Somewhere Between Us

By Holly Hall

We were an unlikely couple: the cocky athlete and the preacher’s daughter. Once he finally won me over, he wasn’t supposed to break my heart.

Ten years later, he’s back in our hometown. Only now, he’s different. A cunning businessman, a big-city resident.
...and the father of someone else’s child.

When he left town, I stayed. Now I’m a teacher by day and aspiring artist by night. Dating the one man he hates more than anyone else: his brother.

I have no business falling for him again; he traded this life for one he thought was better. One that didn’t include me. But history has a way of repeating itself, and old flames? They don’t always go out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Holly Hall
• Release date: May 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463141182

Holly Hall

Holly Hall drinks coffee on the daily, would love to travel for a living, thinks animals are often better than humans, can count on one hand the number of things she loves more than reading and Texas A&M football (okay, that might be an exaggeration), and couldn’t handpick a better family than her enormous one. She is the author of four standalone, contemporary romances: Forever Grace, All the Pieces That You Left, Love in Smoke, and Smoke and Lyrics. She resides with her husband and German shepherd in Houston, Texas.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Now

Not many people can say they’ve been hit in the face with their past. After tonight, I can officially check that off my short list of life accomplishments. Well, more like I hit my past with my face.

Either way, he looks unflinchingly back at me and hardly blinks, doesn’t even allow his eyes to wander. Just gives me the hard stare of someone who’s schooled themselves on that very look. Like he expected to see me and is somehow disappointed by it.

It’s been ten years since I last saw Jeremy. Ten years since he left for college and decided he didn’t want to take his small-town girlfriend with him—AKA me. But here he is, outside the bathrooms of the only bar in town, gripping a long-neck bottle of beer as casually as if he never left.

There are a million things I could say, and all that comes out of my mouth is a paltry, You’re here.

Keen observation, he says. His voice is deeper now. Dismissive. Not at all like I imagined. Then he steps around me, heading back toward the bar and officially rendering me speechless.

I return to the table my group of girlfriends have claimed. They chatter on around me, not noticing as I search him—someone I long ago accepted as good-and-gone—out among the bar stools. And then I’m pushing away from the table and gravitating toward him, my body jaunting forward all at once. A confused product of the years I’ve spent pretending what we had didn’t matter. That it was nothing but puppy love.

He glances over when I squeeze past the patron beside him, and it doesn’t take a genius to see his indifferent expression and rigid posture and read between the lines. But I don’t let those things stop me.

What are you doing here?

Visiting my parents.

That’s it? My brow furrows of its own volition. Does he truly believe he owes me no explanation? Then my lagging brain finally catches up to my mouth and puts two and two together. I’m officially an asshole. Your father. Of course. How is he?

His eyes have already traveled elsewhere, locked on a liquor bottle or something equally as insignificant, but I notice his wince. It won’t be much longer.

Jeremy’s stepdad, the man who assumed the role of father when Jeremy was eight years old, is dying. Prostate cancer. By the time he was diagnosed, it was too late. The good ones always go too soon.

I’m sorry, I—

Yeah, he interrupts, draining his beer. I signal to the bartender, a guy who was two grades ahead of us in school, to bring us two more Shiners. Screw society’s expectations that exes can’t buy each other drinks.

The bottles are opened and served, and I take a long pull from mine. Something tells me I’m going to need it. Jeremy doesn’t seem eager to add to the conversation, so I pretend to watch the basketball game on the flat-screen. My mind runs a mile a minute, wondering where he’s been, what he’s done, and why he’s finally here, all while I study him from the corner of my eye.

Youthful fullness has given way to chiseled cheekbones and a sharp jaw. A day’s stubble is hardly noticeable against his dark, mocha skin, and his black hair is cropped close, slightly shorter on the sides. Professional and stylish. Expensive-looking.

I try not to stare and focus on the brown bottle in front of me instead, picking at the label. It’s weird seeing you here again. I wasn’t sure when you’d come back.

I never meant to.

I look over at him, noticing the set of his jaw. You never meant to visit your parents? Ever?

They visit me.

