A loud clanging rings through the darkness, pulling me out of a dreamless sleep, and a nutty sweetness filters under my closed door. What is that? Coffee? And pancakes? My stomach growls its response, but no matter the gnawing inside, I don’t feel like getting up yet. I push my head further into the pillow, the sides fluffing around me. The cotton sheets are too soft, the comforter too cozy, to even consider putting my bare feet on that cold hardwood floor.
I pick up my phone and swipe right. 7:04 a.m. It’s surprising Memaw hasn’t zipped in here already, ripping the covers off, singing some chirpy, weirded-out morning song. She used to do that when we were kids. It was cute then. I’d hate it now.
It’d taken an act of congress to escape her last night, and I hope I didn’t offend when I mumbled something about a headache and being super tired then darted to my room, slamming the door. That probably could have been taken as a slight. I needed some space, and from the looks of the six board games she had stacked on the coffee table, that obviously hadn’t been part of her evening plans.
I burrow further under the covers, the comforter’s hem pulled so high it tickles my nose. The familiar haze of sleep creeps back in, my eyelids turning to lead curtains.
Raaaaawr, Raaaawr, Raaaawr.
The deep revs shoot ice through my veins as I bolt upright, and the wall, which borders my bed on the left side, vibrates. What the hell is that? The loud bursts give way to a deep, gravelly hum. I crawl out from the covers to the iron footboard, pulling back the sheer curtains.
Jett.
The sun glints off the front windshield as the engine silences, and the door pushes open partway, revealing glimpses of him. His flaxen hair is erratically tousled in one of those rebel-without-a-cause styles. He steps to the side and slams the door, twirling his keys a few times around his finger before plunging them into his pocket. The same black sneakers and frayed jeans from yesterday hit the sandy drive.
I swallow hard and readjust my stance closer to the window, my nose leaving a greasy mark on the pane. There’s something about him that pisses me off, but I can’t quit watching, and I don’t know if it’s a residual reaction from Bo and Gin’s obvious hero worship yesterday or from the way my lungs wilted in on themselves when his eyes bored into me.
Jett yawns, fisting his hands and extending them wide overhead. His black V-neck T-shirt pulls up enough to show tanned skin melting into the black elastic waistline of his boxers, which sit an inch above his jeans. He doesn’t have the rippled washboard abs from the magazines, but they’re firm, lean.
He straightens his shirt and bends down, checking his hair in the side mirror. I inch closer, lifting slightly to press even further over the edge of my bed. My left knee tangles in the bedsheet, and I slip, inadvertently smacking the window with my hand as I scramble to brace myself. The curtain swishes back to the side.
I’m a statue. No breathing. No blinking. Surely, he couldn’t hear that, right? He’s all the way next door. I ease my eyes above the sill.
Jett’s staring at my window, eyes locked, lips curled on each edge. He steps backwards and relaxes onto the fender. Propping his weight on the car, his long legs extend out in front of him and cross at the ankles. Without moving his eyes, he slides his phone from his pocket, pausing only a moment to wave at me with his free hand before dropping his head to concentrate on the screen.
I duck out of sight, slinking backwards to collapse into my sheets and yank the comforter to my chin. Maybe he thought it was Memaw. Yeah, that makes sense. He knows her and she knows him, and he’s probably already forgotten about me being in town anyway. I sigh. The oxygen washing through me quiets the terrible thumping in my chest. The last thing I need is some idiot guy thinking I’m hot for him.
My phone buzzes on the pillow beside me. One new notification—a friend request from Jett Ramsey.
Oh my God.
My phone is a bungee cord, pulling me back to it each and every time I wander away. At this rate, it’s going to take me all day to get dressed, braid my hair, and dab on some make-up. A little powder on my face in the en-suite bathroom mirror. A quick phone check. A smidge of gloss. Run back for another quick peek. The finishing touches on my French braid. Did my phone make a noise? Swipe. Nothing. Just the friend request hanging out there in cyberspace, Jett’s profile picture taunting me. Why? Why do I feel like everything to do with this boy is a challenge? And why is it affecting me?
