“What are we shopping for?” she asks. She looks up, her green eyes meeting mine. They’re wary, though.
“Condoms,” I say, deadpan. Her mouth falls open. I lean close to her face and whisper loudly, “I’m kidding.” I hold up my wrist, the hand that’s not holding hers, and say, “I need some kind of anti-inflammatory.”
“Oh,” she says as she begins to deflate. But then she grins and shakes her head.
“Something wrong?” I ask. I already know that she’s unsure how to respond to me. But I’m hoping I can shock her into just being herself. I want her to be just her. Not the her that was created by the trauma of her assault. I just want to see her.
She shakes her head and draws her lower lip between her teeth.
“You got to stop doing that, princess,” I say. “You’re killing me here.”
She tenses up. “Doing what?”
I reach out and touch her lower lip with the pad of my thumb. I halfway expect her to jerk back. Or clock me. But she does neither. She smiles and ducks her head, her hair falling in her face. I very slowly brush it back and tuck it behind her ear. She smiles shyly and looks everywhere but at me. “What kind of pain reliever do you want?” she asks. She starts to walk toward the aisle, but I don’t let her hand go. I would follow her just about anywhere right now, so I let her lead me in the right direction.
I flex my hand. “I doubt anything is going to make a difference.” It’ll be all better by tomorrow, but she’s already perusing the shelf, looking for the right one. I step up close to her and put an arm around her waist. She looks up at me, her cheeks growing rosy. “I love that I can do that to you,” I say quietly.
She nods and bites her lower lip again. “Me, too,” she says.
I let her go for a minute and walk over to the other aisle to catch my breath. Tic Tac seriously needs some breath mints. I have to figure out that boy’s name, too, because I can’t keep calling him Tic Tac in my head. I pick up some breath mints for the kid and walk back toward where I left Reagan. Only she’s not alone when I return.
Reagan
I want to go back to the quiet, quaking silence I had with Pete, but he’s one aisle over when Chase spots me poring over the pain relievers from the end of the aisle. He calls my name and starts in my direction.
“Reagan,” Chase says, like he didn’t just see me yesterday. “I was just thinking about you.”
He’s always full of platitudes. I can’t tell if he’s sincere or not, which is one of the things I don’t like about him. “Hi, Chase,” I croak out. I look left and right and don’t see Pete. “What’s up?”
“I was just about to call you. My dad got tickets for tomorrow night to the dance at the country club. Do you want to go with me?”
“She’s busy tomorrow,” someone calls from the end of the aisle. Pete comes toward us, his gait slow and ambling. His body is loose and relaxed, yet I know it’s not. Not really.
“Who’s he?” Chase asks.
Pete holds out his hand to shake. Chase looks at it like it’s dirty. Pete pulls his hand back and reaches for mine. I pull mine back and cross my arms beneath my br**sts. “Chase, this is Pete.” I lean my head toward Chase. “Pete, this is Chase.”
“Nice to meet you,” Pete says.
“Chase and I go to school together,” I rush to say.
Pete smiles. “Lucky bastard,” he says.
Chase’s eyebrows draw together. He looks at me. “So, you’re busy tomorrow night?” he asks. He ignores Pete, which pisses me off. Pete’s been nothing but nice until now.
But there’s steel in Pete’s voice when he replies. “I told you she’s busy.”
Chase flexes his hand, balling it up into a fist. Pete still appears relaxed. But he’s not. He doesn’t need to posture to seem fierce the way that Chase does. He just is. And he’s so much more. “I’d like to hear that from her.”
“I’m—” I start to say.
But Pete puts his arm around me and says, “I’m taking the liberty of speaking for her.”
I look up at him. “Don’t speak for me,” I say. I lift his arm from around my shoulders. “Did you get everything you need?” I ask.
“Not yet,” he says slowly. His eyes dance across my face. “Why don’t I go finish my shopping?” he asks. He raises an eyebrow at me in question. I nod. He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear before he leaves.
“Who the hell is that?” Chase barks. He watches Pete’s prideful swagger all the way down the aisle until he disappears from sight. Chase looks down at me.
I shrug. “He’s a friend.”
“Since when do you have friends like that?” he asks. He steps toward me, and I step back, until my back is against the shelves behind me. I don’t like to be cornered, but Chase has no way of knowing that. I skitter to the side so that I’m not hemmed in.
“Friends like what?” I ask. I know he’s referring to the tattoos. Pete walks by the end of the aisle and waves at us, and then he winks at me. A grin tugs at my lips. I shrug again. “He’s really very nice.”
“Where did you meet him?”
I can tell the truth or I can lie. But then I hear Pete one aisle over as he starts to sing the lyrics to Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock.” I grin. I can’t help it. “He’s helping out at the camp this week,” I say instead of the truth. Well, it’s sort of the truth.
