Read Online Inseverable: A Carolina Beach Novel by Cecy Robson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cecy Robson
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sight of their license plate right before they sped off.”
I blow out air. “Well, that explains it. All the crazies are from Texas.”
“I’m from Texas,” he rumbles.
I bat my hand in true “pa-shaw” fashion like I didn’t just insult him and everyone he knows. “Oh, I’m sure you’re the exception. You, your momma, your daddy, your brother―”
“I don’t have a brother.” Again the edges of his mouth curve.
“Sister?” I offer.
“Three,” he admits.
“Okay, I’ll make the exception for them, too―and maybe a couple of first cousins.” I scissor out my hands. “But I draw the line at second cousins twice removed. They’re always a freaky bunch.”
“Is that right?” he asks.
“Yes. Like I said ‘dem Texans are nuts.”
For once I shut my mouth, even though I think I maybe entertaining him, however mildly. We hit the end of the beach and turn around. He stays quiet, but by now it’s been like ten whole minutes since I said anything, and if you’ve been paying attention you know that’s a lot for someone like me.
“So you’re from Texas,” I say.
“That’s right.”
“Did you play football?” I ask. “I know football’s real big there.”
Although it’s a fairly simple and not very personal question, he seems hesitant to tell me. “You can’t be a country boy in Texas and not play ball,” he finally answers.
“Were you the quarterback? I can picture you as a quarterback.” I toss him a wink. “A mighty, mighty quarterback.”
And lookee here. There’s that almost grin, again.
“I was a first string lineman,” he admits.
“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “Hmm. I bet all the pretty girls were just lining up so you could deflower them, huh?”
His head ever so slowly rotates my way, but then he catches himself resumes his attention ahead. “No. I think the quarterback took care of all that.”
It occurs to me then how much I love messing with him. “Did it bother you, not having all those girls to deflower? You can tell me seeing how we’re BFFs and all.”
He smirks, but mostly I think to squelch his widening grin. “Believe it or not, I didn’t care,” he answers.
He slows to a stop as my post comes into view. But I’m not ready to let him go.
“We can keep going if you’d like,” I offer. “I don’t have anywhere to be.” He frowns, appearing either confused or unsure so I add, “Besides, that man in my bed is shackled good and tight, he’s not going anywhere till I set him free.” I throw out a hand. “Don’t worry. I left the remote in his hand and plenty of water so he’s fine.”
The way Callahan straightens, makes me think that maybe I pushed the joke too far. But then he shakes his head. “There’s something wrong with you,” he mumbles.
“I think you might have mentioned that once or twice,” I remind him.
I wave to my boys as we sprint past the station, ignoring the growing twinge in my thighs. But the further we run, the more that twinge develops into a steady burn. I was always a runner, and participated in cross-country all through high school. I kept up my stamina by running every other day while I was in college, but after Hunter and I broke up, I hiked up plenty of miles dealing with the stress and the depression that followed—so many in fact, I was able to participate in my first half marathon this past Spring.
I pride myself on keeping fit, but by now, Callahan and I are a few miles in, and in my haste to meet him, I never bothered with breakfast. So instead of teasing Callahan a little more, like I’d really like to, I focus on steadying my breathing and pushing through the ache.
“You all right?” Callahan asks.
“Yes. I’ve gone longer.”
We glide across the sand, our strides purposeful and even, both of us working harder to maintain our pace. He seems to want to ask more, but doesn’t.
When I’m sure he won’t ever speak again without being prompted he asks, “How long?”
“Twelve miles.” I
I blow out air. “Well, that explains it. All the crazies are from Texas.”
“I’m from Texas,” he rumbles.
I bat my hand in true “pa-shaw” fashion like I didn’t just insult him and everyone he knows. “Oh, I’m sure you’re the exception. You, your momma, your daddy, your brother―”
“I don’t have a brother.” Again the edges of his mouth curve.
“Sister?” I offer.
“Three,” he admits.
“Okay, I’ll make the exception for them, too―and maybe a couple of first cousins.” I scissor out my hands. “But I draw the line at second cousins twice removed. They’re always a freaky bunch.”
“Is that right?” he asks.
“Yes. Like I said ‘dem Texans are nuts.”
For once I shut my mouth, even though I think I maybe entertaining him, however mildly. We hit the end of the beach and turn around. He stays quiet, but by now it’s been like ten whole minutes since I said anything, and if you’ve been paying attention you know that’s a lot for someone like me.
“So you’re from Texas,” I say.
“That’s right.”
“Did you play football?” I ask. “I know football’s real big there.”
Although it’s a fairly simple and not very personal question, he seems hesitant to tell me. “You can’t be a country boy in Texas and not play ball,” he finally answers.
“Were you the quarterback? I can picture you as a quarterback.” I toss him a wink. “A mighty, mighty quarterback.”
And lookee here. There’s that almost grin, again.
“I was a first string lineman,” he admits.
“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “Hmm. I bet all the pretty girls were just lining up so you could deflower them, huh?”
His head ever so slowly rotates my way, but then he catches himself resumes his attention ahead. “No. I think the quarterback took care of all that.”
It occurs to me then how much I love messing with him. “Did it bother you, not having all those girls to deflower? You can tell me seeing how we’re BFFs and all.”
He smirks, but mostly I think to squelch his widening grin. “Believe it or not, I didn’t care,” he answers.
He slows to a stop as my post comes into view. But I’m not ready to let him go.
“We can keep going if you’d like,” I offer. “I don’t have anywhere to be.” He frowns, appearing either confused or unsure so I add, “Besides, that man in my bed is shackled good and tight, he’s not going anywhere till I set him free.” I throw out a hand. “Don’t worry. I left the remote in his hand and plenty of water so he’s fine.”
The way Callahan straightens, makes me think that maybe I pushed the joke too far. But then he shakes his head. “There’s something wrong with you,” he mumbles.
“I think you might have mentioned that once or twice,” I remind him.
I wave to my boys as we sprint past the station, ignoring the growing twinge in my thighs. But the further we run, the more that twinge develops into a steady burn. I was always a runner, and participated in cross-country all through high school. I kept up my stamina by running every other day while I was in college, but after Hunter and I broke up, I hiked up plenty of miles dealing with the stress and the depression that followed—so many in fact, I was able to participate in my first half marathon this past Spring.
I pride myself on keeping fit, but by now, Callahan and I are a few miles in, and in my haste to meet him, I never bothered with breakfast. So instead of teasing Callahan a little more, like I’d really like to, I focus on steadying my breathing and pushing through the ache.
“You all right?” Callahan asks.
“Yes. I’ve gone longer.”
We glide across the sand, our strides purposeful and even, both of us working harder to maintain our pace. He seems to want to ask more, but doesn’t.
When I’m sure he won’t ever speak again without being prompted he asks, “How long?”
“Twelve miles.” I
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