Page 45 of The Older Brother
“Ugh, that’s not good,” Cami says, stretching her arms over her head with a yawn. She knows Jersey better than I do.
“Yeah?”
I squint one eye, the weight of having to piece together transportation for the next several days making my belly twist.
“He’s just not very punctual is all. He’s a genius, like legitimately. He can simply look at things and mentally take them apart and put them back together before he even touches a tool to anything. But he’s lazy.” Cami kicks her feet in the water, splashing.
“Why do the guys put up with him?” I ask.
Cami shrugs.
He’s rich. I think he floats a lot of things when they can’t pay the bills.
I nod as I drop my gaze to the ripples in the water. Rowan is from money too, but he refuses to tap those resources. I admire him for it. His principles.
The last few swimmers in my class are climbing out of the pool, so I hold up a hand to high-five them as they pass. Even the simplest positive reinforcement goes a long way. I remember being that age. I felt slow in the water until one day, when one of my coaches called me lightning. That’s all it took.
“Give me five minutes to clean up and change,” I say as my friend pulls her feet from the water.
“Finally!” She drags her feet along the deck, accentuating her pouting. I know she’s just being funny, but I feel guilty taking up her time. Even if she has nothing better to do.
I swap out my one-piece black suit for the floral bikini I brought for the lake. I run my hair through the shower to get the stench of chlorine out, then twist it on top of my head with a clip. I slip my white gauzy cover-up over my body and stuff everything else in my drawstring backpack, then skip out to Cami’s waiting car.
When we hit the highway that cuts north through the mountains, I lean forward and turn the music up, ready to clear my mind of the constant unanswered questions that have been plaguing me since Rowan dropped me off. At the top of the rotation is finding a way to see my father next weekend if my car isn’t fixed yet. And then there’s the man repairing it for me. For free. Again. The debt feels heavy, but the gesture also sets off a strange ache in my chest.
I sit back in my seat and shut my eyes for a deep breath, but before my lungs have a chance to fill, Cami turns the music down to nearly zero. My eyes pop open a hair before her inquisition begins.
“Okay, girl. We’ve got an hour drive ahead of us. Spill it!”
“Ugh, I don’t know. There’s nothing to spill,” I groan. I needed to unpack this thing with Rowan with someone, and it had to be Cami. But she’s making me regret not simply stewing over things on my own more and more.
“Saylor, you spent the night in a hotel room with the finest man to ever come out of this damn state. There’s plenty to spill, so . . . go on.” She sweeps her hand at me, prodding me to open up, and my cheeks blush as the first memory to rush through my mind is of Rowan’s mouth on my breast.
“Oh, there’s more than I thought,” Cami laughs out, punching my shoulder in jest.
The coy smile pulls the corners of my mouth into my cheeks, a reaction beyond my control, and my body warms from both embarrassment and the memory of Rowan’s hands . . . everywhere.
“Okay, fine. Yes, things happened,” I admit.
“Things. Bitch, elaborate.”
A hard laugh flies from my chest, and I choke on it, coughing while my cheeks burn. Cami has no shame when it comes to sharing things about stuff like that. She made a video with her ex, Warren, that she keeps on her phone. I’ve seen it, well . . . parts of it. Begrudgingly.
“Cam, I love that you’re free and open, with absolutely zero hangups about your sexuality. I think it’s a beautiful thing. That’s your feminism, and I applaud it. But I’m a bit more modest. Can you respect that?” I bunch my mouth up on one side and hold my stare on her, waiting until she glances my way and gives in with a roll of her eyes.
“Fine. I’ll back off. But tell me one thing.” She pushes up the sleeve of her thin, cropped sweatshirt and holds her fist up with her elbow bent.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” I think I know what she’s getting at, so I mentally prepare myself with an answer.
“You start at my fist, then draw that line down my forearm until it’s in the ballpark. I want a visual representation of what my girl is dealing with.”
“Cam,” I protest.
She shimmies her arm, though, urging me to play along, so I do. My finger draws a slow line down her wrist, inching toward her elbow as flashes of exactly how big Rowan is creep into my mind. I stop around the ten-inch mark and tap my friend’s skin.
“Fucking hell, Saylor. How’s your vagina holding up?”
I slap my palms over my face instantly and giggle.