Okay, so I’d done some perusing last night. It’d started innocent enough. I only wanted to see if Gin and Bo had a page, but somehow the nagging need to see if Jett had one took over. Just a peek. That’s what I’d told myself before I stalked through all of his social media pictures over the course of two hours. Most of it was restricted to friends-only content, but internet keyword searches came to the rescue with info dumps of his racing career stats and a gazillion pictures of him in those racing jumpsuits that zip up the front.
What the hell, CJ? I don’t even like this guy, so who gives a crap about a friend request? “You’re a dumbass,” I mumble to myself, clicking Accept.
Ding. You are now friends with Jett Ramsey.
Big whoop. So we’re friends, huh? Just like magic. I snort, pushing back the stupid girly giggles circulating inside and shake my head. Not like he’s going to show up at my door anytime soon.
Memaw hunches over the stove, arm whisking furiously. The frying pan beside her sizzles, little oil pellets popping above the bacon strips. A stack of pancakes, swimming in melted butter, sits on the butcher block island.
She glances over her shoulder. “Morning. Grab those pancakes and put ‘em on the table.” She nods toward the white-washed farmhouse table in the breakfast nook. I grab the plate, my forearm screaming under the weight, and have to use two hands to carry it over.
“You know, I don’t have much of a morning appetite. I hope you have room for all this.” I set the plate on the table, stopping to scan the place settings. One, two, three, four, five. “Why are there so many plates?”
“You never know when company might pop by.” She winks at me and begins humming as she shovels scrambled eggs into her china bowl.
“Memaw…”
A loud clunking echoes from the front porch. The doorbell rings.
“Now, who could that be?” She doesn’t turn around from where she’s forking bacon strips out onto a paper towel-lined plate, her curiosity obviously piqued. I shake my head. I’ve traded in Dad the Ignorer for Memaw the Instigator.
“Funny how guests magically show up.”
She spins around from the stove, bacon plate in one hand, egg bowl in the other, a Miss America grin on her face. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
“Do I have a choice?” We both know the answer is a resounding no.
She bites her bottom lip and pretends to look at the ceiling before catching my eyes once more. “Uh-uh.”
“Didn’t think so.”
I turn and plod through the den to the foyer, my bare feet slapping the hardwood floor. I stomp a little bit harder and glance over my shoulder, but Memaw’s ignoring me, bent over the table, piling food on each plate.
The door’s cut glass utilizes both clear and frosted panels, pieced into a mosaic through which three distinct forms take shape. I pull the door open wide, the chattering outside ceasing as six eyes turn toward me.
“Come on in.” I pan my hand beside me. Gin bounces through the door first, wearing a happy yellow tank top and jean shorts and wiggling her fingers hello.
“Morning, CJ.” Her voice has more sugar than the pancake syrup, but I smile back at her anyway. Bo reaches around from behind for a fist bump. As my knuckles meet his, Jett strolls in, the corner of his top lip curled slightly, holding his fist out toward me as well.
I stare at him, unyielding, pulling my hand into my chest.
“What’s this? I’ve known you as long as they have,” he points toward Bo and Gin, “and we’re online official.”
Gin’s eyes dart between the two of us. “Online official?”
“Jett sent me a friend request.”
“I figured it’d be okay since you about broke your neck watching me out the window this morning.”
Caught, dammit! Three sets of eyes float back to me, two of them wide and eager, one pinched at the corners in a cocky smile. My heart skips a beat (or three) as a fiery wave floods over my cheeks and neck, and I’m acutely aware of them staring at me as the roaring silence rips through my head. “Wasn’t me.” I slam the front door and walk toward the kitchen. The others follow. “Maybe it was Memaw?”
“Yeah. Maybe.” His smug grin translates through the air. I don’t even have to look at him.
Memaw looks up from pouring coffee into a mismatched collection of mugs. “Maybe what was Memaw?”
