Chasing Castles (Finding Focus #2) Page 2

  I really hate my brother sometimes, but I keep my expression even, not giving him one twitch of my lips or quirk of an eyebrow, because I’d never want him to know how I really feel about Deacon.

  “Whatever, Tucker!” Marcy screeches, completely losing her composure. She yanks on one of the girls’ arms as she starts to walk off, flipping her hair over her shoulder and then flipping us the bird. Pausing, she turns back and yells, “I’d stay away from those Johnson sisters if I were you. They’re walking STDs!”

  Tucker chuckles and I take the opportunity to push him away from me, hoping he’ll fall flat on his ass. No such luck, though. He catches himself and runs his fingers through his hair before looking at me like I’m crazy.

  “What the hell was that for?”

  “For being a jackass, that’s what.”

  “All I did was stand up for you to Marcy Bernard. What did you expect me to do, stand around and let you two fight over Deacon?”

  “You didn’t have to do anything, Tucker. Stop trying to protect me and fight my battles. I can take care of myself!”

  “As long as I’m around, I’ll always come to your defense. I’m your big brother. It’s my job,” he says, throwing an arm around my shoulder, but I shrug it off.

  “I gotta go find Stacey.”

  “Fine,” he says, still smirking at me and my lack of appreciation. “I’ll see you after the game. Try to rein it in, Mohammad Ali.”

  I groan and roll my eyes before walking away.

  When I get closer to the steps leading up to the bleachers, I see Stacey still standing by the concessions stand with our snacks, talking to some boys, so I motion to her that I’m going to our seats. She quickly says her goodbyes and catches up to me.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine. I’m just annoyed at Tucker.”

  She raises her eyebrows and takes a drink of her Coke as we start making our way through the crowd.

  We find seats close to the top of the bleachers, right by the press box, that aren’t very crowded yet and sit down. I like watching the game from up here. It’s far away from gossiping girls who only come to the game to talk about which player has the biggest package and who’s seen it in person.

  “Well, I think it’s sweet that Tucker stepped in and helped you. He’s such a great brother,” Stacey says.

  She’s never been subtle about her crush on Tucker.

  “I know he means well. I just wish he’d mind his own business.”

  The truth is, he is a great brother, but it’s like he tries to be a second parent to me just because we don’t have a mom anymore, and it pisses me off.

  And hearing how he feels about the idea of Deacon and me liking each other makes my stomach hurt. I can’t wait to graduate and get out of here. I want to live my life for me, not for my dad or my brother or anyone else.

  Even if that means being away from Deacon.

  That’s how badly I want just to be Cami. Not Tucker’s little sister or the late Jessie Benoit’s daughter.

  Just Cami.

  I watch in rapt attention as Deacon commands the field. He makes solid passes, and his offensive line is doing a great job of keeping him protected. The only part I hate about watching Deacon play football is the worry that creeps in from time to time. Those boys are out for blood. I’ve watched some nasty sacks over the years, but Deacon always brushes them off and gets back in there, ready to make them pay.

  After another solid victory by the French Settlement Wildcats, Stacey and I meet Tucker and Micah in the parking lot so we can catch a ride to the after-game party at the Crawford’s. I wish Deacon were riding with us, but he has all that post-game wrap-up stuff and his truck to drive.

  “So, Micah, does it suck being on the junior varsity team while your big brother is a star on varsity?” Stacey asks as we make our way out of the crowded gravel parking lot and onto the country road that leads to Byron’s house.

  Micah is a sophomore like me, and I know he hates when people compare him to his brother; not because he hates his brother, but because as much as people try to create a competition between the two of them, there’s never been anything but love. I think everyone in town expected Micah to follow in Deacon’s footsteps and play varsity right off the bat. He’s certainly good enough, but he didn’t want Deacon breathing down his neck all season. So instead, he’ll bide his time and wait for Deke to graduate in the spring. Then he’ll try out for varsity in the fall.

  I’ve always loved that about Micah. He never lets his last name go to his head, and he doesn’t care what people think he should or shouldn’t do.

  “Nope, doesn’t suck at all. I get to play on Thursday nights and leave my Fridays open for the babes,” Micah replies, earning him a high-five from Tucker.

  Idiots.

  Did I forget to mention that Micah is well on his way to being a man-whore like my brother?

  In that sense, Micah is nothing like Deacon.

  Deacon is a lot more subtle in his endeavors. He’s dated, but he’s never been one to be attached to a different girl’s hips or lips every other week. Or every other day, as in Tucker’s case. Even though girls like Marcy are always making it sound like he’s playing the field, the only field Deacon plays is the football field.

  Tucker pulls into the grassy field that’s already filling up with vehicles as everyone filters in from the game. After he finds a spot, he parks his truck, and we all head inside.

  Once we’re in the house, Stacey and I take a few minutes to look around for familiar faces while the boys go straight to the back porch, where I’m sure the keg resides. No one here is legally old enough to drink, but that doesn’t stop it from happening after every home football game. Living out in the country has many advantages, and one of them is that just about everyone has huge yards that people can pass out in for a while before driving themselves home in the morning. All the parents here grew up together and did the same things their kids do. So, everyone pretty much turns a blind eye. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

  We’ve been exchanging small talk with various people for over an hour when I reach my limit.

