The Edge of Never (22 page)

“Yeah, baby I found it,” I say as casually as he had. “What about you? Did you see if they have extra-small sized condoms?”

The woman turns her head and looks right at him, up and down, and then she eyes me before going back to reading labels.

Andrew doesn’t break; somehow I knew he wouldn’t. He just smiles over at me, enjoying every second of this.

“One size fits all, baby,” he says. “I told you they fill out better when you can actually make it hard.”

A spitting noise bursts from between my lips followed by laughter.

The couple leaves the aisle.

“You are so bad!” I hiss at him, still laughing. The can of shaving cream clanks against the floor after it falls from my arm and I bend over to pick it up.

“You’re not so innocent yourself.”

Andrew grabs a tube of antibiotic ointment and holds it in the same hand with the Advil and we head to the register. He tosses two packages of beef jerky on the moving belt and a pack of Tic Tacs. I get a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer, a tube of ChapStick and a package of beef jerky for myself.

“Gettin’ brave aren’t yah?” he says about the beef jerky.

I smirk at him and put the plastic gray item divider in-between his stuff and mine. “Nope,” I say. “I love jerky. If it contained radioactive material I’d still eat it.”

He just smiles, but then tries to tell the cashier that his and my stuff is ‘together’ as he pulls his credit card from his wallet.

“No, not this time,” I argue, laying my arm on the belt next to the item divider. I look right at the cashier and shake my head, daring her to ring my stuff up with his. “I’ll pay for mine.” She looks between me and Andrew briefly, as if waiting for his turn.

When he starts to argue back I turn my chin at a stern angle and say, “I’m paying for my stuff and that’s that. Deal with it.”

He sort of rolls his eyes and gives in, sliding his card through the machine.

When we get back in the car, Andrew rips the top strip off one of his beef jerky bags and pops a jagged piece into his mouth.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive some?” I ask.

He shakes his head, his jaws working hard on that stiff piece of jerky.

“We’ll get another motel and crash for the night.”

He swallows and pops another piece in his mouth and puts the car in drive and we pull away.

We find a motel a few miles out and grab everything and take it up to our side-by-side king rooms. Green checkered carpet in this one with matching dark green, heavy curtains and a dark green flowery bedspread. I turn the television on immediately, just to give some light and animation to the dark and gloomy atmosphere.

He paid for the rooms again, using how I ‘got my way’ with paying for the stuff at Walmart as his excuse to get away with it.

Andrew checks the room out first, just like the last time, and then plops down on the recliner by the window.

I drop my stuff on the floor and rip the bedspread from the bed and toss it in the corner next to the wall.

“Is there something on it?” he asks, leaning back into the recliner and letting his legs splay below.

He looks exhausted.

“No, they just scare me.” I sit on the end of the bed and kick off my flip-flops, drawing my legs onto the bed Indian-style. I place my hands within my lap because still wearing the white cotton short shorts, I feel a little exposed to him with my knees open like this.

“You said: since you didn’t know where you were going,” Andrew says.

I look up and it takes me a second to understand what he’s referring to: back in the car when I mentioned my reason for not bringing more clothes. He knits his fingers together, laying his hands flat over his stomach.

It takes me a moment to answer, although the answer I give him his vague:

“Yeah, I didn’t know.”

Andrew lifts his back straight up from the chair and leans over forward, resting his arms on his thighs, his hands draped together below his knees. He cocks his head to one side looking across at me. I know we’re about to have one of those conversations where I can’t foresee if I’ll accept or dodge his questions. It’ll depend on how good he is at drawing the answers out of me.

“I’m no expert on this stuff,” he says, “but I don’t see you setting out alone like you did on a
bus
, of all things, with a purse, a small bag and absolutely no idea where you’re going just because your best friend stabbed you in the back.”

He’s right. I didn’t leave because of Natalie and Damon; they were just part of the pattern.

“No, it wasn’t because of her.”

“Then what was it?”

