How I Fall (26 page)

As Cam stacks two of the four big boxes he dragged out of Mom’s car into his arms, I pick up my bad leg and decide to hop on my good leg all the way to my seat on the cart. I hop around every day as part of my PT training, so this little stretch should be easy. By the time Cam arrives at the cart with the first load, I’m there, huffing and puffing a little, but sitting in my seat at least and hoping very much he did not see how I got into the golf cart.

Between breaths I smile at him as though I haven’t got a care in the world. “Hope you don’t mind loading all the boxes,” I manage.

He puts the boxes into the back. “No problem. Hope you’re cool with this hideous cart. Thought it would be easiest to haul stuff down to the beach. But it’s so ridiculous, huh?”

“No. It’s perfect. I’m relieved, actually. I thought we’d have to wait for Patrick to help you with the boxes, and I thought I might slow you down as we walked to the beach, but now…we’re good.”

“Are we?”

“What do you mean?” My gaze catches on the way the sun lights up the tips of his sandy, light brown hair. Does this guy know how handsome he is, every single minute of every single day?

“Was it okay that I asked her about driving you to school?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” I look away. “I mean…if you realize it’s too much of a chore to get me every morning, I don’t really care about switching back and taking the bus.”

“Ellen.” He walks around to the driver’s seat and sits next to me. “It’s not going to be any kind of chore. As soon as my dad turns over the keys, I’m there.”

“Look. You don’t know this, but I do. Any long term commitment involving me always becomes someone’s chore. It’s inevitable. I’m giving you an easy out card you can play later on, that’s all.”

“Ellen. I only want to
he—
”

“Please. Don’t say it.”

“What?”

“
Help
me?” I guess, rolling my eyes.

He shrugs. “Why are you so against it? Against me helping you?”

“Why are so damn
for
it? I don’t need help, you know?”

“So you’ve said. I just…I like to be…helpful.” He glances away from my face as he goes on, “And it’s not just you I like to help. In case you are worried—because—I actually like to help everyone. Okay? It’s how I am. It’s a chronic thing for me and I can’t change what makes me happy.”

“Okay, well if it’s like that, Mr. Good Neighbor, then I’ll try to support your efforts. But I’m not going to ever admit that I need it or that I like it. Okay?”

“But you’ll admit that you like me?” He looks back and waggles his brows really high and I almost crack up.

“What. No. Not that either.”

“Ouch.” His brows flip so high his face looks like a cartoon character.

I crack up. “Okay. I like you a little. Of course.”

He laughs. “Fair enough. For now.” He nods his head at the backpack I’ve pulled into my lap. “You really made fresh—
not special
—white chocolate cherry muffins?”

“Yes.” I bite my lip, still grinning. “And they are still warm. Not in any special sort of way, though.”

“Well, good. It’s my lucky—not special—day.” He starts up the golf cart and drives us over to the boxes. Quickly, he’s loaded them on top of the others.

It takes less than two seconds to realize how badly I want to take back all that I’ve just said. I’m such a fraud. A hypocrite. I did wake up at 5AM to bake these especially for him. Worse, I made them mostly because I’m so grateful he’s going to
help
me. I wanted to pay him back somehow because I know it would have been impossible for me to maneuver even one of these boxes of gear anywhere near the willow grove without his amazingly awesome and infuriating
help
. So that makes it pretty obvious that I like that he’s helping me. I like it so much because I like him. After two days of staring at his text messages and dreaming over his heart-stopping perfect photos, I like this guy too much and in ways that scare me.

In ways I can’t even dare to think about let alone voice out loud!

Clambering back in the cart, he grips the wheel and changes some sort of gear on the cart engine. “You up for a breakfast picnic watching the waves roll in before we start?”

“Uh…sure…but…instead, can we…” I eye him through my lashes, not wanting to admit that the sandy beach is not for someone like me.

“What?”

“Can we hang under the trees?” I leave off saying that I know exactly where to step, walk, and stand under those trees, nor do I admit that I know where all the good hand holds are hiding should I start to topple. I also don’t mention how I’ve mapped every place to lean that would support my weaker side.

“You sure?” His face looks so hopeful as he goes on, “Because, I love sitting right up close to the shore, watching the waves roll up. We could walk a bit? I know a place at the edge of the metal groin over there.” He points way down the beach to the farthest shore divider in sight. “It’s got an underwater hole at the base where it’s all rusted out. The water covers the rusted holes but it creates this little tide pool and mini beach sand sifter area. It’s always got this perfect stockpile of washed up colored glass just sitting there. Tons of rare light blues and whites, and of course the common beer-bottle amber glass as well, which is still pretty enough, I think.” His eyes grow brighter. “Sometimes there are also these huge wash-ups of tiny, cone-shaped striped shells and awesome, twisted smooth driftwood sticks caught in there, as well. Do you know the shells I’m talking about? But those are so common. The beach glass—especially the light blue stuff—is obviously the true treasure. I heard the glass comes from old mason jars. Have you heard that?”

