Scars of my Past

by DC Renee

  After some time, we heard the doorbell. My mom jumped like she was nervous, wiped at her face to get rid of her tears, and then went to open the door.

  “What’s wrong?” Charles asked from the doorway. “Did you tell him? And he didn’t like the idea?” he asked. I could have sworn I heard a tiny bit of anger in his tone at the thought I might not want him to be my new daddy. I guess I would have been angry too if someone didn’t like me. He looked at me, still on the couch, and his eyebrows drew close together.

  I shook my head to tell him the tears weren’t my fault at the same time my mom said, “No, no, nothing like that. I told him, and he’s really happy to know you’re going to be his new dad.”

  Charles smiled wide at that, but his words felt wrong. “Not a new dad exactly,” he said as he stepped inside. “A stepdad,” he said as if he needed to clarify. I had no real dad, so it sounded weird to me. If there was no one to call “dad,” but he was marrying my mom, then didn’t that make him my dad? I frowned but perked back up at my mom’s next words.

  “Of course, yes. He knows you don’t want to replace his father’s memory.” That made sense. I’d still call Charles “Dad,” though, if he let me. I hoped he would.

  I looked at him with my lips turned up at the thought. Charles looked right back, a smile on his own lips, but it felt more like a smirk—something not quite happy but not necessarily bad. I didn’t understand it at the time. As I said, I didn’t understand grown-ups at all. I just hoped I wouldn’t be that complicated when I was their age. I shrugged the thoughts away and hopped up so I could hug both my mom and my soon-to-be stepdad even though my arms didn’t quite reach around my mom. My mom hugged me back, Charles patted my shoulder, and all my weird feelings disappeared.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Present

  Genevieve

  I DIDN’T MAKE the mistake of being late to my writing class on Thursday. I didn’t think I’d run into Marc again, but that nagged me in the back of my mind. It didn’t help that I hated being late. I was a few minutes early and picked a spot in the back of the classroom. I had yet to gain full confidence in myself on the off chance the professor picked me to say something out loud. I was worried how I would react, so I stayed toward the back.

  I put my bag down, set my notebook on my desk, and lifted my head in time to see the blond bimbo Cam had on his arm from the previous night cast a scowl my way before sauntering off. I hadn’t noticed her the other day, but I had come in late, and I did have other things on my mind.

  I followed overprocessed Barbie with my eyes, wondering where she would sit … or more importantly, who she would sit with. I hadn’t noticed Cam in the class, but I could have just missed him. She sat next to another ridiculously fake girl. They whispered among themselves then turned to look at me. If looks could kill, their glare would have incinerated me where I sat. I didn’t even know why I deserved such a death glare. It hadn’t been me who’d gotten a date with Cam ... not that I wanted one, but still …

  “Hey,” I heard, and I turned to see Cam sliding in next to me.

  For a moment, I wondered why the heck he was sitting next to me, but then I remembered I’d promised him a copy of my notes. “Hey,” I responded. “I got the notes for you. One sec,” I told him as I reached into my bag to pull out the copies.

  “Oh, uh, wow,” he said with a hint of surprise clouding his tone. “You didn’t have to. I mean, I’m grateful, but I didn’t expect you to really give me your notes.”

  I was sure I blushed as embarrassment set in. “It was no big deal. We have a printer in our dorm, and it makes copies,” I told him with a shrug.

  “Well, in that case, thanks,” he said with a wide smile as he took the notes from me. I expected him to get up and move, but he stayed put. He opened his mouth to say something, but then class started.

  I felt him watching me as I wrote every word the professor said; my notes half-scribbled as my hand worked furiously. I looked over a few times—some of those times, he was writing notes, and other times, he caught my eye. Each time that happened, I moved my attention back to my paper as quickly as possible.

  Near the end of class, the teacher announced she was giving us our first assignment. The entire class groaned collectively seeing as it was only our second class and our first week of school. I didn’t mind, though. School was never a burden for me—well, not the actual schoolwork. It was the extracurricular activities in the form of a verbal punching bag for Tyler that bothered me.

  And then the professor added that we’d be doing this assignment in pairs. I groaned at that. I’d gotten out of my shell, true, but that didn’t mean I relished the opportunity to work with a stranger on an assignment I could probably do myself. Shortly afterward, I almost wished it was as simple as working with an assigned stranger. The professor then told us we’d find our own partners. Great. Just great. What was I supposed to do? Walk up to a random person, introduce myself, and ask if they’d be my partner?