I don’t want to talk about it; at least, I don’t
think
I do. A part of me feels like I can tell him anything and I sort of
want
to, but the other part is telling me to be careful. I haven’t forgotten that his issues outweigh mine and I would feel stupid and whiney and selfish telling him anything at all.

I look at the TV instead of him and pretend to be halfway interested in it.

He stands up.

“It must’ve been pretty bad,” he says walking over to me, “and I want you to tell me.”

Pretty bad? Oh great, he just made it worse; even if I did tell him, at least before I wouldn’t have had it in my head that he expected something really horrible. Now that I know he does, I feel like I should make something up.

I don’t, of course.

I feel the bed move when he sits down next to me. I can’t look at him yet; my eyes stay focused on the TV. My stomach swims with guilt and also something tingly when I think about how close he is. But mostly guilt.

“I’ve let you get away with not telling me anything for a long time,” he says. He rests his elbows on his thighs again and sits the way he had been sitting on the recliner, with his hands folded and hanging between his legs. “You have to tell me sometime.”

I look over and say, “It’s nothing compared to what you’re going through,” and leave it at that, facing the TV again.

Please stop prying, Andrew. I want more than anything to tell you because somehow I know you can makes some sense of it all, you can make it all better—what am I
saying
?—Please just stop prying?

“You’re comparing it?” he says, piquing my curiosity. “So, you think that because my dad is dying that whatever made you do what you did somehow doesn’t live up?” He says this as if the very thought of it is absurd.

“Yes,” I say, “that’s exactly what I think.”

His eyebrows draw inward and he looks at the TV briefly before turning back to me.

“Well that’s complete bullshit,” he says matter-of-factly.

My head snaps back around.

He goes on:

“Y’know, I’ve always hated that expression:
Others have it worse than you do
; I guess if you want to look at it in a competitive way, sure, give me welfare over blindness any day, but it’s not a fucking competition.
Right
?”

Is he asking me because he wants to know how I feel, or was that his way of telling me how it is and hoping I get it?

I just nod.

“Pain is pain, babe.” Every time he calls me ‘babe’ I notice it more than anything else he says. “Just because one person’s problem is less traumatic than another’s doesn’t mean they’re required to hurt less.”

I guess he makes a valid point, but I still feel selfish.

He touches my wrist and I look down at it, the way his masculine fingers drape over the bone along the side of my hand. I want to kiss him; the urge inside of me just climbed its way to the surface, but I swallow and force it back down into the pit of my stomach which has been trembling for the past few seconds all on its own.

I pull my hand away from his and get up from the bed.

“Camryn, look, I didn’t mean anything by that. I was just trying to—”

“I know,” I say softly, crossing my arms and turning my back on him. It’s definitely one of those it’s-not-you-it’s-me moments, but I’m not about to lay
that
on him.

I sense him stand up and then I turn carefully at the waist to see him grab his bags and his guitar from against the wall.

He walks to the door.

I want to stop him, but I can’t.

“I’ll let you get some sleep,” he says gently.

I nod but don’t say anything because I’m afraid that if I do, my mind will betray my mouth and I’ll just dig myself deeper into this dangerous situation with Andrew that I’m finding more conspicuous every day that I spend with him.

18

I HATE MYSELF FOR letting him walk out that door, but it had to be done. I can’t
do
this. I can’t let myself fall into the world that is Andrew Parrish even though everything in my heart and in my desires is telling me to. It’s not just about being afraid of getting hurt again; everybody goes through that phase and maybe I’m not out of it completely yet, but it’s about so much more.

I don’t
know
myself.

I don’t know what I want or how I feel or how I
should
feel and I don’t think I ever really have. I would be a selfish bitch to let Andrew into my life. What if he falls in love or wants something from me that I can’t give him? What if I add a broken heart on top of his dad’s death? I don’t want his pain hanging over my head.

I turn abruptly and look at the door again, picturing the way he looked right before he walked through it.

Maybe that’s not even an issue. How conceited of me to even entertain the thought of him ever falling in love with me. Maybe he just wants a friend with benefits, or a one-time thing.

