by Leen Elle
"Alex," Bobby smiled. "Congratulations. I'm sorry we missed the show."
"Me, too." Cameron chimed in. He meant it. That guilt his mother was telling him he should be feeling was hitting him all at once. "Can I see the piece after dinner?"
"Sure," Alex's smile lit up his entire face. "Yeah, it's in my bedroom."
"Perfect," Cameron said, just as the soup bowls were being cleared away. The end of dinner couldn't come fast enough.
Cameron apologized to Imogen outside of Alex's bedroom.
"She has a bad habit of thinking that everyone is as comfortable with… well. It's like anything else to her. Now you see why I tried to spare you. It only gets worse."
Imogen pushed her bangs behind her ears. "No need to apologize. You warned me. Besides, I suppose she's right. It's only natural."
"But it's secret, too."
"Who ever said it had to be a secret?"
Cameron cleared his throat, and looked to Alex, who was digging the art piece out from under his bed. "I did."
* * * *
Later that evening, Sylvia took Imogen out to the garden, upon request. It smelled fresh and sweet. Grass, trees, and flowers hung heavy with the evening dew. Imogen drew her sweater closer around her and inhaled, smelling the clean jasmine and the wet air. She watched as the world around her darkened into a deep blue and the stars, twinkling and white, showed themselves in the sky.
Sylvia led her to a large canopy in the middle of the yard, where she set two steaming hot cups of coffee down on a table. Imogen sat and watched Sylvia light the lantern in its center.
From somewhere in front of her Imogen could hear birds flying around in the gathering darkness, trying to get back to their nests and young ones before night fell. Water splashed in dispersed intervals from the pond as fish leapt up and down.
Soft light from the lantern played on both of their faces.
"Thank you for inviting me," Imogen said, lifting the cup of coffee to her mouth and taking a cautious sip. "Your home is absolutely lovely."
Sylvia smiled, her long fingernails scratching against the side of her own cup. "Thank you. We are lucky for everything we have."
Silence settled over them and the cool breeze whipped their hair over their shoulders and cheeks.
"There's a change in him."
Imogen didn't feel the need to speak. Sylvia's eyes settled on something far off in the darkness.
"He's… I can't exactly put my finger on it. Nicer? He gives a damn. Did you do that for him?"
Imogen's breath caught in her throat with the weight of Sylvia's gaze. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "I can't take credit for that. I'm not sure what it is. I haven't known him for very long."
"Surely you know how dreary he can be."
Imogen chuckled. "Dreary." She licked her lips. "It wasn't easy, becoming his friend. I really had to try. But I'm glad he let me in. As much as he might not want to hear it, he's a good guy, and, even though I'm sure he'll never in a million years admit this to you, I know he loves you."
Sylvia smiled. "Today at the dinner table I nearly had a heart attack. Do you know how much it took for me just to get him out here? I thought my mission was accomplished when he finally showed up. I can tell you one thing, I never expected for him to be sociable. I can't remember the last time he asked Bobby and Sarah about the girls, or the last time he tried to take an active interest in anything but himself. But Alex. Those two have always been close."
Imogen smiled, taking a drink. "I sensed a bond between them. It's sort of unspoken. More felt than anything. Very strong."
"Yes. You know, everything with Cameron has always been difficult. He's so stubborn and independent. You can't rush him into anything. He has to learn for himself. You can imagine my apprehension when I found out I was pregnant with Alex. Cameron was nine at the time and I thought, 'Oh, Lord, here it goes.' I was sure Cameron was going to exhibit all, if not most, classic signs of sibling rivalry. As soon as I read that pregnancy stick, all the fights, the screaming, and the jealousy played out in my head. But Cameron wasn't at all the way I thought he might be. He welcomed Alex, helped me change his diapers, fed him when George and I were just too tired to even speak. Cameron was the one who taught Alex how to play baseball, the one who urged him to study art in school. There are times where I look back and wonder if I was a failure to him as a mother. But then, every once in a while, he surprises me. He surprises everyone. Those are the moments I live for, because then I know that I raised him right."