Oh. Well, I tried calling you. I guess you changed your numb—

A bump to my elbow interrupts me. What follows are the slurred words of the last person I want to see right now—the only man who could somehow succeed in making this reunion more awkward. Miss Cameron, it’s been too long. You’re lookin’ good, girl.

Jeremy’s chest expands as he takes a huge breath, and I can see the patience drain from his expression. Because Kip Daniels is the last person he wants to see, too. Kip is the town drunk, the instigator of most Waterview drama, and Jeremy’s biological father. The very one who left him and his mother before he was born. Maybe leaving runs in the family.

As if bored by our silence, Kip throws his arm over my shoulders and leans in close. My boy still hittin’ that?

I set the bottle down harder than I mean to, turning to Kip and putting a stabilizing arm around his waist to drag him out of here before he starts any trouble.

Jeremy just scoffs and grumbles, Your boy.

"Not you. Eric. My other boy."

The second the words are out, my throat closes. Because not only is Eric Daniels Jeremy’s half-brother, the son of the woman Kip left Jeremy’s mother for, he’s also my boyfriend. Has been for years. I watch with dread as Jeremy’s eyes somehow darken a shade. I remember when they were filled with so much more, promises and hopes and love. They slide over to me now and I see something else. Accusation. Loathing, maybe.

I think it’s time I take you home. I force myself to turn away, take Kip by the shoulders, and steer him and my embarrassment out to the parking lot. An apologetic glance at my friend Beth is all that’s necessary. Everyone knows Kip Daniels, and everyone knows Kip Daniels’ issues.

Did I say something wrong? he says with a chuckle, whiskey breath forming clouds in the frigid, January air.

For once I don’t answer him. Aside from the fading music and the sound of our shoes on gravel, it’s completely silent until we reach my car and I say, Let’s get you home.

Kip gracelessly folds himself into the passenger seat of my sedan, and I wonder when the last time was that he felt shame. When he could even sense the judgmental eyes and whispered opinions. It would be impossible to keep his condition a secret, especially when he makes it his sole mission to drink himself to belligerence every night. If that weren’t enough, everyone in this town is privy to the circumstances under which Jeremy became fatherless. Add that to siring another son just a few months younger than Jeremy—a living, daily reminder of his father’s betrayal—and the scene Kip just created, and I can’t blame Jeremy for leaving. I can’t blame him for never coming back.

Kip knocked up his mistress from the opposite side of town and, although he chose her, their relationship only lasted a few years before he got fed up with family life and did what he always does—washed his hands of her, for the most part. As far as I know, he’s done more for Eric than he ever has for Jeremy. Namely, claiming him proudly as his own.

When we make it to Kip’s double-wide, I open the passenger door to help him out, but that’s as far as my assistance goes. He insists he can get himself into the house, although it’s often painful to watch. Tonight is no different. He sways on his feet while crossing the weedy patch of grass in front of his porch steps, leaning heavily on the railing and stumbling with every step up when he reaches them. I wait until he makes it inside. Nothing would make me feel worse than finding out he fell over and hurt himself after I left.

Well, maybe one thing—reliving the betrayal in Jeremy’s expression when he learned I’d moved on with none other than his brother.

Jeremy went out of state after we graduated, but not before leaving me. And even though I want to hate him—for leaving, changing his number, deleting his social media accounts, and leaving my emails unanswered—how can you ever hate someone who once possessed a piece of your heart? A piece of you? Reminiscing comes easy and forgetting becomes impossible when someone leaves you suspended mid-fall.

The house I share with Eric greets me with silence. He works in the oil field, so he’s gone for weeks at a time. I hang my purse on a hook by the door and unzip my boots, lining them up along the wall. This house is ancient, passed down from Eric’s grandparents and now shared with me. There’s wood-paneling on the walls and peeling laminate in the kitchen from another century, but it’s clean and it’s ours.

I pour a sloppy two fingers of whiskey and take it with me into the bathroom. Lord knows I won’t be able to sleep after this development. I turn the water in the claw-foot bathtub on hot, clip my hair up, and submerge myself in silky heat.

The whiskey goes down like liquid fire, and I sit back. I could be angry. I could be hateful. I could be so many things, but all I feel is bereft. And instead of staying where he was and allowing me to get through life as well as I have been without him, he came back.