“Where’s he from?” Chase asks.
“New York City,” I say.
Pete’s song changes from Elvis to AC/DC’s “Jailbreak.” I laugh out loud this time. I can’t help it.
“Your dad’s all right with you hanging out with him?”
My dad is covered in tattoos, too, but most of his are hidden by his clothing. “He likes Pete,” I say. “I do, too.” Chase puts one arm on the shelf behind me and leans toward my body. I dodge him again, and he looks crossly at me. “Don’t box me in,” I warn.
He holds up both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. But he still looks curious. “So, about tomorrow,” he says.
“I can’t,” I blurt out.
I think I hear a quickly hissed, “Yes!” from the other side of the aisle, but I can’t be sure.
Chase touches my elbow, and it makes my skin crawl. I pull my elbow back. “Don’t touch me,” I say.
Suddenly, Pete’s striding down the aisle toward us. His expression is thunderous, and I step in front of him so that he has to run into me instead of pummeling Chase like I’m guessing he wants to do. I lay a hand on his chest. “You ready to go?” I ask.
He looks down at me, his eyes asking if I’m all right. His hand lands on my waist and slides around my back, pulling me flush against him. He’s testing me. And I don’t want to fight him. I admit it. Chase makes my skin crawl, and Pete makes my skin tingle. It’s not an altogether pleasant sensation, but only because I can’t control it. He holds me close, one hand on the center of my back, and the other full of breath mints and assorted sundries. He steps toward Chase, and Pete and I are so close together that I have to step backward when he steps forward.
I repeat my question. “You get everything?”
He finally looks down at me. “I got everything I need,” he says. His tone is polite but clear and soft as butter.
I clear my throat and turn Pete toward the front of the store so we can pay for the items he’s collected. “I’ll see you, Chase,” I call back. He waves at me. I feel bad because Chase seems confused. He’s pulling out his phone as we walk away, and I’m already expecting for my dad to hear from his dad. I don’t care. If my dad had a problem with Pete, he certainly wouldn’t have sent me out with him.
Pete steps up to the counter and lays his items beside the register. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and opens it up. I see a couple of foil wrappers in with his cash. Heat creeps up my face. He pays, then closes his wallet and shoves it back into his back pocket. He takes the bag from the clerk and thanks her.
As we walk out the front door, he twines his fingers with mine. I look up at him, blinking away the brightness of the sun. “You really need to learn to behave yourself,” I say. But I can’t bite back a laugh. I just can’t. “‘Jailhouse Rock’? Seriously?”
He shrugs, but he’s grinning too. “It seemed appropriate.”
I bark out a laugh so loud that I cover my mouth in embarrassment. “It was so inappropriate,” I say.
He sobers and looks at me after we get in the truck. “Who’s that guy to you?” he asks.
“He’s a friend,” I say with a shrug. “That’s all.”
“Why didn’t you tell him where I’m from?” he asks. He’s waiting with bated breath, I think.
“I did.”
He shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”
“He asked where you’re from. I said New York City. What more did you want me to tell him?”
“The truth would be a good start,” he mumbles.
“Jail is a place you stayed for a while, Pete. It’s not where you’re from.”
He snorts.
“That would be like the boys saying they live at Cast-A-Way Farms after staying for a week.”
“That’s not entirely accurate.” He rocks his head back and forth as if he’s weighing my words. Then his eyes narrow. “You didn’t let him touch you.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I don’t let many people touch me.” I had better tell him the truth. “We went on a date once or twice,” I say.
“You’ve been on dates with him and you still don’t let him touch you?” He lifts his brow at me.
I nod, unsettled by his question.
“Good,” he says. He grins.
I start the truck and lay my right hand on the console between us, driving with my left. His injured arm comes up to settle beside mine and his pinkie crosses over mine, wrapping around it. It’s comfortable. It’s kind. It’s unsettling in a settling sort of way, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Quit overthinking it,” he says, smiling out the window. He’s not even looking at me.
“Okay,” I say quietly. I settle back in my seat and scoot my hand closer to his.
My nerves are a mess by the time we get back to camp. Pete looks over at me and smiles. “Honey, we’re home,” he sings, grinning. But then he quickly sobers. He lowers his head, arching his neck, so he can look into my face. “You’re still overthinking it, aren’t you?” he asks softly.
I nod. I blink furiously to push back the tears. He’s so kind and he’s so sweet, but I’ve labored over this the whole way home. “I’m afraid I can’t be what you need for me to be,” I say quietly. “I just can’t.” I’ll never be normal. Never.
“You just met me,” he says. “How in the world could you know what I need?”