"I agree, Mrs. Moody. There's a reason I stuck around."
Suddenly, as if she were pulled out of a dream, Sylvia pricked up. "How did the two of you meet, anyhow? I haven't heard the story."
Imogen cleared her throat. "Our first meeting was… cataclysmic. I mean that in almost a literal way. There I was, new to the city, just trying to get to the park, when wham!" She smacked her open palms together. "There he was. He was in a hurry for work and we crashed into each other. I got injured. He took me up to his apartment and set my ankle for me. He sort of shoved me out after that."
Sylvia chuckled. "Typical."
"As you can see, I wasn't willing to give up that easily. I don't know. I guess you could say that I pursued him. I was new. I needed a friend. So did he."
"A story for the ages," Sylvia mused. "I think you more than got through to him, though."
A funny little feeling flared up in Imogen's stomach, like it was lighter than air. Was that nausea she was feeling? A two second battle between head and heart raged silently within her before she mustered up the courage to ask Sylvia to elaborate.
Sylvia shrugged and slicked her tongue across her front teeth. "The last time I met a girlfriend of Cameron's was when he was in the eleventh grade. I think she broke his heart. Either that or I embarrassed him so much that if he's ever had any girlfriends since he's kept them top-secret from me. Anyway, that's the last I've ever seen of any of them. Charlotte was her name."
"Mrs. Moody, Cameron and I… it's…"
"Complicated?"
Imogen shook her head. Definitely not complicated. "Platonic. We're only friends. I guess you can hardly even call us friends. We barely know each other. His walls are just now coming down. To be honest I'm flabbergasted that I managed to wriggle my way into that rental car." She chuckled.
"George and I were friends first, too. I think it's best that way."
Was it just her, or was it starting to get uncomfortably hot? Imogen scratched at her forehead in a nervous habit, feeling the sticky warm sweat that was starting to build up along her hairline.
"Do you like him?" Sylvia asked. Her eyes glittered in the soft light.
Imogen could feel the pulse at her temple quicken pace. "Sure, I like him well enough."
"No," Sylvia said. "I mean, do you like him?"
Well. Imogen didn't know how to answer that.
Chapter Eight
Like A Tidal Wave
The sun was low on the horizon and the breeze was cool and light; it was the perfect time for a walk around. Sylvia informed Imogen that dinner would be served in a little under an hour and Imogen, taking advantage of a little bit of downtime, slipped outside.
She walked around the small, man-made lake until she was at the furthest point from the house. There was an area shaded by tall, looming trees, and she lay on the blanket she found in the trunk at the edge of her bed in the tall grass which swayed in the wind. She sat so that she faced the large backside of the house. Her gaze slowly took in the rolling hills far off in the distance and the water glittering gold in the sunlight.
There was an almost overwhelming urge to jump into the water, to close her eyes, and float on her back. The only thing that stopped her was knowing she was expected in the house. Sighing, she lay back on the blanket, letting her long hair fall over her shoulders and the grass around her. She bent her knees, settled her hands on her belly, and stared up, up, up, into the green tops of the trees and the baby blue of the sky.
It wasn't very difficult to imagine this place as Louisiana. It was just as green. It was just as lush. It wasn't as hot and it wasn't as humid, but it was just as beautiful. It was still home, just a different kind of home.
Her mother would have loved it here. Especially the house. Oh, Lord. The right corner of Imogen's mouth tipped up in an involuntary smile and she chuckled. She could see her parents in that house, hand in hand, chins up, dancing around and laughing.
The both of them loved dancing. Every Friday, Imogen remembered, they dropped her off with her father's parents while they went to dance the night away. Imogen remembered wanting to learn to dance the way they did, but oh, how she complained about her dance lessons.
At the sound of footsteps in the distance, she raised her head.
Cameron was walking toward her, with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His curly hair whipped around his face in the breeze, his gaze intently on his feet. Imogen shifted so that she was supporting herself on her forearms and she cocked her head, watching him through narrowed eyes.