Ten years after Jeremy, my thoughts are reeling, and my heart remembers all too well the ache he left.

I could use a distraction, but to reduce Eric to that isn’t entirely fair. We’ve been together for seven years—the no man’s land between When will he put a ring on it? and Will you two ever get married? I wish it’d been me who broke the news about him to Jeremy. But he’s the one who left, and Eric didn’t. And if we could choose who we fell in and out of love with, maybe there’d be less grief in the world.

I pull the plug and watch the water swirl down the drain, imagining the remnants of Jeremy, the last dredges of young love, going down with it. It’s not as easy as I wish it was to forget.

I pull on a t-shirt and underwear, slipping beneath the covers with my hair still wet. A few unexpected minutes with an ex-boyfriend and now I’m haunted by past ghosts and what-ifs, my thoughts a storm inside my head.

And, somewhere in the deceptive space between awareness and sleep, I remember the day that altered life as I knew it.

Chapter 2

Then

I’m off, I announced, hopping off the last stair and striding past the entrance to the kitchen. I moved so fast I barely caught a glimpse of my father, but even then, I knew he was motionless. It was his morning routine: stand with a mug of coffee between two hands braced on the kitchen counter, staring unseeingly out the side window. He’d let his coffee go cold and then dump it out. Every morning.

I knew none of this would change, but still, my strides shortened until I stopped completely. Daddy?

He didn’t move. He just stared.

Dad? I said louder, poking my head through. He looked over his shoulder with a start. Do you want me to make you some breakfast before I go? I was already cutting it close on time, but I doubted anyone would care. They could hardly blame me for doting on my grief-stricken, widowed father.

No, no, he said, shaking his head and making a vague hand gesture, one that suggested I had nothing to worry about. I knew better. Because even though we were both grieving, someone had to make sure we ate.

Make sure we lived.

Even then, I wouldn’t call what we’ve been doing since June, when my mother passed away suddenly from an aneurysm, living. We barely existed.

I nodded to him, though he’d already turned back to the window. My mother planted a tree on that side of the house, a magnolia, which served as his morning fixation. Later he’d be in the den watching baseball while he wrote next Sunday’s sermon, and he’d work right through dinner if I let him.

I locked the door behind me and tossed my backpack into his single-cab Chevrolet. My mom’s car was in the carport, beneath a dirty tarp, and I hadn’t gotten the courage to ask him to drive it. Half of me was afraid to sit in that seat and hold the wheel, as she used to. So for now, we shared the truck. He didn’t need it much.

At school, I stowed my backpack in my locker, grabbed the textbooks and binder I’d need for the first few classes. When I shut the door, I wasn’t surprised to see the face behind it. Violetta, my best friend and confidante.

Can you get the spitball out of my hair? she asked, turning so I had better access. I groaned at the sight of her mess of thick hair.

Why is it there in the first place?

Jake Stephens thought I deserved it for ignoring the notes he keeps putting in my locker.

The homecoming invitations?

Yep. Apparently he still thinks ‘Can I pop your cherry?’ is a great opener.

I sighed, rooting through fistfuls of hair until I located the spitball. What did I tell you last week? You need to stand up for yourself or he won’t quit. You’re too—

Quiet, I know. I could practically hear her rolling her eyes. Guys like that just want attention. If I don’t give it to him, he’ll eventually get tired of the dog-and-pony show and quit.

Or, he can get his ass handed to him publicly and be too embarrassed to keep on.

Did you just say ‘ass’, Preacher’s Daughter? You’re going to ruin your reputation.

I flicked her hair in her eyes—she did that on purpose, knowing I hated that nickname—and took off toward first period, history. See you in art.

Fine, she fake-grumbled.

The day started as monotonous, not unlike most days before it. And then I was called to the principal’s office midway through first period, to a chorus of oohs and ahhs from my classmates. I ignored them and took my backpack with me. Who knew what Mr. Prichard had heard now; there was no shortage of rumors circulating the halls.

But he’d only been concerned about my lack of participation in extracurriculars and suggested a trip to the guidance counselor for advice. I’d always been involved, if not to help my father present a well-rounded image to his congregation then to look like an appealing candidate to universities. Until this year. What was the point in participating, when my members and teammates regarded me as someone they had to handle with kid gloves all of a sudden? Nobody pushed the subject before Mr. Prichard; not my classmates, not my teachers.