“Nothing.” I open the refrigerator door and rifle through the top-shelf containers, searching for the glass carafe with the painted dancing oranges circling the rim.
“Why, Jett Ramsey, you get cuter each time I see you!” Memaw clicks her tongue a few times. “You’re all grown up and filling out nice. So handsome. Isn’t he, CJ?”
It’s improper to tell your grandmother to shut up, right? I kick the door shut, walk over, and slam the glass jug down so hard the plates and forks rattle against each other. All the while, Memaw’s pinching his jaw in her palm, wagging it back and forth. I glare at her, trying to hide that shrinking feeling gripping my insides, like all my organs are huddled in a little ball somewhere south of my pounding heart.
“Shouldn’t we eat before it gets cold?” I ask, pulling out the closest chair. Memaw drops Jett’s face and barrels toward me, sliding it from my grip.
“No dear, over there. And Jett, you’re beside CJ.” She motions us to the back of the table, and he falls in line behind me as I walk around to my assigned seat.
Memaw plops in her place at the head of the table, Bo takes the opposite end, Gin sits facing us, and suddenly it’s all crystal clear. Memaw’s coerced them into her matchmaking game, and they’re corralling me and Jett into the alcove of windows, cornering us like cattle on the way to the slaughter.
I sigh and glance over at Jett, who’s rearranging the pancakes and bacon on his plate, acting oblivious, but I can’t help thinking this slick scheme has his name written all over it, too.
“The food’s awesome, Ms. Bessie,” Jett says as he cuts his pancake into small triangles, which he spears onto his fork. A short golden trail of stickiness dribbles from the corner of his lips. “Thanks for inviting me. I owe you one.”
Invited, huh? Memaw glances in my direction, lips pressed into a thin line. She shrugs and dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin, her smile peeking out from behind the paisley paper square.
Gin plows a forkful of eggs into her mouth, stifling a giggle, while Bo stares at his plate and gnaws a bacon strip. Now everyone wants to suddenly clam up? I shift my eyes to Jett. He looks up and shrugs. Five minutes lapse without a word, just a combination of slurps, lip-smacks, and clangs of silverware on plates.
Gin finally breaks the lull and asks me if I’d like to plan a sleepover at her house sometime in the next couple weeks. She sips her orange juice as I mull it over, swirling a spoon around the inside of my coffee mug. It’s been almost a year since I’ve had a sleepover, and that was with Emmalyn. It was always with Emmalyn. The thought of going over to Gin’s almost feels like cheating on my best friend, except I’m not totally sure she’s my best friend anymore or if she’ll even want to talk to me. A twinge of longing circulates in my belly, mixing with the syrup and pancakes.
“Please?” she asks, her doe eyes springing wide in anticipation as she thumbs over at the boys. “It’ll be nice to have someone besides them around.”
Gin’s an innocent, totally unaware of the suckiness life can bring. The worst thing she’s probably encountered is a flaming pimple on the first day of school. But her sincerity is endearing, and the way she’s looking at me, I can’t imagine anyone being able to tell her no. Even cynical old me. “Let me get acclimated, and we’ll plan it.”
“Yay!” She giggles, clapping her hands together.
Bo mocks her in a high-pitched sing-song voice. “We’re gonna have a slumber party and talk boys and do our make-up!”
Not to be outdone, Jett joins in, fluttering his fingers in Bo’s direction. “Oh my gosh, and then we’ll do our nails and our hair, and we’ll spy on Bo!”
I roll my eyes, but Gin’s smile drops as she leans over to swat Bo’s arm. “And what exactly are we going to spy on? My stupid brother with his collection of girly mags, or him chatting online with his internet girlfriend?”
Bo’s cheeks bloom like pink carnations as he squirms in his chair. “Quit making it sound bad. She’s not some random internet girl. She comes here every year with her family, and we…keep in touch.”
“All that work for one week a year,” Jett mumbles.
I elbow Jett’s ribs, and he recoils. “Don’t listen to him. It’s sweet. Any girl would appreciate that kind of effort.”