Finally he licked his lips and looked up at her. "Hey," he said, taking the last two steps to the blanket. Imogen had to tilt her head back to see his face at that angle, and his shadow fell across her eyes.
"Hi," she piped. "Would you like to sit down?"
He sighed and looked out toward the lake. "Eh," he mumbled. "I'd rather stand."
"Suit yourself." She rolled onto her left side and propped her head up on her open palm. "So what brings you to this side of the woods?"
His gaze flickered back to her. He searched her face before he placed his right leg over his left and sat down, cross-legged, in one fluid motion.
Cameron asked himself when he started feeling more comfortable around her and he couldn't quite place it. Her ubiquitous happiness, something he used to find annoying, was now tolerable. She was simple, in a good way: in a labyrinth of a world, she was an arrow pointing him in the right direction. She was an addition problem instead of a multiplication problem. She was a user manual in a world where there were no rules. She was charming when others were lackluster. She was a girl. And he was a boy.
"My mom said you were out here."
"My, my," Imogen laughed. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you had a crush."
"A crush?" He said, swinging around in his surprise. "What, I speak to you voluntarily and suddenly I have a crush on you?"
She raised her brow and shrugged her shoulder. Suddenly Cameron felt like he needed to be on the defensive. He wanted to protest, and he opened his mouth to do as much, but on second thought, realized it was futile. He could speak until he was blue in the face, give her reasons and proof about why he was not interested in her that way, but it would only work against him. His defense would be all the proof she needed.
He wasn't sure how true his declarations against her were, anyway, but he pushed that thought to the deepest, blackest depths of his mind before he could even finish it.
Suddenly she moved again, and he tried not to notice, for the first time, the feminine plane of her hips as she sat up, or the way her long, slender legs looked so smooth and inviting as she slid them underneath her body. She pulled her long hair over one shoulder and started to braid it.
He felt hot, and as inconspicuously as he possibly could he swiped his hand over his brow, making sure his hand passed over his eyes so that she was cut off from his view. In nervous habit, he rubbed the space between his nose and upper lip, clearing his throat at the same time.
"You never answered my question." Imogen's voice was pulling him back again and he could have jumped for joy when she was just Imogen again and not even remotely sexy. Cameron shook his head twice, just to be sure.
"What, uh. What was your question again?"
"What are you up to?"
Oh, that.
"Nothing. I just figured maybe you'd like a little company."
Suddenly it dawned on him. Since Cameron had known Imogen it was she who wouldn't leave him alone. He was used to wishing her presence away, but never before did he consider the possibility that maybe she wanted and needed a little alone time for herself, too. It was just that she was always badgering him for company; he didn't take her for a person who liked to be by herself.
"Unless," he amended. "Unless I'm barging in on you. I can leave." He moved to stand but she placed two fingers on his wrist.
"Don't."
She thought to herself that she might have said the word a little too quickly, a little too desperately. In her mind, she groaned.
He looked from her fingers, so cool on his warm skin, up her bare arm, over her jaw and chin, and finally to her eyes. Her kind, kind eyes, which habit taught him to ignore.
"I just mean that I like talking with you, that's all." Cameron licked his lips and looked up in the trees, where he heard the chirping of a bird. He couldn't spot it.
"That's a blue jay."
He blinked in rapid succession. "I'm sorry, what?" He inclined his ear toward her.
Imogen laughed. "That bird you're looking for. It's a blue jay. My father taught me a couple bird calls back in the day."
She tilted her head back and reproduced the call. Cameron's jaw dropped visibly. He made a noise that was almost a laugh, dragging his knee up and setting his elbow on top of his leg.
"Who--- you know, I've never met anyone who could perfectly reproduce a bird call, let alone even name to me, at the drop of a hat no less, and without my inquiring," he held up his hands, "what bird is making what noise. Until I met you."
"Perhaps you need to start meeting more worldly people."
"Yeah, I suppose you're right."
