How I Fly (24 page)

When he pulls at the necklace that’s around my neck, the beach glass clanks against it loudly. “You’re really caught up in this ratty thing. What is it?”

I place both hands on my camera and hug it tightly against my chest so the necklace won’t pop out, and whisper, “A necklace. Don’t break it…please. It’s old. Twists up easily.”

*Like my heart. Like my mind. Like the lies I just told you.*

“I’ll try not to…hold on.”

I suddenly panic that he’s going to see the necklace and remember the beach glass. Then I panic that he’ll see the beach glass and not remember at all what it is, which to me would be worse. So just as he’s pulling it up, I stop it from moving outside my neckline again.

I feel it stretch into my skin, and then I hear it snapping. “Oh…”

“Damn,” he says. “I’m sorry. Whatever it is, I’m sure it can be fixed.”

*Wonders: Can it be fixed? Is any of this allowed to be fixed?*

While he’s unaware that I’m struggling to fight off more stupid tears, he pulls the strap free. My hair falls out of my braid and hides my face just as my necklace, his necklace—
our necklace
—drops to my waistline.

I catch it in the palm of my hand before it falls out of my shirt, ball it up, and shove it in my pocket without meeting his gaze. I had no right to put that necklace back on in the first place. What was I thinking?

He pulls out his iPhone and lights the space around us with the screen.

“Ellen. What was it? Is it okay? I can fix anything. You know I can. Show me.”

*Can’t fix this. Can’t.*

“Oh. It’s fine. No harm done. I can re-knot it myself.” I flip my hair to the side, and suddenly we’re face to face—and I’m way too close to his lips. I push against his shoulders so I can stand, but instead I almost topple onto him. Before I fall, Cam quickly sets me on my feet. I’m suddenly missing my crutches more than ever. Again, what was I thinking?

“Thanks,” I say, after he helps me balance then steps away.

*Notes to self: Huge lessons learned. Promises to self: Never again. Never again.*

“Anytime,” he says, giving me a funny look.

“I’m going to go. I—I guess I’m tired. See you tomorrow?”

“Can I walk you?” He lights up the pathway at our feet, and his smile is achingly beautiful and sweet. Those silver-gray eyes of his are half lit by the moon, and half by the light from his phone. I could swear they’re shining in a way I’ve never seen before, but it could be that’s because I’ve never looked at him through gallons of unshed tears in the dark before.

Ellen Foster the Camden Campbell addict returns with such full force I almost gasp out loud—because this addict just forgot everything I ever learned in rehab. I’m staring and wishing I could snap one or two shots of his face like this. Damn his beautiful, kind, and perfectly photogenic face.
Why is he so beautiful?

When I don’t answer his question, he quirks one brow and says, “I could…give you a piggyback ride back to the hotel?”

His question removes every ounce of air I had left in my body. The memories of me and him and how we used to
be
so happy
crash into my chest like I’m getting hit with fists. I shake my head, working to come up with words not sobs. “I. Don’t think…” I motion to the hotel behind us. “It’s so close I want to walk,” I lie. “But—thank you.”

He nods, and his eyes lose some of their light. “Right.” He’s shaking his head now. “I’m sorry if that question was out of line. Old habits—they die slow for me.”

“For me, too.” I turn and walk away as quickly as possible. That’s because my hand only wanted to rest against his face while I imagined kissing away his worried frown.

But I can’t. Of course I can’t.

Because he and I just made it to this wonderful night where he and I can finally hang out together—
as friends.
I don’t want to lose that or him ever again.
I’ll take what he wants. I’ll take what I can get, because I waited so long for this, and I can’t take being disconnected from him ever again just because I miss kissing him.

As I’m walking back, my right hand begins to ache. I’ve been holding the lump of beach glass and twine so tightly that my fingers are throbbing. When I get back to my room and lay the necklace down to survey the damage, I realize one of the glass pieces—the smaller, purplish-blue one—along with my favorite leaf charm are no longer connected to the necklace.

I tie up what’s left, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I put it back around my neck before I go to sleep, vowing to take it off for good when I wake up.

Cam

We’re all stuffed like sardines in the overheated photography classroom. It’s Friday. Showcase day. The day Professor Perry features our work for all to see. At the end of this
special day
there will be announcements as to who has been chosen as finalists for the WOA senior scholarship offering.

