The last person I expect to see at my job interview is Jett, but there he is, a 10-foot-tall decal plastered to the side of a monstrous racing trailer parked in the lot next to the bookstore. His image stands against a checkered-flag background with orange and red flames shooting up from under his feet beside an orange and black Dodge with the number 17 on the door. I guess it’s a picture of his racecar. A smattering of logos, probably his sponsors, lines the top edge. The largest belong to an energy drink and an auto supply store. They must pay the most.
I shake my head. Memaw, Bo, and Gin all trying to force us together when we’re the two least likely to make a match. I want to disappear, fly under the radar, and here he is driving around with his big mug on the side of a trailer.
A large wooden sign with Beachin’ Books painted across it stands at the far end of the next paved walkway. The cement, cracked and stained, is swept clean, and a hedge of white petunias line each side up to a set of wooden stairs. A neon sign flashes OPEN in the second-floor window.
“Cami!”
His voice cuts through the humid air, and I turn my head toward the trailer. Damn. I swore I’d never respond to that name, and here I am looking for him like a lost puppy the moment I hear it. Jett runs across the sparse lawn, more sand than Bermuda grass, from the ramshackle gray building next door. He wears the same clothes from earlier except for the knee-high rubber boots. “Wanted to tell you good luck on your interview.”
“You came all this way to tell me that?”
He points over his shoulder to the building. Part of the bottom floor is an open breezeway leading to a long, wood-planked boardwalk. A row of faded, painted-on letters runs across the side: The Shrimp Shack / Fresh & Local Edisto, SC Seafood.
“This is my dad’s shrimping business. See those big masts out there on the inlet?” He points beyond the structure where two massive white boats sit on the water, each with two large metal arms stretching to the sky.
“Oh…” I mumble, ducking my head to hide my rosy cheeks while wishing for the ability to swallow my tongue for saying stupid stuff.
“But I would’ve.”
“Would’ve what?”
“Come all this way to wish you luck.” He grins as I run my fingers along my brow, swiping away the sweat freckling my skin, partly from the mile-long walk, partly from the way my anxiety skyrockets when he’s within spitting distance.
“Nice trailer.” I thumb over to it. “People never have to guess who they’re driving beside with that 10-foot twin over there.”
“I make it look good, right? My racing team’s idea. Speaking of which…” He turns and yells toward the trailer where two figures lean against the back, watching us. “Hey guys! Come over here.”
They saunter toward us, a girl and a guy about our age or maybe a couple years older. His black hair, dark eyes and russet brown skin contrast her ultra-pale complexion and cotton-candy pink hair. “This is Trévon and Rachel. We race together.”
“What’s up?” Trévon’s voice is gruff. He hinges his fingers in the belt loops of his jeans and stubs the toe of his black boot in the sand. Taller and more muscular than Jett, his prominent brow shadows his deep, almond eyes.
“Hi,” I mutter, forging a small smile, but never take my eyes off the girl.
Rachel walks behind Jett and wraps her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder while she smacks her gum. Stacks of silver and black bangles line her wrists, complementing the small rings in her nose and eyebrow, as well as a black arrow daith piercing. Pretty, in a punk sort of way. From the way she touches him, I automatically wonder if there’s more to their relationship. My stomach churns as the thought crawls deep into my spine.
“You must be Callie?” She squints. “No, Candi? Cami!” She extends one arm in my direction, snapping her fingers. “Jett says you’re here for the summer?”
“It’s CJ, and yeah, until August.”
“And you’re staying with your Memaw? How sweet.” She cocks her head to the side with a condescending smile that implies I’m some sort of immature child. “I should warn you, though. Don’t get used to this face being around too much.” She pinches Jett’s chin and gives it a shake. “He’s gonna be workin’ his butt off to be in top racing form.”
“Jett’s already a beast on the track.” Trévon waves her off and high-fives Jett as Rachel shoots icy daggers in his direction.
“What I mean is he can’t get distracted. The team comes first. Especially this summer. Everything’s riding on it.”
Jett’s face stonewalls as he yanks from her grasp. “Funny, you’re making it sound more like a cult. And by the way, I have a manager, and it ain’t you.”
She narrows her eyes, hands planted on her hips. “Well, I’m sure your Dad…I mean, our manager…would agree.”
“My dad would tell you to concentrate on your own racing. Finishing in the last half of two races in the past season isn’t exactly prime.” He crosses his arms with a taunting grin. She sticks her tongue out at him, then playfully pushes into his chest. He stumbles back a few steps, laughing.
A wave of nausea slinks through me every time she touches him. Every time he flirts back. There’s a battle between the green-eyed monster and the red-eyed devil boiling inside me, and the only clear explanation is I’m sick of the race talk and this would-be lovers’ spat, or whatever this is. But the questions bouncing around in my brain are the worst. Why hadn’t he mentioned her before, and why would he flirt with me? More than that—why do I even care?
“I’m the last thing you need to worry about,” I volunteer, both hands in the air. “I’m not here to crash your racing practice or whatever, just interviewing for a summer job.” I pull my phone from my pocket, backing away from the group. “And I’m late. Gotta go.”