  “This is boring,” I whisper to Stacey. “I’m gonna walk around for a while.”

  Walking into the kitchen, I grab a red cup that everyone is filling up with booze and get some water out of the tap before stepping out on the back porch. The first voice I hear is Tucker’s, of course, and I inwardly cringe.

  “Baby, I can’t play football and risk hurting these magical fingers.” He holds up both hands and wiggles his fingers. “I’m a musician. I gotta keep these safe and sound for playing my guitar.”

  Amanda, the girl he’s talking to, flirts back. “I bet that’s not all you need your fingers for.”

  “You would be correct, my dear,” Tucker murmurs before kissing her cheek.

  I’m about to say something, but before I can get a word out, Deacon pipes up.

  “Don’t be fooled, honey. Tucker only needs his fingers for one thing and, because his thing is so small, he only needs to use two of them to get the job done.” Deacon slaps my brother on his back while laughing at his own joke, and even though he’s referring to the size of my brother’s penis, I can’t help but chuckle.

  Deacon walks past Tucker and Amanda into the kitchen, giving me a playful shoulder check on his way by.

  “Laugh it up, Landry,” Tucker calls after him. “You’re just jealous I get more play off the field than you do.”

  It has always been like this with Tucker and Deacon. They’ve been the best of friends since before kindergarten, and they show their love for one another through teasing and put-downs. The only difference now is that their jokes are much dirtier.

  I find a seat on one of the patio couches and, to my surprise, Deacon walks back out and sits down next to me.

  “You’re not drinking the Jungle Juice, are you?” He points to the cup in my hand.

  “No, just water. What about you? Looks like you’ve been nursing that beer for
a while. There’s not a drop of condensation left on the bottle. You need a nipple for it?”

  I don’t even realize what I’m saying until I hear the words leave my mouth, and then I just want to die of embarrassment. I have no problem teasing like that with the boys in my life, but the fact I just asked my crush if he needs a nipple is pretty mortifying. My face is burning up in humiliation, but when I see the blush on Deacon’s cheeks, I relax a little. Normally, he’d fire back with a witty retort, but he can’t even look me in the eyes right now.

  Interesting.

  “Relax, Deke. It was just a joke,” I assure him.

  He clears his throat before replying. “I know. You just caught me off guard; that’s all. Besides, you know I don’t really drink at these parties. Not when I have to drive home anyway. This,” he holds up his beer, “is just for show.”

  And there he goes, showing me the real Deacon that not many other people get to see.

  “You played a great game tonight,” I tell him, nudging his shoulder with my own.

  “Thanks, Cam. I love knowing you’re in the stands watching me play. You’re my good luck charm. You know that.” He quirks a smile up at me and winks. He’s told me that since the first game I ever watched him play back when he was in fifth grade. It was his first time to run the ball into the end zone. He told his mom and dad that I had to come to every game after that. And I haven’t missed many. The one time I had strep throat in eighth grade and missed his opening game for varsity, he fumbled the ball twice. Later that night, he brought me soup his mom had made for me and informed me I wasn’t allowed to miss any more games.

  But I don’t think he has any idea what those familiar words do to my insides now—now that we’re older, and my feelings for him go way beyond backyard football and bike rides down dirt roads. And I can’t decide whether I want to kiss him or punch him for making me feel the way he does.

  Before I get the chance to make up my mind, someone yells at him from inside the house, saying they need him for a game of beer pong.

  “Duty calls,” he says, slapping my knee with his large palm as he gets up from the wicker loveseat.

  I smile but hate the warmth he takes with him as he leaves.

  “Oh,” he says, making me jump. “Don’t let Tucker drive home. He’s been drinking the Kool-Aid.”

  I tip my cup to him and nod. Then I gulp the last of my water, hoping it’ll put out the fire in my belly.

  Camille

  Present

  FIRE.

  Pockets is on fire.

  I can see the smoke billowing from the restaurant as I turn out onto the highway, and my heart stutters in my chest.

  No.

  This can’t be.

  Deacon and Micah have worked so hard on getting this restaurant off the ground. They’ve poured their blood, sweat, and tears into it, not to mention most of their life savings.

  I clutch my chest as I drive faster.

  As I get closer, I can see the flames as they edge out of the door that’s partially open on the side of the building. It’s the door that leads down the hallway where the bathrooms and offices are, and my heart squeezes in my chest like someone has it in a death grip.

  I see Sam’s truck parked beside the fire chief’s. Then, I see Sam.

  He’s pacing in the gravel parking lot. A fireman comes up to him and takes him by the shoulders, forcing him to take a few steps back.

  When I pull up, I barely remember to put my SUV in park before jumping out and running to him.

  “Where’s Deacon?” I yell.

  Sam’s hands grab my shoulders, and he looks at me for a second before hugging me to his chest. “He’s gonna be fine.”

  He says these words like he’s trying to convince himself, like he’s assuring himself as much as he’s assuring me.