This means we’re all excited, hopeful, nervous—everything. It also means it’s not only students crowded in here. The room is packed with a whole bunch of administrator-type people. There are also two bused-in groups of middle school kids who are doing a summer arts day camp somewhere else in the city. Apparently they get to also cast votes on our work. Professor Perry told us that their opinion, though interesting to the group, does not carry any sort of weight, but they like to keep the kids involved.

All of the WOA students, including me, are sitting in a semicircle up front on the lowest level. The worktables have been moved out to allow for the guests to have the comfortable seats. I’m stuffed between Ellen and Laura, who’ve been locked in some sort of whispering fest that includes Ellen’s mom and Laura’s Aunt Judith over text.

Unfortunately, the fancy overhead projector and giant high-tech screen that is supposed to flash our amazing submitted work for the world to see isn’t working. At all. Based on the rising temperature and humidity in here, I suspect it’s overheated because the air conditioning is also not working. My guess is it’s some sort of bigger electrical problem that will be resolved as soon as someone flips the breakers in the basement.

Hopefully I’m right and we won’t be stuck here like this for too long. I shoot a glance at Harrison, who’s sitting on the far side of Ellen. His arms are crossed over his knees, and he’s acting like he’s ignoring her, but from where I sit, I catch Harrison’s eyes traveling over her. I suddenly get that he’s staring at her leg. It’s the leg that used to be in the black boot. Because it’s the last week of our program, Nash gave her permission to have the boot off for the remainder, but he’s ordered her to keep the crutches as a safety precaution. Maybe it’s first time Harrison’s been able to have a close-up view of her uncovered leg, because he’s checking out the scars on her ankle—and he’s hardly able to hide the rude disgust in his expression. If Ellen looks up right now—if she sees his face—it’s going to kill her.

Thankfully, the ass seems to have looked his fill, and he turns away.

I toss a glance over at Patrick. From the look on his face, he just saw what I just saw. From his murderous expression, I know Patrick would love to pound Harrison all kinds of ways, but he and I have had many good lessons in anger management and consequences. I hold up seven fingers and mouth,
Seven. More. Days.
That’s to remind him of what we talked about last night when we were both coming up with ways we wished we could fry Harrison Shaw on a spit. Even Laura was piping in her ideas, because finally she sees Harrison’s for the shady jerk that he really is.

Patrick grimaces and shakes his head, holding up one fist that says he doesn’t give a crap how many days are left. I’ve called Patrick off on most of his paranoia about Harrison’s behaviors, which have become even shadier since we all returned from Grand Bend. But I think Harrison’s new levels of strange just has to be normal. I can suspect what the dude is feeling. He probably flipped when we got back to the dorms and he realized he was suddenly odd man out when it came to all of us. And we made sure he was
way
the hell out.

I’m sure he also started going out of his mind with regrets about Ellen.

Who wouldn’t?

The poor sucker just let go of a rainbow. He must be sick every time he opens his eyes in the morning and realizes she’s no longer his awesome girlfriend.

I sigh, happy at that thought. I’m also happy that Patrick’s on the far side of Laura, so he’s safe from getting arrested. Laura’s distracting him by flipping her hair so many times while muttering, how hot it is that she’s covered my entire left side with all of her gold glitter. I normally don’t mind it, but today and in this cramped spot, I feel like blaming all of her glitter flecks for adding heat to this already hot room.

Ellen has grown quieter and quieter. She’s starting to slump forward so she can lean heavily on her elbows and arms. I suspect she’s doing this because her left hip hurts from being stuck in the crisscross sitting position so long. It’s a position that is usually excruciating for her, but one that Professor Perry commanded of us all. She’s placed her crutches over by the door, and I have a suspicion that when it’s time to stand she’s going to be so cramped up that she’ll need me to help her stand. I wonder if, without the boot, the unprotected ankle is also bothering her some, as well as her hip. I lean forward and try to catch her eye so I can see what her pain levels might be. That’s when I realize she’s actually falling asleep with her chin on her hands.

Ah, but she’s so damn cute.

I have this huge urge to slide closer and pull her into my arms. But I don’t. Not unless she asks me directly will I touch her.

I can’t and…I won’t.

Even if it kills me.

And it is, in fact, killing me.