Jett opens his mouth to respond, but I turn and dart toward the bookstore before anyone can issue a rebuttal.
An hour later, along with Mrs. Baxter’s full-frontal, needle-down-my-spine-inducing hug and a smiling, “See you on Monday!” I walk out as the new cashier/stocker/live bait money-taker for Beachin’ Books. She subjected me to no grueling, complex questions, other than a few things like How are you liking Edisto? and How’s your Memaw doing? There was no interview, just Mrs. Baxter showing me proper cash register operation, the pile of new stock that needed shelving, and her signature answer-the-phone greeting.
You’ve reached Beachin’ Books, where every day is a beachin’ good day! How can I help you?
There’s not enough honey in the world to make that flow off my tongue just right, but my lackluster attempts didn’t seem to constitute a problem for her.
Outside, heavy purple-bottomed clouds build in the South, the same direction from which a salty gale is blowing in. What I remember most about visiting Memaw in Charleston are the typical late afternoon thunderstorms, marked by loads of streaked lightning and heavy downpours. I sniff the air. The musky odor of rain floats on the breeze, and I pick up the pace. It’s a twenty-minute walk back to Memaw’s, but by the looks of it, I’ll have to make it in ten or get wet trying.
I cut through The Shrimp Shack’s parking lot. The racing trailer is gone, and the closed sign hangs crooked on the glass storm door. I cross the grass median to the paved walking path that circles the entire island as a few fat raindrops dot my blue long-sleeve blouse. My sandals pinch my toes as I hit double-time.
A golf cart whizzes by me, followed by a rusty green Jeep, and when the hum of another engine approaches, I instinctively glance toward the traffic. Jett’s orange Challenger rolls into my vision, stalking beside me at a snail’s pace. The tinted passenger window slides down into the door.
“Need a ride?” Jett steers with his left hand while he leans across the center console.
When I stop walking, he stops rolling.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” The words simmer with unintentional venom. I bite my tongue, holding back any other spontaneous outbursts waiting to strike.
He jerks his head backward like I’ve spit on him. “You mean Rachel? She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my teammate. And besides, she’s with Trévon.” He pauses, a mischievous spark lighting his face, teasing the corners of his mouth. “Wait—are you jealous?”
I’m fifty-percent jealous. And fifty-percent pissed about being jealous. I want to whack myself in the skull until I remember my “summer of no trouble” policy. “No! I just…she didn’t seem too happy to see me.”
He shakes his head. “Rachel’s not in charge around here. I am. Well, my dad is…so technically, it’s me.” He stares at me, not blinking. “Get in before you get soaked.”
I hold out my palm and gaze upward at the clouds rolling in. “Thanks, but I’m fine. That storm’s probably still a good fifteen minutes away.”
The words no sooner leave my mouth than the lightning flashes and a crack of thunder rumbles across the sky. “I didn’t even get to one-Mississippi on that count.” Jett deadpans. “Storm’s here. Get in already.” He leans across the passenger seat, pulls the handle and pushes the door open toward me.
I slide in—the black leather butter-soft against my bare thighs—and slam the door behind me. The clicking of the seatbelt into place only increases my nerves, which crackle like a handful of sparklers under my skin. I inhale through my nose for four counts and blow it out through my mouth for seven, a breathing technique my therapist says diffuses anxiety in record time.
Jett eyes my ritual and laughs. “Don’t worry. I won’t kill you.”
I cringe and stare straight out the windshield, white-knuckling the armrest and kneading my feet into the mat as he pulls away from the curb. Another bolt of lightning snakes through the clouds and a torrent of rain unleashes, pounding the roof of the car and flooding the windshield so that even the wipers on the highest level barely make a difference. My heart slams in my ears, the big vein in my neck on the brink of sure implosion, while Jett reclines back in the driver’s seat, still with only one hand on the wheel.
“So…you gonna get a car while you’re here?”
“No. I don’t drive.”
He leans forward, whipping his head in my direction. “What? No way! I don’t know anybody our age who doesn’t have a license.” He relaxes back into the leather seat. “Your parents make you wait or something?”
I shake my head quickly. “I have my license. I don’t drive. By choice.”
After a quiet beat, I glance over at him. His face is scrunched, nose crinkled, and mouth slightly open. I instantly turn back to the windshield, hating how his expression implies I’m some kind of weirdo.
“Why would you make a choice like—”
Ahead, a pick-up truck runs the light and swerves in front of us at full-speed. “Watch out!” I yank my legs up in the seat, circling my arms around them.
“What the—” Jett flicks his eyes back to the road and the tailgate of the truck that fills the front glass. He stomps the brake, which saves us from impact but causes the back tires to spin on the wet asphalt. The seatbelt bites into my skin as the car fishtails to the left, then jerks right before the tires grip and straighten out in the lane. “Asshole!” Jett screams.
My lungs refuse to expand. The rain and the taillights swirl together, and bile burns the back of my throat. I sink my head into my knees, wrapping my arms around my head, the same way they taught us in school to do for tornado drills.
“Cami? What’s wrong? Cami!” His words get harder, his tone frenzied. The tips of his fingers press into my arm, and I jerk away.
