Page 72 of Sand in My Boots

“What?” I bark into my watch, my phone buried deep in my bag.

“Tell me you didn’t hurt her.”

“I would never.” Not intentionally or unintentionally. It’s not possible.

“Want to talk about it?”

“About as much as I’d like to re-experience poison ivy from STEM Camp.”

“Ouch.” I swear he shudders, and I can’t help the smile breaking through my crap mood. “Surf tomorrow?”

“Six a.m. I’ll be there.” Probably won’t share my story, but being on the waves will help my mental mood.

“See you then. Here if you want to talk.”

“I won’t.” I go to hang up but quickly add, “Thanks.” I want to say more, for every opportunity he’s given me, for letting me have this . . . whatever it is with Juli, for not kicking my ass, but my mouth won’t form the words.

“If you hurt her, you’re dead to me.”

“Message received. Thanks for the blessing.”

He’s quiet for a minute, only speaking when I think he’s actually hung up. “I’m not sure it’s a blessing, but there are worse guys she could find than you, Cameron. You’d treat her right, give her the life she deserves.”

I don’t know what could make him think that, but I’m not about to argue.

“Later.” I disconnect the call.

I’ve made it to my car, but I can’t make myself open the door. Because her scent’s going to be inside. And in such a small area, it’ll be too overwhelming. Ditching the idea of driving home, I start off on foot, my flip-flops not making the best walking shoes, but at least my shower beckons.

And free of anything Juli-related.

At a snail’s pace, it takes about fifteen minutes. Entering through the slider under the back deck, I strip out of my clothes in my bedroom. I’ll toss all the clothes from this week in the washer tonight, but right now, I need a shower. A hot one to wash away the sand from this morning and the lingering memories of the week.

As if anything could erase this past week.

The week drags on like molasses poured out of a jar. I’m going through the motions, but life has lost its luster. It’s not like the guests notice anything amiss—I can put on a show like nobody’s business. Humor has gotten me through a lot of hard times, and it’s my choice of coping mechanisms now. The guys all give me grief, but I’m too bummed to make an effort, amusing or otherwise. The best I can do is a scowl, a grunted, “Fuck off,” or the finger. We’ve been friends for too long for any of them to be offended.

Juli’s promise to “keep in touch” lasts exactly one day. One text message to let me know she arrived home safely on Monday afternoon. My response was lackluster at best.

I think about messaging her at least once an hour, but I can’t pull the trigger. As much as I want to know how she is, how she’s adjusting to being back to real life, a sound part of me doesn’t want to know.

If she’s happy, I’ll be more miserable.

If she’s miserable, I’ll feel worse.

I have one picture on my phone of the two of us from the wedding. She’s smiling broadly, my hand around her hip, pulling her into my side. My smile’s big, too. Whoever took the photo captured the portrait at the exact right moment. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve viewed the photo multiple times a day. I made a copy of the image and cropped myself out of it, staring at her as if she were mine.

At the moment, she felt like mine. Like we belonged together. Like together, we could conquer anything in our path and come out as victors.

Unfortunately, she’s not mine, but that hasn’t stopped me from jerking off to her image.

I keep telling myself the more time that passes, the more days that occur from when we were together, the easier it will be to get over her.

The biggest crock of shit ever.

I’m not exactly sure how to “get over” Juliana Langley, if I “had” her in the first place.

“You seem . . . off. What’s going on with you?”