I nod, but it’s a lie. I have no idea what shells or the color of beach glass he’s talking about. I’m holding my breath and staring at his happy, dreamy, handsome face hardly daring to move in case someone wakes me up. Who knew Camden Campbell collected blue beach glass and babbled! I didn’t think this guy ever talked to anyone, but here he is, talking to me.

I can’t quite answer yet so, thankfully, he goes on with a shrug. “Or…I don’t know. It sounds silly saving bits of glass, I guess.” He flushes a little at my silent scrutiny. “Maybe you aren’t into beach combing or…?”

*Ellen Foster moves Kindle Fire HD to the number four spot on her most-wished-for-things list. Writes: 1. Colored Beach Glass, 2. Driftwood Sticks, and 3. Cone-Shaped Shells found on the shores of Lake Huron.*

Finally I say, “It sounds awesome, but I think staying under the trees is probably the best for today.”

Then, I wipe the longing out of my heart and hopefully off my face as I try to roll my eyes like he’s sort-of wasting my time instead of shredding every inch of my soul with his hopeful
walk-on-the-beach-with-me
expression and I add, “We’re here to work, not play around. With the surf so high today, we can do early predictions of how the waves are going to hit and ice the lowest branches that brush the shoreline before Patrick and Laura show up.” He smiles and nods, but his eyes have clouded over like I’ve just said all the wrong things. “And it just seems like we’ve got so many ropes to hang so…maybe we should stick to the plan?”

“Yes. Of course. Another time…you and I walking the lake. Maybe?”

I don’t answer or promise anything, because I know there’s no way I can ever walk down any beach with him unless we’re wrapped in each other’s arms, I get some sort of levitation device or a jet pack. Three things that are not going to come my way. I feel bad that I might have disappointed him, but if we’re going to be friends, he might as well get used to me being disappointing most of the time.

cam

Ellen’s been amazing. Balancing between the tree trunks as she paces around. She even risked climbing two of the lowest branches on one tree. A move I did not like one bit. I’m sure if they knew, Miss Brown and Ellen’s mom would fire me or lose it. The way her arms shook so much when she did it, even I almost flipped out.

I kept imagining all 100 pounds of her slipping off. Even the few feet she risked being above the ground had to be dangerous to her, but she never did fall! And had she, well…we all would have had a big surprise, because for hours I’ve been poised to catch her. It’s an exhausting job, following her around.

When Patrick and Laura showed up, I was relieved to have some help with it. After only one hour Patrick was as much of a mess as I was watching over her antics. With the added distraction of Laura London in the mix, he and I finally worked out silent signals. I spent half of my time climbing way up to hang her ropes, then quickly scrambling back down to clamber around behind Ellen while Patrick kept a close eye on Laura who thought she should climb any tree she pleased.

If I was up, I had to also keep an eye on Laura while Patrick was down and standing really close to Ellen to make sure she stayed down, pretending to listen very closely to her directions or he asked extra questions to make sure she didn’t move too much.

She thankfully never seemed to notice what we were up to. That’s because the girl had eyes only for her beloved tree project. She was a true force all day. Gently explaining the project with this dreamy look in her eyes, and then clinging to what branches she could while telling us all what to do, where to stand, how high to go and what to do next. More than once she’d change her mind last minute as we executed her rope hanging ideas which meant either Patrick or I would have to climb up and move things around.

The cool part about the day was that Ellen did all of her planning and bossing around in a way that made us all share in her excitement. After a few short hours of work, we all feel like equals on the same team, even though as the day wears on, it’s pretty clear how hard she’d already worked on this idea. Ellen’s vision is so bright and clear as to how it’s going to go, the three of us should be simply grateful to her because we get to participate at all. No doubt, this is going to be one cool project.

I found out Ellen’s spent at least an hour or more each day down in this grove—since last June! All summer long. I’ve pictured her sitting below these same branches staring up at them how she did today. I can visualize her walking slowly down here and just staring at the lake while writing up her plan for the WOA contest. The thought of it has made me insane. First, because I think of all the lost opportunities to wander down here and talk to her that I’d missed. If only I’d known! And second—damn that wistful far-away look on her face she’s had all day—it just does me in. She’s doing it even now!

