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God, I really am turning into a whiny little Betty, aren’t I? I mean, Z’s the one who does the whole dark and brooding thing and can get away with it. I’m the chill one, the fun one, the guy who’s always the life of the fucking party. Since it’s obvious my friends don’t think I can board, I’d better at least deliver on that. Otherwise, what fucking use am I?
I grab a shirt from the closet without even bothering to look at which one it is. I head into the kitchen where I grab a beer from the fridge and down it in a couple of long swigs. Might as well take advantage of the fact that I’m not the one driving tonight. If I drink enough, maybe I’ll be able to forget what I overheard for five minutes.
My phone buzzes with a text—Madison telling me she’s running a little late. It’s just fifteen minutes, but I can’t help feeling like a death row inmate who just got a stay of execution. Not because going out with a super hot snow bunny is a fucking hardship or anything, especially when she’s pretty much a sure thing. But because I need a few minutes—and a few more drinks—before I can be that guy. The one she wants me to be. The one everyone expects me to be.
I grab another beer, down it only a little more slowly than the first one. And wonder when it got to be such a fucking chore to take a gorgeous girl out on the town. This whole dating a new girl every week is my thing, and has been for a couple months now—ever since I promised myself I was going to stop beating my head against a brick wall and move the fuck on. And usually it’s good. Or at least okay. But lately it’s just been one more thing in my life that sucks. One more thing that reminds me that Cam isn’t mine—and that she never will be. Hell, the only reason I even asked Madison out the other night was because I felt like a total tool sitting in that bar, trying to be subtle as I watched Cam trying to be subtle as she watched Z and Ophelia.
We both failed, of fucking course. But that’s nothing new.
Fuck it. I pick up the T-shirt I grabbed earlier, yank it over my head. Self-pity is fucking pathetic and since it seems like I’ve got the market cornered on that already, I figure I should quit while I’m behind.
I’m halfway through brushing my teeth when there’s a knock on the door. A quick glance at my phone tells me Madison’s early. But when I pull open the door, it isn’t Madison who’s standing there. It’s Cam.
For a second, I don’t say anything. Instead, I just stare at her, taking in her crazy red curls, her piercing green eyes, the light dusting of freckles on her nose that show up whenever she spends too long in the sun. I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it. No matter how pissed off I am at her, I can’t ignore the obvious. She’s beautiful. Tough as they come, but so fucking beautiful it makes me hurt.
“Hi,” she says, when I don’t immediately greet her. “You busy?”
“No.” There’s a part of me that wants to slam the door in her face, but I’m not that guy. If I were, maybe she’d like me more. But I’m not, so instead of shutting her out, I pull the door open a little wider, step aside so she can come in if she wants to.
She does. But as she steps over the threshold, I realize she’s limping a little. A quick glance down at her feet—her bare feet—tells me it’s because she’s bleeding.
What the fuck?
“Hey.” I reach out, put a hand on her elbow. It stops her in her tracks, just as I intend. Before this afternoon, it had been months since we’d touched even casually—a conscious decision on her part that I’ve had no choice but to go along with—and the fact that I’m breaking the unspoken rule between us for the second time today gets her attention like nothing else could. “What happened to you?”
She shrugs. “Just some broken glass. No big deal.”
“Broken glass?” I glance outside, but don’t see anything. “On my porch?”
“In my house.”
Now I’m even more mystified. “And you drove all the way over here without cleaning your foot up first?”
She shrugs and for the first time I realize how pale she is. How shaken she seems. I want to demand answers, to find out what—or who—has messed her up this badly, but we’ve been friends long enough for me to know she’ll just shut down if I do that. Cam can’t be pushed—the only way to find out what’s going on with her is to wait for her to tell me.
So I bite my tongue, shove the questions—and my anger—back down. But just because I’m not pushing her, and just because I’m pissed, doesn’t mean I’m going to watch her wince with every step she takes across my hardwood floors.
Without giving her any warning—or any chance to protest—I scoop her into my arms and carry her through my entryway and down the hall to my kitchen. She doesn’t struggle, which is a testament to just how much pain she’s in. Cam isn’t the kind of girl to let a guy sweep her off her feet. God knows, I’ve been trying to do just that since we were freshmen in high school.
After depositing her on the kitchen counter, I reach for the makeshift first-aid kit I keep in the cabinet next to the sink. Every snowboarder has one, a compilation of favorite treatments for bruises, sprains, cuts, and the myriad other injuries that come with the sport. Mine is probably more well-stocked than most, as I’ve suffered pretty much every minor injury a snowboarder can get—and a number of major ones as well. Comes with the territory when you’re trying to keep up with three of the top boarders in the world.
I block that thought out, as it just leads me back to what ha
ppened on the lake this afternoon. With Cam here in my apartment, obviously injured, obviously upset, that’s the last headspace I need to let myself be in. A glance at the clock tells me Madison will be here any minute. Which—no—just isn’t going to happen.
I grab my phone, fire off a quick text telling her something’s come up and I’ve got to cancel. Sure, it’s a shitty thing to do, but Cam’s here and that’s everything. Dick move or not, keeping a date with a stranger when my best friend needs me simply isn’t going to happen. Especially not when the last thing I want to do right now is trade a chance at spending time with Cam for a date with some girl I don’t give a shit about.
Her answer comes back before I can even open the peroxide and it’s as pissed off as I’d expect it to be. With a shrug, I shove the phone back into my pocket and turn to Cam with the peroxide bottle in one hand and a wad of sterile gauze in the other.
“Let me see your foot.”
“I can do it, Luc. It’s no big—”
“Let. Me see. Your foot.”
She glares at me for a minute, but I just glare back. Cam might be stubborn—growing up the only girl with six older brothers pretty much guarantees that she is—but I’m just as stubborn. Especially when it comes to her well-being. Someone needs to be.
She knows it, too, because her protest is half-hearted at best. Almost immediately, she’s sticking her tongue out at me at the same time she’s extending her foot.
