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Tiller slides a Pepsi his way. “Mom’s givin’ ya a hard time?”
That sets him off. “Stepmom,” Camden growls. “They’re always fucking fighting. I hate it. I hate them.” Taking the Pepsi in hand, he cracks it open and chugs it like a beer.
All of us stare at him. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him swear before.
Tiller jumps back and grabs his junk. “Shit, I think I gave my dick frostbite.” He motions Scarlet forward. “Check this out.”
“No, dude.” Immediately she holds up her palms to him. “I’ve seen your junk more than I’ve seen my own coochie.”
Splaying his hands across the counter, he leans in and waggles his eyebrows at her. “Let’s make it even. Show me yours.”
She pushes him away with her hand on his face. “You’re so gross.”
That gets Camden relaxed enough that he, too, lays into me. “You’re not really going to let her marry Aladdin, are you?”
I glare at Scarlet and then slide my cold expression back to Camden. “How do you know about that?”
He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Scarlet told me.”
“Dude.” Scarlet slaps his shoulder. “Friend-code!”
“Sorry,” he mumbles, as if he’s genuinely concerned their friendship might be over. Scarlet ruffles his hair. He slides his eyes back to me leveling me a serious look. “But seriously. Don’t let her marryhim.”
“Why not?” I shouldn’t have asked that, but I did.
“Because.” Camden groans and rolls his eyes. “Youlove her.”
The way he says it makes me laugh. Like it’s so fucking obvious. To be thirteen again. I push away from the kitchen island and take the bottle with me. “It’s been fun.”
“Tell her how you feel!” Scarlet yells after me.
Tell her how I feel? I thought I had. And then she went and handed me an invitation to her fucking wedding.
You know, I blame Parker for all this. He jinxed me back in Florida when he said Rowan almost married another guy. And now here I am, in the same situation. It’s all his fault.
And, sadly, my own.
I sit in my room in the dark. I close the curtains and drown out the lights in the backyard. I want darkness. Black. I lie on my bed, my hands behind my head and obsess over everything I’ve said to her in the last couple months. The words I used to drive her further towardhim.
It’s brutal, but I picture her life with him and if it’s worth destroying. Which, if you know me at all by now, it’s something I do. I’m more of a react and then ask questions kind of guy. But this is Ophelia we’re talking about. If I do this, can I give her what she needs?
So I force myself to imagine the worst. Her and him together. Married. Starting a family. Sex. All of it. And let me tell you, it’s boring as shit. They’ll live in a nice house, have children who probably play safe sports and a dog named Biscuit. Ophelia will attend PTA meetings and probably own a minivan. They fuck missionary and he’ll bring her flowers.
It’s then, right then it hits me with what I need to do. That life, that isn’t her. I wouldn’t allow it to be her. He doesn’t crave her like I do. In that very moment, surrounded by darkness, I hit the brakes. I stall the engine and face myself and the decision I’d been making, something I didn’t know I needed to do.
I knew at some point I was going to do something drastic. Let’s face it, you knew too, didn’t you? I just haven’t figured out what it was going to be. Yet. But it’s going to need to be epic as shit.
I’m racing the Red Bull Hard Enduro Series again next year and I’m not leaving without her.
Time passes in a blur, rolling, blending together. Had I slept at all? Eaten anything? I’m not sure. Literally don’t remember much of it at all. I wake up, go to work, and spend hours planning a wedding. Camila is a life saver, but there’s a nagging feeling deep in the pit of my stomach I can’t ignore. The entire time I’m ordering things like bacon-wrapped shrimp that I love, and foods I can’t even begin to describe that are traditions for the Perez family, I keep thinking it’s all a waste. I can’t go through with it. I don’t want to.
On Thursday, before the big day on Saturday, I’m walking out of work a frazzled mess thinking of everything I need to do. I step out of the office. The sun blooms over the hills and it’s then, my first breath of fresh air that’s filled with the distinct bite of racing fuel.
Is your heart in your throat like mine? I can’t even begin to describe the gamut of emotions that flood through me when I turn and face the street.
I don’t say anything when he approaches me, his hands tucked in the pockets of his shorts, hair matted from his helmet. I glance at his bike and the bag and extra helmet secured to the back. Is he leaving town? Panic rushes through me. What if he’s leaving for good?
Running his hand through his hair, he attempts to control it.