by Jay McLean
"And what did she want?"
I sigh, and I let the inevitable happen. I tell her the truth. "She told me she was into me."
"That fucking whore!"
If it were any other time, any other person, I'd be laughing. But this isn't a laughing matter.
"What did you say?"
"I told her to get her and her whore clothes out of the house or I'd kick her fat ass out of there."
And somehow, amongst everything we're going through, her lips pull at the corners and a smile comes through. "Really?"
My eyes drift shut when I hear the hopefulness in her voice. "Yes, really, Luce. I'm sorry that I never picked up on it, or that I didn't do anything to stop it when you felt it was going that way. I just never noticed it, but I should have listened to you."
Her arms drop to her sides and she releases a breath.
"And you?" I ask.
"What about me?"
"You're making yourself throw up again?" I stand so I'm only feet in front of her.
Her head tilts all the way back to look at me, the way she's done so many times before. "No. Not intentionally. It was only once, Cam. Never again."
"When?"
She sits on the edge of the bed and looks down at the floor. "The night I saw your sketch of her."
My heart drops to my stomach.
She lifts her legs onto the bed, raising her knees and wrapping her arms around them. "Why did you draw her?" she struggles to ask.
My heart breaks, but I tell her the truth. "Because I'm an asshole. Because she came to my dorm once and offered to help me study. I needed the help, because I was struggling so much, and I took it. I should have said no." I lean back against the wall opposite her.
"And you were alone?"
I nod, my eyes never leaving hers. "She came in, but I left the door open. I didn't want her getting any ideas. She was working on something of mine on my desk and I sat on my bed while I waited. I started to fall asleep and I knew that I shouldn't because I wouldn't be able to wake up, so I picked up a pen and paper and I just did it. It was so dumb. I just—I wasn't thinking. I didn't do the one thing you asked me to do, and that was to think about your feelings. I'm so sorry, Luce. I can't even tell you how sorry I am. I fucking hate myself for what I did." I stop to take a breath, not realizing how badly I was holding it all in until I could no longer speak. "I haven't been able to pick up a pen and paper since. I can't—I fucking hate myself."
"Cameron..." she says again—with so much sympathy I want to punch myself. I don't deserve her sympathy. "You know," she continues, "I've been thinking about it, a lot. About what you said at dinner."
"Oh my God." I moan and cover my head with my arms, too ashamed to face her.
"I've known you a long time, Cameron. I think I know you pretty well, right?"
I look up, not bothering to hide how I truly feel. "You know me better than I know myself, Luce."
"I know, right?" She kicks her legs out and sits on the edge of the bed again. "That's what I mean. So it doesn't make sense to me—why you would say all that stuff that night. I mean... you broke me, Cam. You ruined me, and you ruined what I thought we had. You left me devastated and for what? Because you were drunk? That can't be all. That can't be a valid enough reason. There has to be more. And I just don't get it."
"Because, Luce." I tilt my head up and stare at the ceiling. Then I push down my hurt and my fear, and most of all my pride. "Because sometimes when I’m with you—I feel like people can tell."
"Tell what?"
"That I don't belong. That you're way too damn good for me, and sometimes I wonder if you'd even look twice at me if I weren't the only thing standing in front of you. What if we met under different circumstances? What if you didn't rely on me? What if you still had friends when I started to chase you? What if Claudia was there... would you have even talked to me?"
"Cam," she says skeptically. "Of course—"
"No, you say that, Luce. But you don't know. And I know it sounds horrible, but I always felt like I was less, and I put you on a pedestal, and I shouldn't have. And with Roxy—"
She flinches, but I keep going. I need to keep going. "With her, it was the other way around, and there was nothing romantic, or physical with her, but it just felt like I deserved what I had. She just made me feel like it was okay to not be able to afford college, or fancy things, or have to work to support myself. I didn't feel like a dumbass for not being smart. I know that you can't understand that."