A few minutes ago, I noticed that Ellen’s left leg was shaking pretty badly, so I begged for a break by swearing that my arms were too tired from hanging on the branches to go on. Patrick backed me on a bout of his own arm pain, and called Ellen a cruel slave driver.

Laura and Ellen are huddled up, looking at Ellen’s tree sketches. Drawings Ellen made showing each and every tree and possible locations of where she’d hoped the ropes would hang. For the most part, what we’ve done matches her sketches almost exactly. Patrick and I are sitting in the golf cart seats nearby shamelessly battling for what’s left of the amazing muffins.

My mind is spinning as I hatch and then discard plan after plan on how I want to try to go forward with some kind of relationship with Ellen. But, the more I think about it, the more time I spend with her…the more I get what Patrick was trying to tell me last week. How sweet and vulnerable she really is, how her CP is not what I expected. After today, I truly believe Ellen Foster is the strongest person I know, but at the same time she’s so small and fragile and nice…that I’m really afraid that I could hurt her. As for this WOA project? I’m more committed than ever because I get to my core that the outcome of it is connected to her whole happiness. I also get that I want to give that happiness to her, even if the cost is me
not
approaching her and telling her just how much I like her.

“You know this is
my
muffin recipe?” Patrick says, obviously trying to impress Laura, all while acting like he’s starved to death as he attacks the last muffins in the bottom of the bag. I’ve caught him glancing up at Laura over and over again just as he’s caught me searching out Ellen all damn day.

“Then you won’t mind if I finish what’s here because you can make them at home later,” I say, dragging the muffin bag out of his hand to distract him from Laura. He scrunches up his face with this wry grimace as if he can completely read my mind. I hit him with one of my own grimaces, which makes us both at least share a knowing head shake and a good, pathetic sigh.

At this point, even if it’s not obvious to the girls, it’s obvious to me and Patrick. He and I are pretty much doomed. He knows I’m gone on a girl who is way too good for me to even approach, and I’ve got front row seats to what is obviously becoming a torture-fest for Patrick. Laura spent the last hour declaring her undying love and listing the ‘handsome bits’ to be found on the apparently, skinny, blond-haired, blue-eyed assets and eighties punk wardrobe of Casper to all of us.

I sigh again. “At least suffering like this is not…boring,” I offer, quietly.

“Sucks. You figure out what you’re going to do?” He nods his head toward Ellen.

“No. But…like you said. I’m probably—not good—not for her, so I’m leaning toward the friend zone.”

He frowns. “Dude…I might have been out of line. What do I know? Maybe you are perfect for her and today she’s been so darn happy that I—”

“No. Just no. You were right. Me, my life—my goals—total mess. I’ve got nothing to offer her but drama, you know?”

He sighs. We both turn to look at the girls.

Laura’s hopped up and in seconds she’s in a tree. Against my better judgment, she’s convinced me to trust her with my Nikon camera. The girl has no idea how long I waited to get that amazing camera. Instead of worshiping its awesomeness, she’s started whistling some funny Irish jig tune, banging it around while she finds a spot to perch. Leaning back, she dangles one leg down while she snaps photos in every direction like it’s some sort of cheap, point-and-shoot. Then she hangs the strap off a branch so she can climb higher and bangs it around some more as she drags it up to take more shots!

“Do you think I will have to wipe glitter off the thing when she gives it back to me?” I ask.

“Glitter and sand because you know she’s going to drop it.”

“I can’t watch anymore. Let me know how it goes.” I force my gaze off Laura which of course, leaves my eyes free to travel over to Ellen.

Again. Because I can’t get enough.

She’s sitting on a flat spot of the exposed and twisting willow roots coming through the sand. Sketchbook forgotten, her arms are wrapped around her drawn up legs, chin resting on her knees. She looks perfectly at ease, like she belongs here. Like she’s become part of these trees. Even the willows seem to agree, because they’re stretching branches down around her as though they would make her a little house should she decide to stay forever. I’m mesmerized by her stillness. Enchanted with the sparkle in her eyes, and envious of her ability to hold so focused and work so long and hard on her dreams. She’s got zero doubt. Her photography, her PT, her goals to win the WOA—it all seems so solid and real, like she knows exactly what to do with every minute of her days. She humbles me.

I’ve never met a girl who believes in everything—just everything! And that includes all things that appear to be impossible—like having the three of us idiots as her project partners! She’s also, in just a few hours, made us all think that we are somehow now expertly trained and educated about photography and light angles, not to mention how to properly frame a good shot! She’s got us all so ramped up that if she suggested we all get black turtle necks and round glasses and wander around museums and galleries as photography critics right now, we all might just think we had the right to do that!