Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,79

tidal wave out in the middle of the lake, the way Todd grips the side of the boat.

“With who?” he asks.

“Kenzie,” I breathe.

Todd starts muttering something about lucky bastard, while Greg just stares at me, squinting as he leans against the side of the boat. “Huh,” he mutters. “And here I was thinking this resort probably felt quieter to you than it did to either of us.”

It does, I think, but I just shake my head, tighten my line. Chelsea’s a past tense. Summer will be over soon. I can’t go brooding over her like I did for Rosie.

I reel in my line to bait my hook again. Don’t live timidly, I tell myself as I cast out into the lake.

Chelsea

indecisive move

My computer screen glows blue against my skin. I’ve just finished packing my bag for the Carlyle, filling it with a flattering, nearly sheer azure dress and the raciest panties in my drawer. Which strikes me as a little weird, actually, since I didn’t worry in the least about having to dress up for Clint. Just threw on a red cami and shorts and raced up the trail behind cabin number four.

It’s late, and my eyes keep trying to close. My entire body begs me to get to bed. But instead of turning my computer off and slipping into the cool envelope of my sheets, I reach into my top desk drawer and pull out a torn-off scrap of paper napkin—the email address Clint gave me before dropping me off at the cabin our last night at Lake of the Woods.

“Whaddaya know?” I’d teased him. “Guess even fishing guides can be a little high-tech.”

I stare at the address awhile, touching my lips with my fingertip, hoping like hell that being with Gabe won’t make me forget exactly how Clint’s mouth felt, traveling over every inch of my body.

What’s wrong with me? Last month, I’d bemoaned the fact that I was the oldest virgin on the planet. Tonight, I’m planning on sleeping with guy number two—in the same week? Have I gone from being a virgin to complete slutsville in a matter of days?

I place the napkin near the top of the keyboard, click on “New Message,” and type in Clint’s address. I stare at the screen, wishing I could tell him everything that swarms through my heart—how much I miss him. How much I wish we were still bowling and fooling around in the lake and making out in his truck. How much I miss the carefree breeze that blew into my heart whenever I was around him.

My cell phone starts to vibrate, buzzing against the desktop. I pick it up hesitantly.

“Hey, Chelse, it’s me,” Gabe says softly. “Got a clock handy?”

I glance at the bottom right hand corner of my computer screen. “Midnight.”

“You know what that means, right?” Gabe asks.

“It’s the day you and I have been waiting for all summer.”

“The day I’ve been waiting for ever since I met you,” Gabe corrects. “Love you,” he whispers.

“Mmm,” I say. “Me, too.”

I click the phone off, my eyes falling on the cursor that blinks like an elbow nudging me in the ribs. Saying, Come on already, write your message.

Instead, I click cancel draft and sign out of my email account.

Scratches pushes open the bedroom door and mews his way across the floor. When he jumps onto the bed, he knocks my purse on its side—and Clint’s compass tumbles onto the comforter. I let Clint think I’d dropped it from the ATV somewhere … selfish of me, since he seemed to love the old thing. But it saved us, in a way. I just never had the heart to give it back.

I pick up the compass and curl up with Scratches, both our heads propped on my bed pillow. As I stare into his sweet sleeping face, I start to get jealous of his simple life. He’s never found himself in the kind of tangled mess I’m in right now. He’s never felt like his heart was in a tug-of-war.

I place Clint’s old compass on the pillow beside me. But the only place it points tonight is toward sleep.

Clint

game time

It’s not a completely foreign place, her parents’ house. When I was a kid, I’d ride bikes with Greg and Todd past Kenzie’s yard, and there she’d be on her porch, giant glasses on the end of her nose and a book in her lap. She was nothing compared to Rosie back then. But maybe, I try to convince myself, it’ll