She cries now, her hands frantically wiping her tears. "Are you saying that I made you feel like that? Did I not show you how I felt? How much I loved you? "
"No!" I drop to my knees at her feet. "It's not you. You never did anything wrong."
"Then why?"
"It's so hard to explain. It's like every day I woke up with you in my arms and it felt like I was counting down the seconds until you realized what you were doing and you'd be done with me. So you can move on and find someone that's going to provide you the life that you're used to, the one that you deserve. I can't do that. I can't even—"
"Stop!" she says harshly. "Just stop." She stands up and walks to her dresser, pulling open the top drawer and holding something in her hand. When she returns, she sits on the floor and faces me, then slowly reveals what she picked up. "Do you know what this is?"
There's a rock in her hand. "A rock?" I say nervously, because I'm pretty sure she's about to throw it at my head.
"Cam, this is a rock from our river."
I suck in a sharp breath.
"I skipped a class the day after you brought me there the first time and I found this, and I've kept it ever since. I keep it because that's where you helped me piece together my broken heart. That's where a boy I barely knew took me and he taught me that it was okay to break—that I could hold it in forever, or I could let it go and heal. And every day, since that day, I remind myself that I'm healed, and that you healed me. And money, and material possessions—they didn't heal a broken heart, Cameron. Only you did."
She's crying.
I'm crying.
And then I let out a bitter laugh. "I want to hold you but I don't even know if it's okay to hug an ex."
"What?" she says, her eyes huge. Then she presses a hand to her heart. "Wow," she cries, rubbing her chest. "It hurts so much."
"What hurts?"
"You, calling me an ex," she says quietly. "It's so final."
"Yeah, well you said we broke up earlier. I'm pretty sure you shredded my fucking heart."
She looks up, wiping her tear-streaked face. Her head moves slowly from side to side. "I don't like it."
"I fucking hate it, Lucy." I move closer, wanting to touch her, but I don't know what the hell she wants. "I don't want to be broken up," I say quietly, looking her right in the eyes.
She pouts. "I don't want to be your ex."
I lick my lips as I stare down at hers. "So what do you want?"
She blinks, swallowing loudly when she does. "I don't know." She shuffles back—away from me. "I think I want more time."
"Okay." I nod, feeling a shitload more hopeful than when I got here. "I'll give you all the time you need. I'll give you forever, Luce."
She inhales a shaky breath, looking from my eyes to my lips. I lick them again. Please kiss me.
Before she gets a chance my phone rings. I silence it, but I can't ignore it. "My dad's assistant is waiting for me. I couldn't afford a cab back to the airport so I asked Dad for help. He wouldn't leave his office, so he sent his assistant."
"Okay, I'll walk you out." We stand at the same time. I wait for her to replace the rock in her dresser, but she pulls out shorts and puts them on. Then she does something that sends a thousand silent messages. She puts on a shirt—my high school gym shirt, the one that has my name on the back. "Ready?" she asks.
"No," I breathe out. "I'm not ready to leave you yet."
"But you have work tomorrow?"
"I know."
"
And I still need time, Cam."
I close my eyes and take a few calming breaths. And then I remember why I'm here, and what I expected. And I know that what she's giving is more than I could have ever dreamed. She's giving me hope.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
-CAMERON-
I was right. Minge didn't really need my car, which is evident because he's been sleeping on the couch at Jake and Micky's since I came back from New Jersey a week ago. I've quit drinking myself into a stupor, gone to work, and pretty much done nothing else. Nothing but think about Lucy and check my phone every five minutes.
She said she wanted time and I'm doing everything I can to give her that. Which is hard. Really fucking hard—especially because she didn't give me a hint of how much time that was.
So when my phone beeps and Lucy's name shows up with a text message, I almost piss my pants. Almost.
"It's Lucy," I tell a half sleeping Minge sitting on the recliner.
"Mm?"
I kick his leg. "Lucy. The text. It's from her."
He sits up now, his eyes wide. "What does it say?"
