The Game Series (67 page)

“Roxy, you’re absolutely wasted. There was no way I was letting you go home with that jerk.”

“I’m old enough to decide that for myself.”

“But not clear headed enough. Besides, you didn’t exactly look like you were welcoming his advances before I turned up.” I shoot her a meaningful look.

She pauses, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth and nibbling on it. “I just needed a few minutes.”

“Mhmm. And if I didn’t come out when I did?”

She says nothing.

“Good job I decided to come over tonight, isn’t it?”

“I told you earlier. I don’t need you.”

I pull into her drive, parking behind her mom’s car, and turn to her. “Obviously, you do.”

“You’re a fucking ass, Kyle.” She shoves the door open and gets out, pushing it hard to close it. I get out and walk to her, holding her arm to stop her, bending my mouth to her ear.

“True, but I’m a fucking ass who probably stopped yours getting raped tonight.”

Roxy freezes. “That wouldn’t have happened.” Uncertainty filters through her words, a tiny waver I know well.

“How do you know?”

Nothing.

“It isn’t worth the risk
, is it? Like I said, lucky for you, I was there.”

She lifts her head until her blue eyes collide with mine. “And now you can say you fulfilled your promise to Cam. Now you can leave me to it.”

“So you can do the same thing next weekend?”

“That’s nothing to do with you.”

“Wrong. It’s everything to do with me.”

“How is it?”

“Because I care.”

“Well, don’t.” She
snatches her arm from my grip and opens her front door. “Go back to California, Kyle. I don’t want you to care.”

The door shuts behind her, and I stare at it for a second. What the hell happened to her? Everything she’s been tonight – from her actions to her words, even her facial expressions – they really are nothing like the person I remember. It’s as if she’s been taken over by something or someone else.

And I hate it.

I sigh, turning from the house. “Goodnight, Roxy.”

The morning after is always a complete bitch. The hangover, the empty, sick feeling in your stomach, and the blurring of your memories. My brain has blocked out random chunks of last night after around ten p.m., and all I can really remember is dancing with
Tom then leaving with Kyle. I have no idea about the rest of the night, or why my wrists are aching.

“Roxy! Get up!” Mom yells up the stairs.

“I am!” I call back, rolling out of bed.

“I need to open the café, and we’re going to be late!”

“Alright! Give me five minutes.” I rub my face with one hand as I grab my jeans from the back of my chair with the other. I throw on a shirt and slip my arms into a sweater. My hair and make-up takes me two minutes to rush through, and I practically fall down the stairs.

Mom looks me up and down when I pull my boots on. “At least you look presentable.”

“So glad you approve,” I mutter dryly.

She sighs. “Roxy…”

“Let’s go, Mom.” I open the front door. “Don’t want to be late, remember?”

I hear her sigh again as I walk to her car. She can sigh all she likes – she told me to hurry so I’m not stopping for a heart-to-heart in the damn hallway. I just want to get to the café, do my shift, and then call Selena to find out what I did – or didn’t – do last night.

We pull up to R & C’s, the café Mom’s owned for the last twelve years. She named it R & C’s after me and Cam – she said we were her pride and joy and so was the café, so it made sense to name it after us. The inside is even decorated in our favorite colors – blue and purple. At least they were when she freshened it up five years ago.

I walk across the royal blue, tiled floor to the counter and look over the café. The white walls are covered in photos of the Columbia Gorge and Mt. Hood through the seasons. They start in spring to the left of the counter and spread round the café, finishing in winter to the right of the counter. The images hang between the small menu boards with the specials on, their alternative blue and purple frames bright against the walls. The tables are half covered with table covers, alternating like the frames and the menus that sit on them. If there’s a blue cover, there’s a purple menu.

Mom really went all out on her design. She put as much love into opening the café as she did raising us, and it’s all that’s kept her going the last few months.

Mom flips the sign on the door to “Open,” and I start up the coffee machine. Sundays at the café are easy; old Mr. Yeo will be in for his coffee and waffles in fifteen minutes, followed by the Stevens sisters for their weekly cake treat ten minutes later, then Louisa, my cousin, will be in to drink us out of coffee as she writes another chapter or so on her next book. Always the same people at the same time.

Just how I like it. It gives me something to concentrate on, and if I’m doing that, I’m not thinking about the photo of Cam right in front of me on the counter. If I’m not thinking about him, I can almost pretend I’m not hurting.

Just like Mom does.

