Crazy Little Thing Called Love (6 page)

“I understand. You've got to be exhausted.” The man stepped back, one hand held up, the video camera still pointed at her face. “No problem.”

As the man turned his attention on Logan, Vanessa saw her chance to escape. Besides, did she really want to hear the whole
Wow, you both have the same last name—how funny is that?
reaction?

There was no reason for her to wait around to see if a professional reporter showed up. She'd done her job—just in a different state. She'd pray the teen would be okay and could watch the news for that information. Hope he would be smart enough not to go swimming in the Gulf again after drinking too many beers just because his friends dared him.

She'd learned the hard way how foolish it was to take stupid risks. How you could lose your life—
yourself
—if you weren't careful.

A wise girl knows her limits, a smart girl knows that she has none.

—MARILYN MONROE (1926–1962), ACTRESS

S
anctuary.

Vanessa retreated to her hotel room—the stillness a buffer from all that she could have said to her ex-husband. The activity of the paramedics. The growing crowd of gawkers—and the arriving news team. Only when her sand-covered feet made contact with the cool of the lobby tile did she realize she'd left her sandals behind somewhere. She ignored the stare of the front desk clerk, holding her head high as she walked past, avoiding the elevator and climbing the stairs to her room.

Thank God the plastic key card to her room had somehow remained in the pocket of her shorts, not ending up in the Gulf with her sweatshirt. The air-conditioning blew a frigid kiss against her chapped lips, threading unseen fingers through her hair where it lay against her neck.

If she wasn't soaking wet . . . if her legs weren't shaking as if she'd just swum an Olympic trial . . . if her eyes weren't stinging from salt water . . . she'd book the first flight back to Colorado and insist Ted go back to their original plan to get married in their home church.

Tomorrow.

Not in April.

As another shiver shook her body, Vanessa turned off the air-conditioning. Then she opened the off-white vertical blinds and yanked open the glass door to the balcony, the sound of metal scraping against the cement going right up her spine. Dropping to the carpet the damp blanket the onlooker had draped around her shoulders, she turned back to her bed, pulled back the bedspread, and removed the blanket underneath. Her journal fell to the floor.

It was as if daring to read a few entries earlier had conjured Logan Hollister out of the past and onto the beach—just as she'd feared.

She picked the book up from where it lay facedown, pages splayed open against the muted blue carpeting. Her handwriting skimmed across the pages, a silent dare to face the past scrawled across the pages. Sentences. Paragraphs. Words and more words that lured her into memories best forgotten.

Funny. I put the rings away, but I look down at my hand and I still expect to see them. Of course, I've only been divorced for twenty-four hours. I need to give it some time. I was Vanessa Hollister before I married Logan—and I'm still Vanessa Hollister. No one needs to know that there are actually two different versions of the same woman.

Logan and I didn't even say goodbye to each other.

It was all done so quietly and nicely via mail. Sign here, convenient little yellow sticky arrows pointing to the appropriate lines for our signatures.

But then, would I know how to say goodbye to Logan—the girl who's always been so good at goodbyes? What do you say when a divorce is finalized? Thank you for the good memories? Thanks for asking me to marry you . . . and thank you for turning in all the paperwork on time so this didn't drag out?

Yeah. So you say nothing. Your signature speaks for you. We're done. There's no longer an “us” standing in the way of what you want to do with your life.

Vanessa flung the journal onto the bed. How appropriate. Skip to the ending.

She searched the hotel fridge, reaching past the six-pack of Coke she'd purchased to grab one of the “complimentary” bottles of water. Let 'em charge her for it.

Wrapped in the comfort of the dry blanket, she hid in the darkness of the balcony. She huddled in the white plastic deck chair, her arms hugging her knees. With the chair pulled forward, the Gulf breeze caressed her face. The beach looked normal again. Safe. No more rescue crews. No more reporters. No more crowds.

No ex-husband.

She pressed her forehead to her knees, her eyes squeezed shut.

Why, God, why?

She was being brave, coming here. Crossing the bridge that led to her past.

And then she decided to walk the beach—the same stretch of beach she and Logan had strolled so many evenings, watching sunsets. Or had sat on a blanket and watched lightning storms rage across the night sky. The same beach where he'd coaxed her from the security of the shore out into the water and onto a surfboard for the first time.

The same beach where Logan had first said he loved her.

Tonight, she walked alone.

No ghost.

Not a whisper of Logan's voice.

And then someone needed help—and what was she supposed to do? Ignore the pleas of the boy's friends? Of course not. But why, God, why did she have to come face-to-face with Logan . . . so close she could have touched him.

“Vanessa? What are you doing here?”

“I'm getting married, Logan.” Her voice wavered. Cracked.

Vanessa twisted the cap off the bottle of water, tipped it back, and drank, the cool liquid burning her lips even as it soothed her parched throat.

Coming here was a mistake.

She couldn't start a new life with Ted by having their wedding in the same place where she'd fallen in love with her first husband.

What was that saying again?
A wise girl knows her limits.

Between her undergrad degree and all her training to be a paramedic, she considered herself intelligent and street-smart. When it came to what she could and could not do, she was wise enough to know marrying Ted Topliff in Destin was beyond her limits.

If Ted was determined to attach their ceremony to a medical conference, then he'd have to choose one in another locale.

That was it, plain and simple.

