Declaration (25 page)

Bloody hell.

I lifted myself off the floor, wincing as I steadied my limbs, and froze when I spotted the warm body I’d been in bed with now sitting up, giving me a confused look, as if unsure whether to laugh or be concerned. She was topless, her red lipstick smeared across her cheek. I flinched and shielded my eyes with my hands, turning in a circle to look away, only to trip again. This time I stubbed my toe on a table of some sort, collapsing again with a pile of curses.

“Um…are you okay over there?” the girl asked. I could hear her move, the mattress squeak beneath her.

“Yeah, yeah. Uh…I’m fine. Please just…do you mind putting on a shirt?”

She snorted as she padded across the floor toward me. “You want me to get dressed?”

I still hadn’t moved from the floor. I sat there, hunched over, back to this girl, with a stubbed toe, covering my face like a kid thrown into a time-out corner. “Yeah, could you?”

“Damn it,” she huffed beneath her breath, “I knew it. Of course, all the good ones gotta be gay.”

A flurry of movement stirred behind me and I removed my hands from my face. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught a blur of the girl pulling on some clothing. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

“I should’ve known,” she sighed. The quick slip of a zipper sounded and then she was buttoning her shirt. “You can turn around now. Do you need ice?”

Flustered, I rose to my feet, turning to face her. “Nah, thanks.” I glanced down at my foot. “Just stubbed it on that table. I’ll be fine.”

“I mean for your
face
.” Her brows rose, as if I were slow to catch on.

I was slow to catch on. All the
damn time
.

Patting my pockets for my smokes, I surveyed the room, looking for a mirror. I hurried over to the vanity table, leaning down to get a look. “Holy shit.” As soon as I saw my lip, the pain sliced through me, sharp and merciless. It made me feel the pain in my back and neck even more, suddenly alerting my whole body to a plethora of injuries.

“It looked pretty rough last night. Figured you’d be hurting in the morning.”

“Sorry, what’s your name?” I asked, running my thumb over my bottom lip. The piercing wasn’t completely busted, not like I’d thought, but there was a definite slice along the side, crusted over with blood. A part of me didn’t want to know this girl’s name. I wanted to pretend this—whatever this was—never even happened. But here I was, rolling out of her bed, and asking her name seemed like the polite thing to do.

“Eva. And you’re Carter,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Last name Montgomery, musician from Seattle, horribly nerdy obsession with all-things British, hot tattoos, sexy voice, adorably shy…and so,
so
gay.” She said the last part with a groan, and I caught her image in the mirror, her head falling into her hands.

I quit examining my lip and swiveled to face her. “Definitely not gay, for the record.”

She peeked at me through her fingers and her hands came down, mouth agape. “You’re not?”

“Why would you think that? You took me home last night.”

“Well, yeah, you were plastered. So was I. I thought you were out for a good time. We walked here from Pete’s. I’m two blocks away.”

“You thought I was out for a good time. How does that make me gay?”

“Doesn’t the fact that you’re fully clothed ring a bell?” Her head cocked to the side, her eyes narrowing. This girl was annoyed with me. I didn’t blame her.

“Uh…no, not exactly.”

She sighed with frustration and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, moving her hands to her hips. “We came home, I got naked, and you didn’t want this. Not one bit.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

“That’s what
I’m
saying! You wouldn’t even kiss me.”

A bubble of laughter slithered up my throat and burst from my lips. I tried to control it, but it broke out and owned me. “This,
this
would so happen to me.”

“I’m glad you find this situation so amusing.” She crossed her arms, her entire body bristling with defensiveness.

“Oh, God, what was it…Eva? Eva, I’m so sorry. Whatever I did—or didn’t—do last night, please don’t take it personally. I was a wreck over this girl and I wandered to Pete’s and drank way, way too much. I haven’t had that much to drink in…I can’t remember when. Whoever you met last night, that was
not
me, I assure you. Please forgive me.”

Everything after the scene at Pete’s was still blurry, coming back to me in chunky fragments, but that little detail—turning this hot chick down—was certainly one I had no recollection of. Looks like I was becoming an expert at crushing girls’ egos.

“Yeah, well.” She pouted, loosening up a little. “So you were dumped, huh? Is the girl why you have a busted lip? I take it she’s the reason you wouldn’t sleep with me.”

“Yes…to all that.” I stirred my fingers in the air. “Sort of. I wasn’t really dumped. Things just got messy last night.”

“Sorry to hear. Can I give you a lift home?”

“You’d do that?”

She shrugged petulantly. “Why not? Things can’t get much more awkward than this.” Wasn’t that the God-honest truth. I accepted the offer and gave her directions as she grabbed her car keys. The ride was silent right up until the moment I stepped out of the car.

“Thanks, Eva,” I said, remembering her name this time.

***

The day dragged on, long and merciless. I was so happy I didn’t have to work that day, I could have cried. A hot shower and some aspirin did wonders for my cuts and bruises, but nothing for my head or heart.

What the hell had I done last night?

It was a relief to know Whitney hadn’t actually done anything with Ruben, but apparently, I almost did, with some random girl from Pete’s. I’d felt awful for hurting Eva’s feelings like that, but I would have felt a hell of a lot worse if I had actually taken her up on her offer.

As I stared back at myself in the bathroom mirror, I could see the true reflection of myself. Not just the guy I was back in Seattle, but the guy I’d been last night, singing to Whitney on that stage. The guy I’d been afterward, wandering to Pete’s and to some stranger’s home. I saw all facets of myself—the good, the bad, the ugly.

I studied the curve of my jaw. My swollen lip and damp hair. The tiredness lurking beneath my eyes. I took a towel to the mirror, wiping away the steam. When I set the towel down, I caught a glimpse of Ryan’s face instead of my own. Those boyish good looks, that suave smile, intense eyes, and easy charm. I blinked, picturing the way he’d looked when I’d first walked in on him and Kate, pictured the genuine smile he’d given me after that whole mess, when I’d first started getting to know him, agreed to give him a chance.