I damn sure wasn’t committing myself to another painful meeting with the counselor, so I took my time making my way back down the hall. The bell was about to ring, anyway. Once it sounded overhead, I strode to my next class with the efficiency of a programmed machine, and when I reached my desk in calculus, I tucked into the plastic chair and opened the novel I’d dog-eared last period. It was the only thing that dulled the overstimulation of life around me.

Something brushed by my hair. Probably just a classmate on the way down the aisle to their seat.

Then I felt it again. Annoyed, I shifted in my desk so I’d take up less space, tucking in my elbows and legs. A few seconds later, something smacked me right in the back of the head, dropping to the ground with a crumple. That got my attention. Especially since, when I glanced down, I saw it was a greasy McDonald’s bag.

A look over my shoulder revealed the thrower to be Jeremy Evans; all-state athlete and Waterview’s resident troublemaker. He would’ve been the captain of the football team if he’d quit fighting his teammates, but since that had yet to happen, he smugly assumed the role of star wide-receiver, in a way only a self-assured eighteen-year-old with nothing to lose could. And with that status came the perk of not associating with outcasts like me.

I think you dropped something, I said, turning back to my book.

He’d been leaning forward, two desks behind me, wearing the smirk of someone who knew how well-liked he was. The pencil in his outstretched hand told me he’d probably used that to mess with my hair before resorting to the bag, and I was already out of patience with him.

Nah. I put it right where I wanted it.

I kicked the bag farther away, hoping he had another hash brown in there, something he’d be disappointed to lose.

Hey. Hey! I threw that for a reason.

I just shook my head, reading the same line over and over. I couldn’t concentrate with the distraction behind me. But I wanted to finish this chapter. More students were seating themselves, and the bell was just about to ring.

Please? Seriously, please turn around. I’m sorry I threw the bag.

I whipped around. Okay. What? What do you want?

His teeth were strikingly white against walnut skin, and he held up a sheet of paper with nothing written on it but neatly boxed numbers. I did the assignment, but I didn’t have time to write out all my work. Football practice. Can I see yours?

Right. That excuse.

I’m not an idiot. And I don’t do other people’s work.

Before I could turn around, he brandished the paper more desperately. I’m not asking you to! I got the answers! Look at ’em if you want. Please. I can’t fail another assignment in here.

I was so aggravated, I was hardly aware of the teacher in the room. I snatched the paper out of his hand so he’d shut up. Laying my own homework on the desk, I checked my answers against his. We only had one that differed, and upon checking my work, I saw it was me who’d gotten it wrong.

Okay, fine. I was on the verge of turning back to him when the papers were whisked away from me. Our hawk-like teacher, Mrs. Lim, held them just out of reach, switching her gaze between them.

Cameron, please explain to me why you have Jeremiah’s paper.

I wracked my brain for an excuse. We were checking our work.

She looked down her nose at me. This was a solo assignment. All of our out-of-class assignments are solo assignments. You were aware of that?

Yeah, but— I started, just as Jeremy said, It wasn’t her fault.

She held up a hand to interrupt us both, bending closer so only I could hear. I got the feeling everyone in a three-desk radius was leaning in to eavesdrop. I think I’ve been very understanding of your family matters, Cameron. The lackluster assignments, the lack of participation. But this is completely out of character for you, and what I will not tolerate is cheating.

I was—

I’m not in the mood for excuses. Detention after school. Pick up your slips after class.

I was struck by the strong urge to curse in her face, see how out of character she thought my ugly words were, but I slumped back in my chair instead. What could I do? I’d been in possession of Jeremy’s paper, for one. All because of the asshole now trying to argue his own case. Mrs. Lim wasn’t hearing it. It was the first and last time I’d have detention.

I managed to avoid Jeremy the rest of the day and all through detention, but I didn’t notice him leaning against the door of my dad’s truck until I was a few steps away. By then it was too late to pretend I hadn’t seen him.

His hands were in the pockets of his letterman jacket as he stared off into the distance. I realized he was looking toward the football field, where practice had already started. I could hear the whistles from here.