“That…idiot…almost…hit us!” My screams sputter out through gasps. My lungs remain wilted flowers, limp in my chest.
“Calm down. It’s okay. It wasn’t even that close.” His tone steadies as he pulls the car into an open space on a beach access and shifts to neutral. That’s when he laughs. “Remember, I’m a professional. There’s no shame in a little bumpin’ and rubbin’ if necessary. I got this.”
An inferno ignites in my stomach and explodes upwards into my chest. I stomp both feet to the mat and slap the dashboard in front of me. “No! You don’t! You can’t control what happens if some maniac sideswipes you!”
“Please. I’ve been involved in scrapes way worse than that would’ve been. How d’you think I got this gold tooth, anyway?” He inches up the corner of his mouth and points to the bling on the top row, right beside his pointy canine, like it’s a trophy. “Besides, I would’ve been more pissed about the jackass wrecking my car.” He strokes his hand back and forth on the steering wheel, laughing.
“Laugh it up! It’s all a big game to you, isn’t it?” My control slips as I stab an accusatory finger at him, threatening to wring his neck as the rush builds momentum like a bowling ball rolling down a hill. It sizzles, frantic energy pinballing against my insides. “With your fast cars and your big ego and your devil-may-care attitude. You really don’t get it. You think these cars are your play toys? They’re weapons. Killers!”
Jett’s eyes saucer. “That’s pretty melodramatic, don’t you think? Killers?” He pans his hand in front of the windshield. “We braked hard. We fishtailed. Nobody died.”
I sink back to the seat, the invisible punch to my chest robbing my breath. He has no way of knowing how his words slice through me like a knife, but I want to hate him for it, for bringing back all those horrible images I’ve tried so hard to forget.
He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans closer, leaning in low to try and intercept my gaze. “Cami?”
“My mama and sister died!”
Jett grabs both my arms. I try to wrench free, but his fingers press harder. “Wait. What?”
I shift my eyes away. Why did I let it slip out? Between Memaw’s big mouth and my outbursts, I might as well hire a freaking skywriter to make sure all of Edisto knows.
“You can’t blurt out something like that and then ignore me!” He shakes me a little. “Please…tell me…”
I turn, meeting his eyes head-on, our faces mere inches apart. “Last year. They were killed because some selfish jerk couldn’t stay in his own lane.”
His eyes are red-rimmed with a hint of moisture along the lashes. It’s surreal to see in his what’s eerily been missing from my own for months. I haven’t cried since the memorial service. It’s like I’ve run out of my lifetime allotment of tears, and my body’s dry. My therapist says it’s proof I’m hiding from my grief, hiding from my recovery. Daddy agrees.
It’s all part of the reason I’m in Edisto.
I sigh, giving in to tell him a partial truth. I couldn’t bear the judgement in his eyes if he knew everything. The whole truth. “Eight months ago, some guy ran our car off the road. It flipped and hit a tree, killing my mama and sister instantly.”
“Oh my God.” He repeats it over and over through the fingers clamped over his mouth. “I made all those stupid jokes. I’m so sorry. I…” He flounces back in his seat, mouth hanging wide.
The look on his face, somewhere between shock and pity, is exactly what I don’t want to see. People tiptoeing around me, afraid to say something to set me off. That’s why I never wanted anyone here to know about it. That’s why I should never have let it slip.
I slouch back into the soft leather. “I just want to be normal this summer. Forget it ever happened. At least until August.”
“What’s in August?” he whispers.
Hell. Absolute Hell, that’s what.
“I have to testify at the guy’s trial. He’s been charged with vehicular homicide.”
Jett rakes his fingers through his hair then grips the back of his neck. “My God, I had no idea. Was he drinking?”
“Texting.”
He clasps his hand over his mouth, once again talking through his fingers. “Shit, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
I roll my head against the headrest, looking over at him. He stares back.
“Don’t treat me like some fragile freak. And never mention it again. Ever.”
“I promise.” The look in his eyes tells me he’s being honest. And there’s a hint of something else there too. Understanding? Empathy? I don’t know.
We hold each other’s gaze, and for the briefest minute, a connection, a magnetic pull, ignites between us. A chill ripples through my veins, and I shiver, pulling my arms in tight to my chest.
The walls renew. The moment vanishes.
“Can you take me home? I’m exhausted.”
Jett nods without a word, revs the engine, and pulls into traffic. His silence is a typical response. People either clam up or succumb to diarrhea of the mouth, unable to shut up, rambling about anything and everything in some supreme effort to avoid the subject at all costs.
By the time we pull into Memaw’s drive, the heavy blanket of clouds has pulled back to reveal crystal blue slivers overhead. Jett parks and leaves the car running while he jumps out and walks around to open my door. He trails me up the front steps, and when we get to the door, I stop before walking in.
“Thanks for the ride. For everything.”
“Anytime.” He turns to walk away but pivots on his heel, steps forward, and wraps his arms around me. Hints of coconut, car exhaust, and shrimp whirl around us as his heart pounds against my chest, the warmth of his body encapsulating me.
I clamp my eyes and wait for the involuntary flinch.
It never comes.