Bo nods a silent thank you as Memaw pounds her fist on the table, demanding our attention. “So…what’s everyone’s plans for the day?”
What can be so exciting in a sleepy little town like this? My room is already unpacked, but a few interesting-looking books on the hallway shelf caught my attention—ones I wouldn’t mind checking out before visiting Beachin’ Books later. I shrug. “Not much. My interview this afternoon.”
“Dad needs help at the docks,” Jett volunteers, scraping up the last of his syrup along the fork’s edge. “It gets a lot busier once the weather gets warm.”
“Bo and I have to work at the market later. Dad says there’s a big shipment of—” Gin begins, but Bo interrupts, waving his phone in her face.
“Actually, we need to go now. Just got a text. The shipment arrived early.”
They jump from their seats in unison, juggling empty plates and cups in their arms.
“Drop those in the sink. I’ll tend to those.” Memaw looks at her watch then bolts up, too. “Later. I’ve got to get going myself. Promised to help at the charity flower show over at the State Park.”
The three of them rush toward the door in a coordinated flurry, Gin glancing over her shoulder to quickly wish me good luck on the interview. Memaw stops and backpedals into the kitchen, her hand on the doorway molding. “Jett, remember that whole ‘you owe me one?’”
He nods.
“I ordered a patio set and a swing for the yard. It comes in to the hardware store on Thursday. What time Friday should I expect you to assemble it?”
Jett combs his fingers through his erratic hair. “I could be here around eleven, I guess.”
And Memaw strikes again. What she lacks in discretion, she makes up for in tenacity. I grab my dishes from the table and walk them to the sink. “But Memaw, isn’t Friday your volunteer day at the animal shelter? You mentioned it last night, remember?”
“So it is.” She shrugs, a smile creeping over her face. “I guess you’ll have to keep Jett company and bring his lemonade.” She waggles her fingers at us. “Ok, bye now!”
The door slams. We’re alone.
His chair scrapes across the tiles and heavy footsteps echo in the kitchen. I keep my back turned, rinsing the plates under a stream of water, then loading them in the dishwasher.
He stacks his dirty dishes on the counter and reaches for the one in my hand. “Let me help.”
“I got it.”
He grabs hold anyway, pulling it from my grasp, and secures it in the rack. “You told Bo a girl appreciates a little effort, right?”
I hand him two more plates. “Sincere effort.”
He clangs them into place, then grabs for another. His fingertips miss and land on my hand, shooting warm spirals of electricity pulsing across my wet skin. “You don’t think I’m sincere?”
“I don’t know what you are, Jett. I haven’t figured you out yet.” I pull my hand away, then wash out a few mugs and pass them his way.
He drops them into place on the top rack. “Why are you resistant to me and not the others? I’ve known you, like, a day, and you won’t give me a chance.”
Because the others are safe, but he’s trouble. Because I hate the way his eyes microscope in on me, as if he sees below the surface. Because I hate his self-assured swagger. Because I hate how something about him makes me want to like him. Like, really, truly like him. And I can’t have that. “Why should I?”
“Because everyone deserves a chance. Because they all see something apparently you don’t.”
I pop a detergent pack in the holder and slam the dishwasher door. With a push of a button, it whirs to action. “What does that mean?”
I slip past him, walking toward the foyer.
He snatches his phone off the table and follows. “Come on. You do realize this, and me coming over Friday, is a set-up, right?”
I shake my head, slack-jawed. “And you had absolutely no idea about what was going on?”
I swing open the front door, and Jett walks out onto the porch, turning back with a three-finger Scout salute. “I didn’t. Swear.”
His eyes zero in on mine, no looking to the left like liars do, and without a shadow of that world-on-a-string ego he wears like a mask.
I offer a thin smile. “Well, in that case, I’m sorry.”
His gold tooth glints against his extra-white teeth. “I’m not. See ya, Cami.”
A flurry of emotions swirls inside, a whirl of excitement with a twinge of fury. “CJ!” I yell out behind him, but he doesn’t turn around.