I didn’t mean to get you in trouble, he said.

Too late.

Yeah. He stared at the ground.

Anyway, I’ve been here long enough. I should go. I hoped he’d get the hint and move. He was too big for me to push.

Right. Can you give me a ride?

I scowled. Don’t you have practice?

Nah. Coach’s rules. He said if we couldn’t make it on time, don’t come at all.

You sound like you’ve heard that a lot, I crack. Anyway, where’s your car?

Got taken away.

Why? For not doing your homework?

For mouthing off to Kevin Diaz in history.

That was believable. Jeremy Evans had a bit of a reputation. I always wondered why he felt like he had something to prove when he was so good-looking and athletic and smart, but I didn’t care enough to ask.

You should maybe stop flapping your jaws so much.

I do my homework, he said, as if that redeemed him, then another smile appeared. He knew he’d already won. After all, what was the preacher’s daughter going to do, turn him down when he needed a ride?

My shoulders caved. None of the excuses I could come up with held any weight. Just this once. Get in.

The cab of the truck seemed to shrink with Jeremy inside it. There was a bench seat, my backpack in the middle, but still, he felt too close. Too overwhelming. We knew each other but didn’t know each other, if that made sense. Our school was just big enough that kids could slip through the cracks, unnoticed. I hadn’t realized that before this year, when I’d needed to disappear.

So, I said, finding the silence awkward. The radio wasn’t helping. If you knew how to do the work, why didn’t you just write it out the first time? Wouldn’t that have been quicker? I suspected he’d gotten the answers from someone else, but I didn’t want to accuse him when I didn’t know for sure.

Jeremy shrugged. My mind just doesn’t work that way. I can work out the answers in my head, for the most part, but writing it all down just messes up my thinking. Jumbles me up.

Or you just got the answers from someone else, I mumbled.

He looked at me, and when I glanced back, there wasn’t defiance there. Just that smirk. I can see why you’d think that. He raised one shoulder, emphasizing the WHS initials on the breast of his jacket. You think I’m so focused on playing ball that I forget everything else and get my homework from someone last minute.

I was already shaking my head in denial. No, that’s just what makes the most sense.

Mhmm, he said. What’s that on your hands? Chalk? You been playin’ hopscotch?

I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel. I guess I’d been in a hurry when I washed them after art. Pastels.

What’s that?

Kinda like chalk. Sticks of pigment.

You an artist?

I breathed out a laugh. Not even close. I just like art. I’d always doodled in notebooks and stuff, but this year, it’d turned into a haven of sorts. Whereas theater and track and student government had become draining, art was freeing. Effortless. I could escape in my own mind.

Doesn’t mean you’re not an artist, he said dismissively, staring out the window again.

Other than relaying the directions to his house, the conversation was over. He was out the door as soon as I pulled into the driveway of a long, brick ranch, but he poked his head through the passenger window as he was slinging his backpack over his shoulder. Thanks for the ride, Cam.

It’s Cameron, I said, but his long strides had already taken him halfway up the driveway.

Chapter 3

Now

I am officially in pink-bedecked hell. With glitter on top.

It’s the day of Candice’s—one of my high school friends—baby shower, and the only thing cohesive about the theme is the color. But the worst part isn’t the gobs of streamers, clouds of balloons, or handfuls of sickeningly sweet-scented flowers, it’s the amount of borderline-inappropriate questions it brings on.

If you’re of child-bearing age in Waterview, Texas, and you don’t have a ring on that one important finger, you might as well say good bye to the promise of any sort of conversation other than the one revolving around your elusive future wedding. And if you have a significant other whom you’ve been dating for more than a year, well, prepare to get thrown to the wolves. I fulfill both those qualifications, thus I’m a fascinating subject for any guest over forty.

Once I’ve escaped Candice’s aunt, someone chattering on about the many merits of sperm donation, I make myself busy; re-heating catered barbecue, refilling the tea and water pitchers, organizing the gift table, and answering the door when nobody else does. I’ve learned to fade into the background when I need to, and despite my concerning marital status, I manage to do just that.

I look around, taking inventory of who needs what. Despite being late winter, the house is