Fall (Seaside #4)(5)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

And I couldn’t blame her.

But it was easier to hate someone than deal with having a broken heart. And I knew it was best. What I did was for both of us. But mainly, it was for her. She was lucky I rejected her.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” the chatty woman asked.

“No. I don’t.”

“Oh that’s alright.” She patted my arm. “You have plenty of time to settle down.”

“Right.” I offered her a smile.

Her eyebrows knit together. “You look famous.”

“I am famous.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah.” I smiled for real this time. “It is.”

“Have I seen any of your movies?”

“I’m not sure.”

She seemed to think about this for a minute. “If I text my grandkids and say I sat next to you will they scream?”

I smirked. “How old are they?”

“Fourteen.”

“Yeah.” I laughed. “Lots of high pitched screaming.”

“Can I have your autograph? Or do you get tired of people asking you that? I don’t mean to be a bother…”

I reached into my carry-on and pulled out two pictures, signing them with long fluid letters and then pulled out my phone and took a picture. “Give me your email and I’ll send this to you.”

“I can’t believe—” she dabbed her eyes, “You would do that, you don’t even know me.”

“Yeah I do.” I held out my hand. “Jamie Jaymeson.”

She blanched.

Holy shit. She was having a stroke.

I was about ready to yell for someone when she threw her bony arms around me and whispered in my ear, “I just loved you in that Romeo and Juliet remake — I can die happy now.” She squeezed me so tight I had trouble breathing.

“Er, thanks.” I pulled back and smiled.

“You’ll find your girl soon, Jamie. I just know it. A woman knows these things.”

“Yeah.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Thanks.”

Hell, I needed more to drink. The last thing I needed was a sweet grandma telling me she loved me and then telling me I was going to settle down soon. No way. Not gonna happen.

Because if I ever did settle down.

It wouldn’t be with anyone.

But her.

Chapter Four

Priscilla

I grabbed the boxes from the donation center and carried them outside to my car. My dad’s church had recently decided to do a contest where each family donated clothing to the local Goodwill.

The family that won was given an overnight stay at the new resort in Canon Beach. I guess that was one way to get people to give, especially in this day and age. Last Christmas I had gone door to door to get donations for needy families, and was told at least ten times that the families wouldn’t be so needy if they got off their asses and worked for a living.

And I was only asking for a dollar donation.

Sometimes I hated people.

I was much happier being the silent one in the background. Give me a clipboard with a list of things to accomplish or a building to paint, but don’t make me deal with people who haughtily talked out of their asses for a living. My dad would kill me if he could hear my inner monologue. I’d just said ass like two times in the past five minutes.

Dehydration and irritation were both setting in.

The dehydration was due to the fact that nobody was helping me carry all five thousand boxes to my car on account of they were all at a cheer competition for my little sister. It was her first “away” competition, and not that our parents didn’t trust her, but she was sixteen and well… let’s just say the football team knew her well — too well if you asked me.

My irritation had been caused by an entirely different reason — I was still thinking about the devil, also known as Jamie Jaymeson, A-list actor and genuine jackass. See? There I go again. Maybe I should just write ass across my shirt. You know, really commit to the word for an entire day.

I snorted as I crammed another box into my car. If Jaymeson and his stupid accent were here, I’m sure I could throw around a lot more than ass. I may even dive deep down in my black heart and use an F-bomb, consequently waking my grandmother from her grave of two years, and causing her to haunt me for the rest of my natural existence.

With a grunt, I picked up one more box and shoved it into the car, slamming the door behind it.

Forget my grandmother, visions of Jaymeson teased me; they haunted me, they seriously made me want to fly down to LA and burn down his house — with him inside.

It hadn’t been my first kiss.

But it had been my best — my favorite. Until the idiot, see I don’t have to say ass all the time, decided to panic and act like a commitment-phobe freak.

What? It wasn’t like I expected him to propose to me! I’m eighteen! Eight-freaking-teen! I was just so shocked that he’d been shaking while giving me the kiss, that he’d been so tender in the process, that for a split second, I believed he could be a different person.

I saw a Jaymeson that I’m sure the world had never seen. He was awkward, afraid, scared, hilarious.

And mine.

He’d kissed me like I was his, and I hated that every second of the day a part of me wished it were true.

With a sigh, I walked over to the driver’s side of my car and heard a loud honking. I jerked back against my door and swore out loud as a truck sped by and flipped me off.

Great, so thinking of Jaymeson wasn’t just driving me slowly insane, it was going to get me killed.

I needed to find a boyfriend.

And get a life.

I’d promised my parents I would take a semester off and start school at Oregon State in the spring.

Yeah, I should have never made that promise. I was already in hell. And FYI, hell isn’t a bad word because it’s an actual place; I tell my dad this on a daily basis.

I turned the key in my red Camry and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. I drove like a snail toward Goodwill, and it had nothing to do with the fact that I was a terrible driver. It did, however, have everything to do with the fact that my parents were going to be gone for an entire week, only to come home for the weekend and leave again for my sister’s next cheerleading competition in Seattle. They were going to stay an extra week and vacation, then drive her back in time for school to start.

Leaving me alone.

All alone.

I started singing, “All by myself…” at the top of my lungs then stopped. You know you’ve hit a low point when your own singing grates on your nerves.