Two weeks to grieve, to hurt, then she was back at it – throwing herself into work. She insisted the café had to be opened, that life had to go on. Our lives didn’t stop just because Cam’s did. The truth of it plagues me and taunts me every day, and I’ll never know how it’s so damn easy for her to walk on in here each morning, put a smile on her face, and pretend everything is fan-freaking-tastic.

I don’t know how she does it. I never will.

I tie my apron around my waist and tuck a pad and pen into one of the pockets as the doors open. Mr. Yeo walks in, ten minutes early, and I know instantly today is going to go horribly.

Mr. Yeo is never early.

“Good mornin’, young Roxanne,” he says in his usual chipper tone.

I smile
despite his use of my full name. “Good morning, Mr. Yeo. Your usual?”

“Of course, girl. W
hen have I ever had anything else?” He chuckles, sitting at his table by the window. He rests his cane against the wall behind him and settles down, waiting for his coffee.

“Mom.” I poke my head into the kitchen. “Mr. Yeo’s here.”

“He’s early.” She looks at me, surprised.

“Yep.” I sigh and grab a mug for his coffee. My foot taps against the floor in a quiet beat to the radio Mom insists on having on in the background as I make the hot drink. I carry the mug across the café and set it in front of Mr. Yeo. He gets his paper out and lays it on the table.

“How are you, my dear?” he asks.

“I’m okay, thanks. How’s my favorite customer?”

“Favorite customer? There’s favoritism?” Isla Stevens cries as she walks through the door. “Well I never, Roxy. I thought I’d be your favorite!”

“No, that would be me,” her
twin sister, Marie, pitches in, patting her graying hair. I laugh and lead them to the counter.

“Now, ladies no need to fight. How about we make you my favorite female customers?”

“Hmph. I suppose we can share that,” Isla mutters.

“Goodness me, Isla. We’ve shared a womb, clothes, a house, and you’re fussing over a favorite customer title.” Marie shakes her head and leans toward me. “She always was the fussy one.”

“You forgot boyfriends,” Isla adds. “I believe we shared a few of those back in the day.”

I raise my eyebrows and move to the cake section of the counter. “I’m not sure I want to listen to any more of this conversation.”

The twins laugh. “Oh, dear,” Isla giggles. “Not like
that.
”

“Like that? I didn’t say anything.” I plate up the two slices of carrot cake and set them in front of me.

“No, but you were thinking it. After all…”

“…We know what you young’uns are like these days,” Marie finishes her sister’s sentence. “All that trashy television.”

“Which you enjoy.”

“Shush, Isla. Don’t tell everyone.”

I smile. Isla rolls her eyes. “Dear, Marie. Anyway, Roxy.”

I look up from the register and freeze when I see the glint in her eyes. “Um, yes?”

“We’ve heard something,” Marie taps the counter.

“That happens when you have ears,” I respond, tapping mine.

She looks at her sister. “She thinks she’s funny.”

“They all do,” Isla replies. I grin.

Marie looks back to me. “We’ve heard a bit of gossip. About you, dear.”

Well, isn’t that a surprise
.

“Enlighten me,” I say dryly.

Isla leans forward, pressing her chest against the counter. “We heard,” she whispers. “That that hunk of a boy, Kyle, is your boyfriend.”

The twins look at me expectantly, both with excitement shimmering behind their hazel eyes.

I snort loudly and slap my hand over my mouth. “Uh, ladies, there’s a reason things are called
gossip.
It’s because they’re not true.”

Their faces drop. “Oh, damn,” Isla mutters. “Those would have been some pretty babies.”

“Right you are, Isla. Very pretty. And Cam would have approved.”

“The only male Cam ever approved of me dating was a Hollywood star – and even then he had to be on screen,” I remind them.

“Well, it’s still a shame,” Marie murmurs, taking her plate. “We could do with a bit of juice around here these days. Nothing exciting ever happens anymore.”

“I agree…” Isla nods as they both walk over to their table. I look at them hopelessly, shaking my head, and the bell from the kitchen rings for food. I walk in to get Mr. Yeo’s waffles.

“I’m sure I just heard the twins,” Mom says, wiping the side down.

“You did. Being their usual crazy selves.” I grab the plate. “Gossiping.”

She laughs. “You wouldn’t think they were in their fifties. More like their fif
teens
, if there were such a thing.”

“I think there is. It’s reserved just for them.” I leave the kitchen and give Mr. Yeo his breakfast.