And finally, I saw his face the day he’d run into me and Kate at Pike Place Market. The day Kate had agreed to see him again, after he cheated on her with Amy Mercer, the blonde. I remembered the look on his face then, the haunted look, like the one I wore right now. The one that said he didn’t want to live without her, that he’d never be the same man again if she didn’t take him back. I watched him then, as he pleaded with Kate, not wanting to admit that I saw that look. In fact, I hated admitting it to myself. That deep down, I knew he was a good guy who made a bad choice.

My position right now didn’t really compare to Ryan’s. But the longer I stared at my reflection, the more I saw his features. The more I felt his pain. I connected with something there, almost feeling empathetic. I’d come so close to hurting the girl I love. She’d come so close to hurting me. Even if her intention wasn’t to hook up with Ruben the night she left my place for his, she turned to him for consolation. He could have taken advantage of her when she was most vulnerable. It was all too easy to cross that line, to run in the wrong direction when circumstances grew scary.

In an odd way, I was really no different from Ryan.

Emma was no different from Jackson, and Whitney no different from me. We’d all been hurt, like everyone in this world, and when hurt people are so close to love, to something good, they suddenly get cold feet. Like a bride with second thoughts on her wedding day, she takes off running, willing to risk it all for whatever consequences await her. Sometimes those consequences are more bearable than what she would’ve had to face had she gone through with the commitment.

A strange sense of unity settled over me, an understanding for my friends and all they had gone through, all I’d witnessed them endure. The loss of love, life, dreams—it all impaired them in some way, but it didn’t stop them. It didn’t keep them from going after what they wanted all along.

To not be afraid anymore.

I leaned over the sink, bringing my face close to the mirror. The edges were still fogged up with steam, creating an uneven, distorted ring around my features. I didn’t want to let that fear we were all so familiar with eat away at my chance to be happy. I had to face the hard facts. Whitney had turned to Ruben, a guy she had history with and feelings for. Instead of talking things out with her, I’d bolted and wound up in bed—thankfully fully clothed—with a stranger. We’d both sought out different comforts in different ways when the going got rough. But we couldn’t run away from each other. We had to run toward each other. That was the only way we’d ever break the cycle.

Pushing off the sink, I rushed to the dresser for a change of clothes and filled my pockets with my cell, a pack of smokes, and a lighter. Before I dashed out the door, I stopped and fished my cell out and edged myself onto the sofa. My fingers worked fast as I wrote Kate a text.

Bringing Whitney to the wedding.

Will see if Jackson and Emma can come.

I forgive Ryan.

I’m happy for you two. Love you, K. Peace.

***

The scent of cinnamon brought my senses to life when I walked up to the window of the truck, prompting an instant craving. There were only a couple food trucks on the island, unlike back in Seattle, where they lined the busiest streets day and night.

“What can I get you?” a guy at the window asked, wiping his hands on a towel. His green apron was worn and snug around his waist, his floppy blonde hair combed to the side. His glasses looked like mine, only brown.

“Yeah, can I get a cinnamon soy latte, please?”

“Sure thing. Whip cream on that?”

“Nah, thanks.” I pulled at my lip, wincing when I remembered how tender it was from last night’s scuffle. Even though I was showered, shaved, and freshly clothed, I probably looked like a first-class ragamuffin. I worked to push that thought aside, though, and instead focus on the task at hand. “Hey, are you the owner?”

“I am, yup. Is there something I can help you with?”

I paused, eyeing this guy up. He looked close to my age, maybe a few years older. He was the owner of this mobile coffee shop, Joe on the Go. Young and successful. I wondered if he bought the truck on his own or had financial help from family. I wondered if he was secretly loaded and just wanted to run a food truck for kicks. I wondered if that even mattered. A million questions pinged back and forth as I stood there staring at him, but only one thought lodged itself in my brain, sticking like glue.

I wanted to be like him.

Okay, maybe not him, per se. I liked my glasses better, and I was pretty sure music was more exciting than coffee. But he owned something, a business that was his. Somewhere, probably during his twenties, he made a conscious choice to do something. To
be
something. And now he was here, doing whatever it was he set out to do.

I wanted to be that guy.

The one who turned a passion into reality. The guy who took control over his life and told the whole world what he wanted, not just for the hell of it, or to make money or impress others, but because he was so confident in his desire that the decision to act on it was natural, like breathing. I was done with being passive.

Completely fucking over it.

I was done letting my circumstances send me drifting into a tide of uncertainty, leaving me feeling misplaced, like I didn’t know where I belonged. I’d come to Florida in a whirlwind of confusion, thinking the cure could be found in randomness, in surrendering to that unpredictable current. Maybe it could.

Maybe it was.

But like everything else in life, there’s a time for action. You can’t surrender so fucking much that you yield and yield and keep yielding, until you’ve been swallowed up by indecision. Meeting Whitney woke me up to that reality. She’d turned me into a man of action. But what I had with Whitney—or what I might not have after what went down the night before—was only a push in the right direction.

If I wanted to be
that guy
, it was time to take the training wheels off.

I cleared my throat and straightened up, looking straight at the owner. “Actually, there is. I see your sign in the window. I’d like to buy this place from you.”

The guy’s polite, relaxed expression changed. He was curious now. Excited. Like me. “Oh, really? Okay, well we should talk, then.” He moved to finish making my latte and pointed to a nearby picnic table. There were a few other people milling around outside, sipping drinks and tinkering with their phones and e-readers. Mumford and Sons filtered through an outdoor speaker with that soothing yet epic sound of theirs, like the hand of God.