"Honestly." Imogen looked up at him. Her eyes had gone cloudy and serious and heavy. "What is it about the rest of society that makes you want to pull away? The rest of your family isn't as reclusive as you seem to be. Is it just a natural personal preference, or did something happen…" She trailed off, afraid she might be intruding on something dangerous. "I don't mean to pry, I'm just curious."
Cameron dropped his head and absentmindedly began picking at the grass, pulling the tops off the individual leaves and discarding the mulched bits with a swift throw.
Whoops. So it was something he didn't want to discuss. That was okay, Imogen thought to herself. She leaned forward and brushed the hair from his eyes. He moved quickly, startled, when he felt her. Her fingertips grazed his temple and the top of his cheeks, and, as a reaction to his own, she let her hand drop with a heavy thud into her lap.
Imogen's mind wandered back to the conversation she had with Sylvia, just the night before. She mentioned a girl named Charlotte, and her theory that this was the girl who broke Cameron's heart. Imogen wondered if it was true, and she was burning to ask him. It wasn't her intention to try to fix him, but it was her intention to understand him. She wanted him to see that people weren't all inherently bad, and that just because someone kicked him down once didn't mean he had to stay on the ground.
He sniffled. "I opened your journal."
Imogen's heart pounded and then skid to a halt. "What?" she breathed the word out in a rush.
"That brown book you're so fascinated with. You know, the one in my study?"
Of course she knew. She would know it anywhere. But how did he know? That was what she wanted him to answer. He called it her journal. How did he find out?
"Yeah, what about it?"
"I read through it again."
She realized that he didn't know that the journal used to belong to her. No, he called it her journal because she had shown so much interest in it before. Some of the tightness in her shoulders evaporated.
Trying to seem nonchalant, Imogen made a conscious effort to keep her voice, her body, and her facial movements neutral. "Did you find anything different in it this time?"
"You could say that." He caught her gaze and held her there. "You wrote in there. I had to pull out that slip of paper with your phone number to be sure. I studied the writ
ing for a few hours before there was no doubt. What's the point, Imogen?"
She was gnawing on the inside of her lip, her pulse quickening with every syllable he spoke. She was looking at anything and everything that wasn't Cameron's face, pulling at her clothes, the blanket, the leaves of grass. With precision she flicked the bangs back from her forehead with the back of her wrist. He was staring her down, backing her into a corner, blocking her every attempt of escape. There was nowhere for her to go and nothing for her to do but to 'fess up.
Pursing her lips and lifting her chin in confidence, she nodded.
"You didn't think I would see it?"
"I hoped you would see it."
They stared at each other for a few moments and time and the rest of the world seemed suspended. Imogen broke the spell by grinding her jaw.
"That journal used to be mine. Quite literally."
Cameron laughed.
"It's true," she countered.
"What are the chances of that happening? Less than one in a million, Imogen. That can't be true."
"My father gave me that journal on my thirteenth birthday." She felt an unfamiliar sensation rise up through her, a heat which started from her fingers, moved through her veins and spread through her chest. She stood up and Cameron craned his neck to see her. "I decided to do a little experiment. I wanted the rest of the world to share something inside of it. Everyone who ever wrote in there has put a piece of themselves in that journal, Cameron. They've recorded moments in time, events, thoughts, feelings… they've imparted wisdom and shared joy and sadness and elation and depression and love and hate." Her fingers were starting to curl into her palms. "Why is it so hard for you to have a little faith?"
She tried to be firm saying it, but she fell hilariously flat. What was meant to sound like an accusation and a threat sounded just like any other question she'd ever asked him. There was no meanness or harm in the words.
"My point is that of all the people in the world that might have come into contact with that journal, somehow I happen to end up with it. And that's not even where it ends, ironically enough. No, then you, you, the entire origin of this damn journal just happen to come into contact with me and find this long-lost birthday gift that someone gave you a long time ago. How are you so fortunate to come across this thing twice? What does that mean, Imogen?"