"I don't know," I rush out. I drop the phone on the coffee table and rub my hands against my shorts. My palms are sweating. My heart's thumping.
"Read it!" Minge shouts. He's on the edge of his seat, his hands gripping the armrests tightly.
"I'm scared," I yell back, my voice matching his.
He smacks his hand on the back of my head. "Quit being a pussy and man the fuck up. Read the text, asshole."
I rear back in surprise. Minge—he's always so relaxed, so easy-going. I've never seen him excited or anxious about anything.
"Okay," I huff out, and blow out a breath.
I pick up the phone and open the message. "It's a picture," I tell him. I don't know how I managed to get the words out through the huge fucking grin on my face.
"And?"
I show him the text. It's of her wearing a hoodie with a picture of Marty McFly from Back to the Future. Above the picture it says 'That was heavy', and underneath it says, 'Do you even lift, bro?'
Her words were the killer though.
Minge smiles as he hands it back. "Thinking of you? That's a good thing right? She's thinking of you!"
"I know!" I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. Why the hell am I sweating so much?
"So?" he chides.
"So? So what?"
"What are you gonna write back?"
"Fuck." I release the phone like it's fire in my hands. "I don't know! What should I write?"
"I don't know, dude." He's as panicked as I am. "Something witty? She thought you were funny right?"
"I guess. I don't have anything funny to say!" I pick up the phone again. "I'll just—" I type out a text and hit send without thinking.
"What did you say?" Minge asks, his voice high pitched.
"I miss you."
"I MISS YOU!" he yells in disbelief, then throws his body back into his chair. "What the fuck? You didn't even work your way to that. You just went straight for it. Now she has nowhere to go! What if she doesn't want to say I miss you back? Then what? What will she say?"
"Shut up." I'm on my feet, pacing the floor. "You're making me fucking nervous."
"I'm just saying... you should have eased into the feels. That was a shit move."
"Fuck!" I link my fingers behind my head and stare up at the ceiling. "How long has it been since I texted back?"
He shrugs. "Like, thirty seconds."
"She should have written back by now."
"You need to calm down."
"I was calm!" I shout. "You and your easing into feels bullshit made me nervous. It's your fault!"
*
"How long has it been?" I ask him.
He looks at his watch. "Three minutes."
I pick up my phone, make sure the ringer's on and it's charged, and then throw it on the couch.
*
"How long now?"
"Seven minutes," he says. "I told you to do something funny. Not I miss you."
"Shut up."
My phone beeps with a text. We both lunge for it. I punch him in the gut when he gets to it first.
"You're fucked," he groans, his arm pressed against his stomach.
"Quit being a pussy and man the fuck up." I close my eyes and breathe deeply, waiting for the adrenaline to settle. When I open them, Minge is back on the recliner, but he's on his feet, squatting at the edge. "What the fuck are you doing?"
He ignores my question. "What the fuck did she say?"
I look down at my phone and open the text. "I miss you too!" I laugh, relieved at her words.
He cheers.
And then we hug, jumping up and down as we do.
It lasts a few seconds before we both realize that we're twenty-one-year-old dudes and not nine-year-old One-Directioners.
He clears his throat and does something that looks like flexing his muscles.
I belch.
Because right now I think it's important that we both remind ourselves that we're manly assholes.
"So what are you going to write back?" he asks, just as I hit send.
I grimace.
"What the fuck did you write?"
"Um..." I hesitate to tell him.
This time he punches me in the gut, swiping my phone out of my hand at the same time.
"I LOVE YOU!" he shouts. The same disbelief as last time. "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?"
I rub the back of my head in annoyance. "I don't know. She should know that I love her, I thought... I just... I just wanted her to know."
He rolls his eyes so high, I'm sure he can see the back of his head. "Now we're going to sit here anxiously and wait for her to write back. What if she doesn't say it back? What are you gonna do then? Do you even fucking listen to me?"
"Shut up!" I know he's right, but I don't want to think about it.
