Seventeen-year-old CJ Ainsworth doesnโt driveโnot because she canโt, but because she wonโt.
Sheโs been living with the guilt of being the sole survivor of the head-on collision that claimed her motherโs and sisterโs lives. Itโs the reason she refuses to get behind the wheel. Itโs the reason her father has nearly abandoned her. Itโs the reason sheโs sent to piddle the summer away at her estranged Memawโs house in Edisto Beach.
All CJ wants to do is isolate herself and make it to the trial at summerโs end, where sheโll testify against the stranger who couldnโt keep his car in its own lane. She doesnโt expect to fall for a boy, especially not Jett Ramsey, a hotshot racing champion destined for greatness on the NASCAR circuit.
CJโs resolve crumbles when she loses a bet that puts her squarely in Jettโs driverโs seat. While he patiently reintroduces her to driving, they confide in each other, and CJ learns sheโs not the only one silently suffering through a loss.
As their connection deepens, Jettโs focus on the track is called into question. CJ can’t be the cause of another car crash, but her heart is
broken either way. Can CJ learn to put her heart in drive? Or will she throw it in reverse?
CHAPTER 1
A summer away at Memawโs canโt rectify everything that fell apart in a single minute, but that wonโt stop my dad from forcing it on me.
My fingers wrench tighter around the handle grip of Dadโs Ford Explorer as he hugs the center line, tires thumping over golden reflectors in waves and shooting vibrations through my seat. I glance over my shoulder to make sure the door lock is crammed to its neck into the tan vinyl interior. Not that itโd make a difference if he were to flip this thing head-over-end into the muddy goop of tidal flats along either side of the road. If a bodyโs going to exit a car in a hurry, it sure as hell wonโt wait for an unlocked door.
These kinds of thoughts never shoved their way into my brain before the accident. Now they circulate like a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle.
I sigh and yank my phone off the dashboard. 4:15 PM. Only ten more minutes to get my summer of hell underway.
A notification blinks on the home screen. One new email from Trent Casey and all I can see of it is โCJ, things have changed so much this last year that I thinkโฆโ Inbox preview cruelty at its finest. A little sneak peek of my on-again, off-again boyfriend kicking me to the curb because Iโve been too screwed up to screw him the past year. Not that Iโd screwed him before, or anyone else for that matter.
I toss the phone in the cup holder and stare over at my dad in the driverโs seat, his eyes fixed and hooded as if in a trance. He hasnโt spoken in over a hundred miles, but Iโve strategically coughed from time to time to make sure thereโs at least a reaction to the noise,
and heโs not comatose or something. Plus, itโs easier than actually talking, and it warrants no response from him. Win-win.
Dad flips on the blinker, its dink-doonk, dink-doonk, dink-doonk signaling a right turn. Into where I have no idea, and unless Memaw has taken up living in a dilapidated open-air shack, heโs seriously misguided. He pulls into one of the ten open parking slots, demarcated by rows of conch shells instead of actual painted-on lines. How beachy of them.
Dad lets the engine idle, sliding his phone from the pocket of his polo and pecking out a text message without so much as a word or glance in my direction. I unlatch my seatbelt and open the door, easing out onto the hot, gritty sand, which creeps into my sandals and scratches at the skin.
โWhere are we?โ When he doesnโt respond, I step beside the open door, banging my hand on the window. โDad, where are we?โ
โEdisto Island, of course,โ he mumbles, never looking up from his phone, his fingers still moving furiously over the screen.
I point to the rectangular banner draped atop the entrance with what looks like a hand-stenciled Welcome to Edisto Beach, SC! in blue paint. โNo shit. I mean, what is this place?โ
โWatch your mouth, CJ. Iโm still your father.โ He finally looks up long enough to glare across his steering wheel at the banner, squinting as if itโs written in some foreign language before looking back at me. He waves his hand around. โWeโre obviously at the market.โ
The entrance isnโt a single open-close door but one of those garage-style deals that pulls down from the ceiling. Oyster shell wind chimes tinkle in the breeze. I take a deep breath, the briny air expanding in my lungs and coating my skin, and somehow start imagining myself as one of those slugs we used to find on the back porch at home and pour salt over. Almost immediately, their slimy little bodies would foam up and implode, turning into a dried-up crispie weโd flick off in the grass the next day. Maybe thatโll happen to me, and I can simply shrivel up and disappear.
Dad gets out and lifts the back hatch, and I walk to meet him, giving an extra foot shake on each step to loosen the stowaway sand from my sandals.
โBut why are we here?โ
โThis is where Memawโs picking you up.โ He hauls out my two large suitcases and sets them under the overhang. โSheโs running late, but sheโll be here within the next twenty minutes.โ
โAnd youโre just gonna leave me here?โ I thumb over my shoulder.
He stares at me as if Iโve just asked for an explanation on the meaning of life, standing like a statue except for the front flip of his thinning auburn hair that tousles with the breeze. That hair, along with his chocolate brown eyes and freckles, are the only things we even share anymore. Everything else is gone. Evaporated.
โDonโt be dramatic, CJ. I have a long drive home.โ He slams the hatch, walks to his still-open driver door and slides in behind the wheel. The passenger window rolls down part-way. โIโll see you at the end of summer. Bye.โ The words scarcely exit his lips before the windowโs rolled up and heโs peeling out of the parking lot on two wheels as if heโs off to a five-alarm fire.
Wow. Truly heartfelt. I think he might miss me. I lock my jaw, forcing my quivering stomach back in its rightful place. Part of me loathes him for just dumping me here. The other part understands, though. He hates me for what happened and wants me gone too.
Brandy Woods Snow is a Young Adult author, journalist, wife, mama of three, Christian, and proud Southerner. Born and raised in the area of Greenville, South Carolina, she still resides in the rolling foothills of the Upstate region, though she plans to one day retire to the stateโs famous Grand Strand. Brandy has a Bachelor of Arts in English and Writing from Clemson University. While creative writing pursuits have always held her heart, sheโs built a career as a journalist and editor. Brandy has more than 19 yearsโ experience and a strong platform that includes articles and columns published in Delta Sky Magazine, Greenville Business Magazine, Columbia Business Monthly and Home Design & Dรฉcor Magazine (Charlotte and Raleigh). Currently, she also works as the Marketing Manager and an Acquisitions Editor for Filles Vertes Publishing.
Her first novel MEANT TO BE BROKEN was published by Filles Vertes
Publishing in May 2018, and she has a short story featured in FVPโs LOVE ON MAIN anthology, forthcoming in February 2020. When Brandyโs not writing, reading, spending time with her husband or driving carpool for her three kids, she enjoys kayaking, family hikes, yelling โGo Tigers!โ as loud as she can, playing the piano and taking โnakedโ Jeep Wrangler cruises on twisty, country roads.
Candace Robinson spends her days consumed by words. When sheโs not writing stories, she Googles all things nostalgic. Her life consists of avoiding migraines, admiring Bonsai trees, and living with her husband and daughter in Texasโwhere it can be forty degrees one day and eighty the next.
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