I lean forward on my knees, pretending that I’m not checking her out while I totally check her out. She’s wearing these rumpled shorts and this sexy, slightly see-through cream-colored blouse that drives me insane every time she wears it. As if the universe likes to taunt me for how I long for this girl, she sighs. Just then, her heavy, shower-damp braid slides around her back, shifting every ounce of air between us until I’m wrapped up in the intoxicating scent of vanilla-shampoo-heaven. I eye the band at the bottom of her braid, wishing it would slide off so that her hair would slowly unwind so I could—

I almost have to slap my own face, as I tell myself to stop.

When she pulls in another deep, shuddering breath, like she’s seriously dreaming, and settles her cheek so she’s facing me with her eyes closed, then licks her lips, my heart can’t help it—my whole body can’t help it. Everything flips so damn hard.

Because…damn…but she is so…beautiful.

I have to cross my arms tightly over my chest while quietly scooting myself toward Laura to create the max distance away from Ellen, because if I don’t…I’m going to put my arms around her and pull her up next to my chest so she can sleep comfortably.

And hell yes…then I’m going to kiss the top of her head in front of all of these people.

But, like I said, unless she asks me first…I can’t and I won’t.

This is because I’m being very patient. If this past year hasn’t taught me how to be patient where Ellen Foster is concerned, then I’ve learned nothing. I used to tease Patrick about taking so long to make a big move on Laura, and oh, did I tease him. Hell, I’ve decided Patrick is some sort of master ninja. When I arrived here and found out the guy had still not sealed the deal—not even grabbed a second kiss off Laura London after all these months—I even called him pathetic. I rolled my eyes and hinted at his sanity levels, and he simply shrugged. When I pointed out that he’d been following Laura London around like a puppy for something like nine months, he’d merely answered that he didn’t mind.

That he could and would wait.

I now totally understand Patrick. And although we didn’t talk about our feelings or anything like that together, I did apologize to him this week for being an ass about the topic I didn’t quite understand.

Or…hell, maybe I understood it, but I wasn’t willing to admit to it.

And I’m talking about love.

Love. Love. Love!

I was in love with Ellen back when we first started dating, but I was always afraid of myself and of my dad’s reaction to it. I was also still in love with Ellen during my time locked up. But again, I was afraid that she hated me. That she wasn’t okay. Guilty for still loving her after what I’d done. I was still in love with Ellen the second I saw her again here on campus, but again, that was connected to all kinds of fears and even more guilt. I thought I could love her enough to let her go, and I did just that. And I suppose as long as she was happy—blissfully happy—then I was willing to leave that love, my love for her, alone.

But…since that night we spent together working at the lake in Grand Bend, I’m different. I’m not going to leave love or her alone again. I love Ellen Foster so much, and so deeply that I’m no longer afraid, and I sure as hell no longer feel guilty that I love her.

I can’t, because I’m so in love with her there’s not room for anything else but that love. And I will wait. As long as it takes. Because…despite all that she told me that night about us being friends, I now know she’s been waiting patiently and in love with me, too.

I glance over at her again, and I chuckle because the girl is actually conked out sleeping in a crowd. My eyes go along her neck, and when I spot a thin line of tattered, re-knotted twine, my heart goes insane with even more happiness.

It also makes me more patient than any saint. More patient than Patrick. Because deep inside my pocket, I’ve got this beach glass that’s been made into a pendant that belongs to Ellen.

Only it also belongs to me.

Or…should I say, it belongs to
us
.

Thankfully, I’d used the light on my cell phone to light up the pathway for Ellen as she walked quickly walked away the other night. I saw something drop out of her hand, and when I brushed it out of the sand along with this cool, tiny leaf charm that fell with it, my knees almost buckled. I recognized the beach glass instantly. I was so stunned and relieved at the beautiful, hopeful significance of the two items lying in my hand that I’d almost shouted out loud.

The little leaf charm got to me the most, because it reminded me of our first kiss. Had she placed it there to also remind her of us being together underneath all of the falling leaves? My mind spun with how many promises I’d made in that letter I’d written to her. She might have been walking away from me and back to the hotel, but as I slid the beach glass and the leaf into my pocket, it felt like she’d stepped directly back into my heart.

If she was wearing this around her neck, then she’s still all wrapped up in our past, our present, and hopefully our future as much as I am.

All I have to do is watch over her and wait.

One day she’ll realize staying apart hurts more than being afraid of losing a friend.

Once she understands that, I’ll give her the charms back.

And kiss her. Of course.