*
"How long?"
"Two minutes from the last time you asked me." We're both squatting on our seats, staring at the phone in the middle of the coffee table.
"Come on, Luce," I whisper.
"She can't hear you, dickhead."
"Fuck you," I clip, my eyes never leaving the phone.
Finally, after what feels like forever, she writes back. This time, neither of us move. We just stare.
"I'm scared," I tell him.
"You should be, asshole."
"You're supposed to be my friend."
We both keep staring at the phone, not looking at each other when we speak.
"Yeah," he says, "and friends are supposed to listen to friends. I don't see you listening to me."
I squeeze my eyes shut and work up the nerve to pick up the phone. I tap the screen. Open the text. And then read it out loud. "I love you, too. I'm coming home tomorrow. I know it's late notice, but could you pick me up from the airport? I think I'd like you to be the first face I see."
"FUCK YEAH!" he squeals.
I fist pump the air.
And then we hug.
Jump up and down.
Spin in circles.
High five.
Then sit back down and crack open a beer.
"So what did you write back?"
"That I'd move heaven and earth to be there."
"Lame."
"Also, you need to cover my shift tomorrow."
"I don't even work there."
"I don't even care."
-LUCY-
"So he's meeting you at the airport?" Claudia asks.
I finish dressing after my shower and look down at myself. "Yeah," I shout so she can hear me from her room on the other side of the bathroom door. "I texted him this morning with the flight details." I open the door so she can see me. "Does this look okay?"
Her brows bunch, but her lips curve at the corners. "You guys have been together how long? Do you think he cares how you look?"
"I know," I say, almost sheepishly. "But I still want to look cute for him. But not ove
r do it, you know? Just cute-casual."
"Lucy," she laughs. "Are you nervous?"
I nod. "So nervous. And to kiss him? I think it would be like kissing him for the first time, you know? We've never gone this long without each other." I shake out my hands, trying to calm myself.
"You look cute," she comforts.
I go back in the bathroom and take one more look. Tank tops and frilly skirts—that's the way he'd always described how I dress, so I make sure I'm wearing my best ones. And cowboy boots. I know he loves those.
A sharp shooting pain goes through my stomach. Like cramps, but worse. Actually, it's been happening a lot lately. I've ignored it, but the last one was the worst yet. I grip the edge of the counter, trying to breathe through the pain. "Shit," I whisper. The tightening in my stomach is unbearable. And then I pee myself. What the hell? I start to look down at my legs, wondering what's happening. The pain gets worse. My eyes shut tight. My breathing stops. And then I pee some more. I can't control it. Just like I can't control the cry that escapes me. I hear Claud say my name, but she's far away. Everything seems distant. The pain stops. I open my eyes. My gaze already pointed at my legs. But it's not pee. It's blood. I release my breath, feeling tears flowing down my cheeks. "Claud!" I try to shout, but it comes out a whisper. And then the pain comes back. Like a thousand knives stabbing my stomach. I fold over myself, my arms crossed over my waist.
And then it happens again.
The blood.
"Claud," I cry out.
I collapse to the floor. My pretty white frilly skirt now soaked in blood. I run my hand up my leg, covering it in red. So much red. "Claudia! Help!"
The bathroom doors swings open. "LUCY!"
"I don't know what's happening!" I scream. "What's happening?"
The pain takes over. I can't keep my eyes open...
"LUCAS!" I hear her yell.
I can't stop crying.
I can't breathe.
I can't...
"Cameron..."
Empty.
Darkness.
-CAMERON-
I check my phone for the third time, making sure that I got her flight details right. The plane landed forty-five minutes ago. I watched everyone get off, everyone but her. I've tried calling. Six times. Her phone rings out. If she were delayed, surely she'd call me.
I ask the woman at the airline desk, but she won't tell me if Lucy even boarded the flight. I'm starting to get worried that maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she doesn't want to come back. Or even if she does, maybe she doesn't want to come back to me.