  Cam broke me out of my train of thought. “Partner?” he asked just as the room broke into a dozen different discussions, each person trying to find someone to work with.

  “Huh?” I responded. I was very eloquent, couldn’t you tell? Especially sitting in a writing class.

  “You and me. Want to pair up for this thing?” he explained.

  “What about your girlfriend?” I asked. “Don’t you want to pair up with her?”

  “What?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows. His confused face was adorable. I had to bite back a giggle.

  “Won’t she be mad if you pair up with me?” I asked as if that had explained my original question.

  “Who?”

  “Your girlfriend. The girl you were with on Monday?” I said it more like a question. He still looked puzzled. “The blond chick from the party. She’s sitting right over there,” I said as I pointed toward the front.

  “Oh, Tarryn. She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Oh,” I responded because I had no better answer.

  “I don’t do girlfriends,” he added a little quieter like maybe he was ashamed of that fact. I didn’t know if I was thrilled or upset with that fact. I mean, I was happy he had no girlfriend, and maybe even a little happy he “didn’t do girlfriends” because that meant I didn’t have to worry about my sanity—or my heart—around him. But it saddened me that a good-looking, good-seeming guy like him didn’t have it in him to settle down and let some girl be lucky enough to have his full attention.

  “So partners?” he repeated his original question.

  “Sure,” I told him.

  “Great,” he said as he grabbed my notes. “I’ll copy them this time,” he said with a wink. “And I guess I’ll call you so we can get together this weekend to start working on the assignment,” he added as the professor dismissed class. It had been over the minute she announced we needed to find our own partners.

  “Yeah,” I said with a nod. “That works.”

  We said quick goodbyes and walked in opposite directions. Partners with Cam? That should be interesting. I couldn’t wait to tell Amanda. She’d freak. And right then, I needed her to freak so I wouldn’t. “Partners?” he’d asked. “Sure,” I’d responded. Why did I agree? Well, what did I have to lose?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Past

  Cameron

  Thirteen years earlier …

  “HE’S DEAD. FUCKING DEAD!” I heard Charles yelling from their room. I didn’t think my mom and Charles realized I wasn’t asleep. Charles moved in almost immediately after my mommy told me they were getting married. I knew Charles wanted to live in a different house. I’d heard him telling my mom we needed to find a new place. “Our own place,” he said. I thought him moving in with us meant this was his place too. I didn’t understand why he wanted a different house. What would we do with this one?

  My mom had told him soon every time I heard them talking about it. She told him there were too many changes coming at me at once. She didn’t wa
nt to add to it if she could help it. He’d always drop the subject, but that didn’t stop him from bringing it back up often.

  They got married a few months ago. They made me wear a suit and tie and carry a pillow with their wedding rings on them. My mommy looked like an angel. She looked happier that day than I’d seen her in a while. But her smile didn’t match the one I saw in her wedding pictures with my daddy. I guess she was still sad he was dead, and even marrying Charles didn’t take away from that.

  After they had got married, Charles didn’t want any pictures or reminders of my daddy around the house. He made my mom trash a bunch of his stuff, and the things she said she couldn’t get rid of were boxed and put in the attic. I kept a couple of his things and a few pictures inside my nightstand.

  My mom made me put them at the bottom of the drawer when she saw them. She said it would make Charles sad. I didn’t understand why, but I nodded anyway.

  He still didn’t like me to call him dad. The few times I tried, he told me to just call him Charles. That made it even more confusing why he’d be sad if I kept my daddy’s things. If he didn’t want to be my daddy, why couldn’t I have reminders of my real dad? I think my mom noticed I was upset that Charles didn’t want me to call him dad. She’d give me an extra hug each time and then tell me that Charles just didn’t want me to forget my real dad. When I asked why we had to hide him then, she shrugged, but her eyes got watery. I knew she would cry if I kept asking her, so I stopped.

  I knew adults fought. I’d heard adults fighting all the time—at the mall, at the store, at school, and at my friends’ houses. I didn’t remember my parents ever arguing, but I figured I was too young to remember if they did. I didn’t think it was unusual when Charles and my mom fought. Not that often before they got married, and it usually didn’t last that long. They’d apologize and kiss—gross. But after they got married, I heard them yelling more often. Actually, it was more like Charles was yelling and my mom would cry and tell him she was sorry, and a bunch of other things I usually couldn’t hear properly through the walls.

  I’m sure I wasn’t meant to hear their fights, though, because they usually happened late at night, early in the morning, or when they thought I was busy doing something like playing outside.