  “Where is he?” I ask, tears pricking my eyes. I’m not sure if they’re from the smoke that’s taking over the air around me or if it’s from the emotions that are squeezing their way up my throat.

  “He’s gonna be fine,” he says, smoothing down the back of my hair.

  When I pull away from him and make eye contact, I see the tears in his eyes too. And something else, something that Sam Landry never shows.

  Fear.

  “I can’t lose him,” I tell him.

  He nods and bites his lip as he squeezes my shoulders. “I know.”

  I can’t.

  I know what it feels like to lose the person your world revolves around.

  When I was six, I barely knew what it meant to lose someone.

  But today, I know what it means. I know it by heart. And I’m not sure if I can live through it.

  Camille

  Past

  NORMALLY, IF I HAVE A bad day, I’ll grab a canvas and some paints and use that as an outlet. If that doesn’t work, I often walk to the Landry’s house, and either find Annie in the kitchen or her greenhouse out back. Today, though, I don’t feel up to any of that. My mood is hanging over me like a black cloud. Instead of spreading it around like the flu, I find a spot close to the pond that separates the Landry property from my family’s land and settle there on the soft grass, hoping that some fresh air and good ol’ Louisiana sunshine will do me some good.

  It’s so warm out today; it’s hard for me to believe it’s already January.

  Fall was a flurry of events. Deacon’s last football season was the best in school history. He led them straight to the state playoffs. They didn’t win, but the way our small town rallied around them, you would’ve thought they won the Super Bowl. Deacon was happy with the success, and everyone thought he would for sure sign with one of the colleges who’ve been scouting him, but he didn’t. He’s sticking with his dream of attending LSU in the fall.

  I’m happy for him. I really am. I’m happy he’s staying true to what he wants in life and blazing his own path. But I can’t help the melancholy that’s settled over me the last week or so. Ever since New Year’s Eve, all I can think about is that this is the last semester Deacon and I will be in school together. It’s the last few months that things will be like this, with him living just down an old beaten path.

  In August, he’ll move into the dorms at LSU, and everything will change.

  It never fails, when I start thinking about change, I think about my mama, because change is a reminder that life goes on, and she’s not here.

  I was six when she died.

  What started off as the flu quickly became pneumonia and within a week, she was gone. I don’t remember much about that week, but I do remember being in the hospital and holding my mama’s hand. The adults whispered while Tucker and I played quietly in the next room.

  And I remember seeing my daddy cry for the first time.

  He loved my mama. Even at the young age of six, I knew that much.

  We all loved her.

  And with every passing year, I forget details of the little time I had with her. My greatest fear in life is waking up one morning and not being able to remember anything about her—the way her eyes and nose crinkled when she laughed or the way her hair hung down her back when she was standing at the stove cooking . . . or the sound of her humming while doing things around the house.

  I wish I could bottle it all up and keep it with me forever, pouring a little out each time I miss her. I’d need an endless supply.

  I thank the Lord on a daily basis that Annie Landry was my mama’s best friend. She’s always been there for me when I needed a woman’s perspective and saw to it that I had a female influence in my life. My daddy has always done the best he can. He’s been there for me, held me when I cried myself to sleep . . . cried with me. He’s done a good job. My mama would be so proud of him, but sometimes a girl needs someone to talk to about girl stuff. Annie’s always been that someone for me. She doesn’t have daughters of her own, so I think I fill a missing role in her life, too.

  The most important thing is she’s never tried to replace my mama. She reminds me of her in a
lot of ways—her gentleness and the way she smells so sweet all the time. She told me one time it’s because she and my mama always used the same lotion. She even told me she’d change it if I wanted her to, but I didn’t. It’s little things like that that have kept my mama’s memory alive for me. And ten years down the road, I’ll take all the help I can get. I think Annie needs it too.

  I lost my mama and she lost her best friend.

  Lying back, I close my eyes and let my mind wander. I let the sad memories go and let the familiar sounds from the pond soothe me. The crickets chirping in the distance, the cool breeze blowing over me, carrying the combined smells of water and earth. They all do their part to help me find a bit of the peace I’m seeking. Eventually, my mind clears enough that my body relaxes, and I drift somewhere between conscious and unconscious.

  It’s not until something blocks my warmth coming from the sun that I realize I’ve drifted off to sleep.

  “What are you doing out here by yourself, Cami Benoit?”

  I should’ve known he’d find me. He’s always had a sixth sense when it comes to me, much like his mama.

  “Sleeping, Deacon Landry,” I reply back in a groggy voice. There might be a little annoyance there too because my body was so warm and relaxed, and it was the first time today I haven’t felt like a black cloud was following me around.

  “Why?”

  Slowly, I open my eyes and see Deacon in all of his six-foot-three glory standing above me. He looks beautiful with his tanned skin that lingers from the long days of summer and fall and those bright blue-green eyes that remind me of tropical waters. My heart races, but I ignore it like I always do. He has no clue what he does to me.

  “I just wanted to be alone for a while.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?” he asks, sitting down next to me, letting the sun shine down on me again.

  The question is genuine and caring, so much like his mama and so different from the cocky Deacon on the football field or the life of the party Deacon from Friday night.