Ted was a reasonable man—and she wasn't asking for much other than a change in venue.

For now, she was going to take a long, hot shower. Order room service, without looking at the prices. And then find a ridiculous movie—something that would make her laugh until she cried.

It was bad enough her parents had moved the family—again. But why couldn't they have figured out a way to cross the Florida state line before school started?

Vanessa lifted her chin, staring at the high school's double doors leading outside—where she could exhale, stop smiling, and stop saying hello to everyone. Stop pretending that remembering dozens of names and faces really was as easy as she made it look. Other students flowed past her, while some stood around the lockers lining the hallways. A few called her name—evidence of how well she pulled off the new student role—snippets of conversations and laughter swirling together.

She'd survived the first day at another new school. Proven that she knew how to be the perfect new girl, even if it meant walking into Niceville High School two weeks after classes started. One day she should count up how many times the phrase “new student” had been attached to her name. When she went to college—wherever she went—she would stay there from the first day of freshman orientation until the day she walked across the stage and received her diploma.

As she left home that morning to walk to school, she'd straightened the worn
HOME IS WHERE THE AIR FORCE SENDS YOU
tole-painted wooden plaque hanging in the foyer. As Hollister family tradition dictated, it was one of the first things Mom put up in the new house. As far as Vanessa was concerned, home was where the military dragged you kicking and screaming, not bothering to ask if you wanted to move. If you were ready to say goodbye again. If you wanted to make new friends . . . not knowing how long you'd be in town . . . or if what they offered you was true friendship.

Vanessa pulled on the curved metal handle of the door, the blast of air-conditioning shoving back the humidity that greeted her. In August, temperatures in the Florida Panhandle were set and locked on “swelter and sweat” from nine in the morning past ten at night against a backdrop of overgrown underbrush and the nonstop noise of crickets and frogs. By the time she walked home, her short-sleeve T-shirt would cling to her back, her bangs wilted against her forehead.

“Hey, Vanessa! Vanessa Hollister! Wait up!”

She paused halfway down the concrete stairs. Who, among all these unfamiliar faces, wanted to talk to her? And why?

A thin girl with a riot of red curls piled on top of her head jogged down the stairs, a grin splitting her face, which was splattered with freckles. “Glad I found you. I didn't know where your locker was. I'm Mindy Adams—we're in Honors English together.”

“Hey.”

“So, you're new here.”

Vanessa swallowed back the snarky comment that sprang to mind. “Yeah.”

“Your father military?”

“Yeah.” When Vanessa moved down the stairs, Mindy kept pace with her, pink flip-flops slapping against the concrete.

“I've lived here all my life.” Mindy set her backpack at the bottom of the stairs. “Must be cool to travel.”

“Sure.”
Whatever
. People had no idea what it was like to be in a military family, moving whenever Uncle Sam said to pack up.

“So . . . I just wanted to say, if you need anything . . . have any questions about school or anything, you could call me.” Mindy held out a torn piece of notebook paper, folded in half. “Here's my phone number. I ride the bus. You?”

“No. I walk home. I don't live far from here.”

“Too bad. I thought we could sit together and talk—if we were on the same bus.” She lifted her hand, waving the torn piece of notebook paper again.

“Yeah. Too bad.” Vanessa took the paper—not that she'd call Mindy. Acquaintances were fine. Friendships . . . well, that only led to people getting hurt. “Thanks.”

“Sure. I gotta run before my bus leaves. See ya tomorrow!”

Vanessa waved. Of course she'd see Mindy tomorrow. In class. Probably pass her in the hallways. Casual. She tucked the paper into the back pocket of her jeans, adjusting her backpack on her shoulders, a trickle of sweat slipping down her back. Time to get home, see how many boxes Mom had unpacked and how many were waiting in her bedroom. Maybe her mom was ready to talk about what color Vanessa wanted to paint her room this time.

Vanessa kept her head down, weaving through the moving pack of students heading to their cars or the line of yellow school buses along the perimeter of the parking lot. Some, like her, were walking home solo or in small groups. Being alone was fine with her. Easier. As Vanessa made her way around a group of kids, her shoulder collided with something—or someone—and she stumbled forward, almost falling to her knees on the sidewalk before a pair of strong hands reached out and steadied her.

“You okay?”

The guy's voice held the hint of a laugh.

“I'm fine.” She pulled away, her gaze colliding with a pair of blue eyes, the laughter adding a bit of sparkle to them. Her
Watch where you're going
lodged in her throat.

“Sorry about that.” The boy brushed his long blond hair off his forehead, smiling at her again as if sharing a joke. “My sister says I'm a klutz.”

“It's okay. No big deal.” She shifted her backpack to her other shoulder. “Well, I gotta go.”

“Me, too.” He motioned to a silver and red motorcycle parked behind him. “Don't want to show up to work late.”

Vanessa nodded and moved past him, aware of the half grin on his sunburned face. How tall he was. The sun seemed to up its intensity, and she resisted the urge to hold her hair up off her neck—and the even stronger desire to turn around. To look back. Was he watching her with his intense blue eyes? A minute later, she gave in and glanced over her shoulder. Stumbled again. And sure enough, he sat astride his motorcycle, watching her. He lifted his hand and waved, offering her another glimpse of his grin. With a groan, Vanessa waved back and faced forward again.

She should have kept walking. Never turned around. He must think she was a bumbling idiot.