My head is swimming with a chaotic swarm of thoughts, none of which I feel are right and all of which I know are possible. I walk over to the mirror and stare at myself in it, looking into the eyes of some girl that I feel like I’ve met, but never really got acquainted with. I really do feel detached from myself, from everything.

Fuck this!

I grit my teeth and smack the palms of my hands against the TV stand. Then I grab a new pair of black cotton shorts, my new white tee with
je t'aime
written in script across it, wrapped around the Eiffel Tower and I head for the shower. I spend forever letting the water beat on me not because I feel dirty but because I feel like shit. All I can think about is Andrew. And Ian. And why suddenly I feel this strange, provoking need to think about them both in the same thought at all.

After my skin feels stripped of its top layer by the hot water, I get out and dry off, soaking up the water from my hair into the towel. I blow-dry it naked in front of the mirror and then go back into the room to get dressed because I didn’t bring a clean pair of panties in with me. Finally, I comb out my halfway dried hair and leave it down to air-dry the rest of the way, pushing it back behind both ears and out of my face.

I hear Andrew playing the guitar through the wall again. The TV is still yapping and it pisses me off so I stomp over and turn it off so I can hear Andrew more clearly.

I just stand here for a few seconds, taking in the notes funneling through the wall and painfully into my ears. It’s not a sad kind of tune, but for some reason it’s still painful for me to hear.

Finally, I grab my room key, slip my feet into my flop-flops and leave the room.

Nervously licking the dryness from my lips, I take a deep breath, swallow and raise my hand to knock lightly on his door.

The sound of the guitar ceases and a few seconds later, the door clicks open.

He has showered, too. His brown hair is still wet; pieces of it a little messy in the front above his forehead. He stares at me, shirtless and wearing nothing else but a pair of black cargo shorts. I try not to look at his lightly-tanned six-pack abs or the veins running along the length of his arms that somehow appear more pronounced with the rest of his skin in plain-view.

Oh…my God. Maybe I should just go back…

No, I came over here to talk to him and that’s what I’m going to do.

For the first time, I see the tattoo down his left side and I want to ask about it, but I’ll save that for later.

He smiles gently at me.

“It started about a year and a half ago,” I just come out with it, “a week before graduation—my boyfriend was killed in a car accident.”

His gentle smile fades and he softens his eyes, letting me see just enough remorse to show that he feels bad for me without it seeming fake or exaggerated.

He pushes the door open the rest of the way and I walk inside. The first thing he does before I even sit down on the end of the bed is pull a shirt over his chest. Maybe he doesn’t want me to feel like he’s trying to be distracting or flirty, especially when I came here to tell him something obviously painful. I respect him even more for that. That small, seemingly insignificant gesture speaks volumes, and although it might be unfortunate that he hid that body away, I’m OK with it. That’s not what I came here for.

I think….

There’s a sort of genuine sadness in his green eyes, mixed with something thoughtful. He turns the TV off and sits down next to me, the same way he did on my bed and he looks over, waiting patiently for me to go on.

“We fell in love at sixteen,” I begin and look out ahead of me, “but he waited for me for two years—
two years
—,” I glance over once in emphasis, “before I slept with him. I don’t know any teenage guy who would wait that long to get in a girl’s panties.”

Andrew makes a slight you-have-a-point face.

“I had had a couple of short-term boyfriends before Ian, but they were so…,” I look up in thought searching for the word, “…mundane. To tell you the truth, I started seeing
a lot
of people as mundane by the time I was twelve.”

Andrew looks reflective, his brows gently creasing inward.

“But Ian was different. The first thing he said to me after we met and had our first real conversation was:
‘I wonder if the ocean smells different on the other side of the world.’
I laughed at first because I thought it was a weird thing say, but then I realized that simple sentence set him apart from everyone I knew. Ian was a guy standing on the outside of the glass, looking in at the rest of us shuffling back and forth, doing the same thing every day, taking the same paths, like ants in an ant farm.