But I remembered everything from high school. Every time he’d bullied me. Every time he’d made me cry. Every time I’d cursed his name.
It had taken me a long time to feel comfortable in my own skin. Maybe that was normal for all women. The only treatment for our insecurities was time and age—even then, there wasn’t a cure. Some days, I was sure the self-conscious thoughts about my hair or my career or my success or my body were gone for good. Others, those familiar doubts would creep out from their depths and ruin a beautiful day.
Behind each of my insecurities was a face. Cal’s teenaged face. Intentionally and unintentionally, his high school antics had given me flaws. He’d shined a light on my imperfections, ripping away my youthful rose-colored glasses.
He made me vulnerable. He made me weak. No one could tear through my defenses quite like Cal.
I wanted to live here without the fear of him lurking behind every corner. So I’d use my memories, I’d steal the plays from his book and do my best to run Cal out of town.
This was my home now.
And Calamity wasn’t big enough for us both.
-
Dear Diary,
* * *
Cal threw water on me today. He did it on purpose too. When Mr. Gregsmith confronted him about it, Cal lied and said he tripped. It was his word against mine. I think maybe Mr. Gregsmith believed me, but I’m just a scholarship kid so Cal got off with a warning not to walk around with an open water bottle. I was talking to John at my locker when Cal did it. Maybe John was flirting with me? I don’t know. Cal came walking down the hallway with his horrible jock friends. Why couldn’t he just keep on walking? Why can’t he just leave me alone? He didn’t even pretend to trip. He just flung out his wrist and I got freaking soaked. And you know those stupid white uniform shirts are really thin. Everyone in the hallway started laughing. Some guy cracked a joke about my nipples and then John started laughing too. Do you think maybe he was in on Cal’s joke? That maybe he was flirting with me to help Cal? Whatever. John’s not even that cute. His bottom teeth are crooked. Are my nipples big? I don’t know what size is normal. Is there a way to shrink them? Like a cream or something? Maybe Mom will let me buy a padded bra the next time we go shopping. I still have some birthday money left over, and Mrs. Murphy would probably pay me to mow her lawn next week. I was going to use my savings for a new backpack, but I’d rather Cal tease me for the duct tape holding the strap together than because I have weird nipples. I hate Cal Stark. Like, a lot.
* * *
Nellie
CHAPTER THREE
CAL
The diary gave a thump as I slammed it closed.
“Fuck.” I tossed it on the bed beside me and dragged a hand over my face.
I’d read that journal cover to cover. Twice.
About half of Nellie’s entries were about school, fretting over test scores and worrying about homework assignments. If I would have put in a fraction of her effort, I might have aced more exams. But school had been her obsession while football had been mine. And my B-plus average had been good enough.
I hadn’t realized until reading her journal just how much pressure Nellie had been dealing with in high school. Whether she’d put it on herself or not, having a perfect 4.0 GPA had been her sole focus. She’d dedicated morning, noon and night to studies. Anything to ensure her scholarship hadn’t been at risk. And this book was just for freshman year. Classes had only gotten harder as we’d aged.
Benton was the most sought-after private high school in Denver. My admission had been guaranteed. So had my graduation. I could have failed every course and they still would have handed me a cap and gown, simply because I was Colter Stark’s son.
Amassing money was Benton’s favorite sport.
They balanced their elitist reputation by offering scholarships to five kids in each grade level. Nellie had been one of the five in our class. Girls like Phoebe, whose parents wrote tuition checks, made sure to remind Nellie that her parents could not.
Interlaced in the diary were a few other accounts of nasty run-ins with the cheerleaders. But otherwise, the rest of that damn book was about me.
She hated me.
Hell, after reading that diary, I hated me too.
The jeans and T-shirt I’d been wearing earlier were in a pile on the floor. My motel room reeked of stale coffee. I’d had to take another shower because my skin had been sticky with sweetened milk.
Never in a million years would I have expected Nellie to throw her coffee on me. She preferred insults to injury. Considering my jeans had definitely suffered physical injury, this was a new tactic.
All I’d wanted this morning was a quick breakfast. I’d thought if I could make it to First before the parade started at ten, I’d have a shot at a peaceful meal at the White Oak. I’d been one block away from the café when a group of kids had recognized me. People had appeared out of thin air, surrounding me for selfies and autographs. I’d had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
My Land Rover was currently in transit from Nashville to Montana, and it couldn’t get here fast enough. At least with a car, I wouldn’t be limited to restaurants within walking distance to the motel.
My stomach growled. Thanks to Nellie’s spectacle earlier, all I’d had to eat was a granola bar from the motel’s vending machine.
You threw water on me once. Remember?
Oh, I remembered. Even if I hadn’t just read her diary entry, I would have remembered.
That motherfucker John Flickerman had been bragging in the locker room after gym class, gloating that he’d be the guy to score Nellie’s virginity. She’d kept to herself at Benton, especially when it had come to guys, but she’d clearly had a crush on him.
I’d known that John would laugh if I threw water on her. I’d known she’d never talk to the douchebag again if he laughed. So I’d doused her.
I hadn’t meant to give her a goddamn nipple complex.
She had perfect nipples.
The coffee smell was getting old, so I snagged the stained clothes from the floor, grabbed my wallet and room key, then headed out the door. The jeans were tossed in the nearest trash can—I’d have to figure out my laundry situation later. The shirt was probably salvageable, there was only coffee on its hem, but I had a spare, so it was dumped too. Then I paced the length of the motel as I waited for my realtor to arrive.
Flower baskets hung from the second floor’s exterior walkway. Pots had been planted beside each room, their blooms a riot of color against the red-painted doors. The parking lot was full, like it had been all weekend, but it was quiet. Most of the guests were probably downtown for the parade.
Beside the office’s door was an old wagon wheel with LOBBY stenciled in white across a spoke. The motel’s dark wooden exterior soaked in the heat from the morning sun. As I walked, whichever shoulder was closest to the wall absorbed the radiating warmth.
Did these rooms have air-conditioning? It would get hot as the summer progressed. Though I guess it didn’t matter. My stay at the motel would be short-lived.
A black Toyota SUV eased into the parking lot. The woman behind the wheel waved, then eased to a stop as I approached.
“Hi, Mr. Stark,” she greeted as I slid into the passenger seat. “I’m Jessa Nickels.”
“Cal,” I corrected, like I had when she’d called me Mr. Stark on the phone last week. My father was Mr. Stark.