about phones. I’m talking about the last few months. I’m talking about the way I’ve been watching some crummy recording in my room late at night, because one of the things I ache to remember is what it was like when he cheered for me.
Dad takes a step into the moonlight, his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t understand you, Chelsea. Ever since the accident—I tried to give you time. I tried to make excuses for you. If anyone had a right to feel badly, it was you. But this—this doesn’t make any sense anymore, Chelse. The way you lash out—”
“The way I lash out—”
“Yes, the way you lash out. Just like you’re doing to Brandon right now. And the way you mope—”
“The way I what?”
“You don’t even try, Chelsea. The old you would have found a way—some way—to keep going.”
“What?” I bellow. “I didn’t quit! It was taken from me.”
“You’re no one I even know anymore,” Dad says, reaching for Brandon’s hand. The way he examines it, you’d think I’d done permanent damage.
I can’t stand to be in the room. I stomp out of the cabin onto the porch, where I swear the kiss I’ve just shared with Clint has a lingering smell … like a fresh pan of Mom’s white-chocolate brownies. The hot sweetness still clings to the air. And I’m a girl on a strict diet who’s just downed the whole batch. Guilt overpowers me.
I have to get away from this, too—the thought of kissing Clint. I race through the cool moonlight toward the lodge.
I stop just outside the door, tears cascading. There’s no way I can talk to Gabe now, not like this. Maybe though, I think as I stare at the messages in my hand, Brandon’s on to something. Maybe Gabe would be more suspicious if I didn’t return his call—make that calls. About a hundred of them, from the looks of all these messages.
So I push through the door of the lodge, toss all the messages into the wastebasket in the lobby. I wipe my face, fish some coins from my little purse, drop them into the phone. As soon as Gabe’s cell starts to ring, I pray that it’ll just go to voicemail.
“Hey, babe,” Gabe says, surprise lacing his tone. “Didn’t think I’d ever catch you. Where—I mean, what’ve you been up to?”
Gabe Ross, you are as transparent as a Ziploc bag.
“Birthday party,” I blurt.
Gabe chuckles. “Don’t I wish.”
I instantly feel the burn of shame creep up my entire body, starting with my toes, inching toward my knees, my neck, my face …
“Thanks for the present,” Gabe says.
I hold the phone away from my face a moment as I spit a few whispery curses at myself. You’re an ass, Chelsea Keyes. An ass. The picture of a braying donkey actually fills my mind.
At least I had the foresight to leave Gabe’s present with his mom before I headed out of town. But little more than one week after driving away—just one measly week—I’ve already done the unthinkable. I’ve forgotten to call Gabe to wish him a happy birthday. I didn’t even wish him a happy birthday in the crummy email I sent earlier.
No, no, no. That’s not the worst of it. That isn’t even close to the worst. And I know it. My hand flies to my mouth again. When I close my eyes, I can feel Clint against me. His lips pulling me closer, but not just my mouth. Pulling my legs, my arms. I’d wrapped myself around him for the brief moment before I’d slid down, before my feet hit the ground. What kind of person does that? And Clint knows I have a boyfriend. What must he think of the way I just acted?
What if Clint doesn’t want to work with me anymore? How can I explain that to Dad without the word quitter glowing in his pupils?
And if Clint doesn’t want to work with me, would that just confirm everything that Brandon suspects? Would it be the proof he needs? Would Brandon decide to side with a guy, squeal his suspicions to Gabe? I don’t want to lose Gabe—not that comfort of sliding my hand into his. Not the daydreams that pop up as I linger in the grassy green of his eyes.
This night could not possibly get any worse. At all.
“You win,” Gabe mumbles. “You one-upped me in the gift department.”
Correction, I think, as a new tide of guilt washes through me. It could always get worse.
“It’s