I’m wiping the counter down when the door opens again. I swear, if this is Louisa early, too…

“You look like crap,” Selena announces.

“Gee, thanks. You look amazing yourself.”

She sits at the counter. “I’ll have a lemonade with a dose of what the freaking hell was wrong with you last night?”

I purse my lips, grabbing a glass and filling it with ice. “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“Of course you don’t.” She sighs as I put the glass in front of her and lean on the counter.

“Really, I don’t. I can’t remember much.”

Her lips twist up on one side. “You mean you don’t remember Kyle claiming he was your boyfriend? Oh, this is awesome.”

“He did what?” I glance over her shoulder at the Stevens sisters. “You know what? My morning suddenly makes sense.”

“He pretended to be your boyfriend to get you away from that Tom guy you were hanging with.”

“Why the hell did he do that?”

“You were too drunk, and Tom was too grabby.” Selena shrugs. “He pretty much dragged you from my house.”

“Asshole!”

“Yep, you mentioned that a few times to him last night apparently. He called me when he’d taken you home.”

“I can’t believe he did that,” I grumble. “He’s not my damn keeper!”

“You need one,” my cousin’s voice says from the doorway. I look up, spying her black hair as she strolls toward me.

“Oh, don’t you start as well.” I stand and grab a mug for her first coffee.

“I’m just sayin’, Rox.” Louisa holds her hands up, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder. “You think you’re good, but you’re not.”

I catch her eye, and my heart sinks when I catch her meaning.

“Please tell me the reason you were at the B’n’B on Friday night wasn’t what I think it is.”

“Shut up,” I hiss under my breath, glancing at a suspiciously silent Isla and Marie. I put Louisa’s coffee in front of her. “I’m not talking about that here.”

“That’s a yes.” My cousin sighs. “God, Rox. You really have to-”

“Give it a damn rest,” I snap. “I’m not a child.”

“You know he wouldn’t have wanted you to act this way,” Selena says softly.

“She’s right,” Louisa asks. “Cam would have gone crazy seeing you behave this way.”

“Then he shouldn’t
have got in the car knowing Stu was absolutely fucking steaming, should he? He should have got in with us.”

“You know that isn’t fair,” Lou says with an edge to her voice.

“No, what isn’t fair is that he died. What isn’t fair is that I’m just trying to cope and I can’t even grieve for him without everyone going on at me.” I snatch up my cloth.

“You’re not grieving, Roxy.”

“Everyone grieves in different ways. This is mine, okay?” I stare at her and point at her laptop bag. “Are you gonna work on that book? It won’t write and publish itself, you know.”

Louisa chews the inside of her cheek, and sighs. “Fine. I get it.” She turns and sits at the table nearest to the counter.

I resume my cleaning of the counter unnecessarily and feel Selena’s eyes on me. I turn to face her.

“What?”

She sips her lemonade. “She’s right, you know.”

I scoff, turning to the coffee machine. “Oh cry me a fucking river, why don’t you?”

“Just saying.”

“Well don’t.”

~

It’s not a problem if I know I’m doing it.

This is what I’m telling myself; it’s what I have to tell myself. I have to believe I don’t have a problem and my coping mechanism hasn’t developed into more than just that. It hasn’t. It can’t have. The drink, the sex, the…
occasional
drug use… is a habit, not an addiction. I can live without it.

Maybe…

His room hasn’t been touched. I know because I’m the only one that ever opens the door. I’m the only one brave enough to step into the place that was his sanctuary and filled with everything that made Cam, Cam.

It even smells like him still. His half-empty Davidoff cologne sits on his desk, the underlying musky smell still lingering in the air as if it was only sprayed recently. The bed is still perfectly made, and there’s still a weeks’ worth of clean clothes piled on his chair. He never did put them away – instead waiting until Mom gave in and did it or he could bribe me to.

I sit on his bed and lean back against the wall. My legs bend upward, my thighs pressing against my chest, and I wrap my arms around my knees. Every part of me aches with missing him. It’s a feeling that runs deeper than anything I’ve ever known, so deep I feel it right to my bones. Being in his room only makes it worse, but it’s all I have left of him. The memories aren’t enough yet.

I need to be in his room surrounded by him. By the clothes I sneak out when Mom isn’t around, returning them only once they no longer smell of him, and by that exact smell. I still call his cell to hear his voice
on the answer phone. I still check his Facebook very day for a stupid status update or a picture of a cat with some stupid caption.