scribbling in a notebook or with earbuds in. “Trevor?”