  I heard Charles’s voice again. “I’m fucking competing with a dead guy. A dead guy,” he repeated. “Do you understand that, Jessica? He’s dead, gone, buried, sayonara, motherfucker.” I heard my mom’s loud gasp, and I cringed at the pain laced in that simple intake of breath. Charles was talking about my dad. I knew it. I just didn’t get why. And why was he so mean about it?

  My mom said something to him, and he yelled back again. “I’m living in his fucking house, raising his goddamn kid, and paying off his motherfucking debts. The least I could do is have his wife as my own.”

  “That’s not true,” my mom responded loud enough so I could hear.

  “Things had better fucking change around here,” he screamed. I had never heard someone curse so much before Charles came into the picture, but every time they argued, he said “fuck” more often than not. My mom would kick my butt if I ever said it. I didn’t know why she didn’t spank Charles for saying it.

  “They will,” she responded, her voice loud and pleading. “They will,” she repeated. The fight tapered off after that. I heard a few more loud noises and then grunting like they were tackling each other. I hoped Charles didn’t hurt my mom. I wrestled with my friends sometimes. I never got hurt, but Charles was bigger and stronger than my mom was. If he wrestled with her, she’d get injured for sure.

  I went to sleep shortly after that, and I hoped they wouldn’t fight as much, but I couldn’t get his words out of my head. “He’s dead.” He hadn’t said it like he was stating a fact. He’d said it with finality like he wasn’t just physically dead, but he—his memory, his soul—was dead to us too. One thing I knew, one thing I thought about as I fell asleep—I didn’t care what Charles said. My daddy would never be dead to me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Present

  Genevieve

  THE PAST COUPLE of weeks had been … interesting. I wish I had a better description, but that was all I had. If I had to explain why, it would be because Cam and I were friends. Sort of? Maybe?

  He called me the weekend after class and asked to get together to brainstorm ideas. Originally, he invited me over to his apartment, and I honestly wasn’t sure how to answer that. Was he just being practical? Was he implying something? Would we be alone? Too many questions attacked my mind, and when I hesitated to answer, he quickly backpedaled and suggested we meet at one of the campus libraries.

  “We could reserve one of the rooms at Leavey,” he said, referring to the most popular library on campus.

  “Sure,” I said, and we’d done just that.

  The assignment was arguing two sides of a classic novel. For example, if we picked Wuthering Heights, we could pick a number of potential conflicts in the book from whether Catherine was right to accept Edgar’s proposal in the hope of increasing Heathcliff’s status to whether Heathcliff’s act of revenge was warranted. For whichever topic we chose, one of us was to present a case for it while the other had to present a case opposed to it.

  After much debating—and I use that term nicely—we settled on The Count of Monte Cristo. Cam had vetoed every book I offered, saying they were “too chick-y.” Those were his exact words. He was okay with The Count of Monte Cristo because “revenge was badass.” I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  Every time he got animated, and he did that quite often, he reminded me so much of Tyler. A gesture … a look …

  “So what are we arguing?” I asked. “Whether Edmond gained closure through his revenge?”

  “Hmm.” Cam pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes while he thought about that point. I think I might have gasped out loud because Cam’s eyes widened, and he asked, “What? Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah, I thought I saw a spider,” I replied, thinking on my feet. How was I supposed to tell him he reminded me of the asshole from my past who had changed the entire course of my life?

  It was just that his look right then was so similar to the way Tyler looked right before he’d lash out at me—like he was thinking about something far away before he’d notice I was there. But Cam wasn’t Tyler. I had to mentally shake my head to clear the thoughts away.

  That wasn’t the last time I had to will those thoughts away.

  Maybe it was because they looked very much alike, but where Tyler had been built like a teenage boy who played sports—his hair disheveled and always in his eyes, his face clouded with something similar to anger, his eyes dark with rage—Cam had the body of a man. His cheekbones were defined, his eyes were light with mischief, and his hair was cut short. And let’s not forget the whole personality thing. They were light years apart.

  “Well, if you see the spider again, let me know, and I’ll save you from it,” he responded with a wink. I blushed. “And I think I like that argument—about whether Edmond got closure. I don’t think he did …” He trailed off.

  “So you’re arguing for no, and I’m arguing for yes?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s just that sometimes things happen in life that you wish wouldn’t, that you can’t control, that you hate with a vengeance. I’m not saying it’s not right to confront those things, or people, but does hurting them change the past? Does it really affect what happened to you? Revenge might feel good … hurting others might take away from the hurt you experienced, might give you something else to focus on—away from your own pain—but when it’s over, then what? Are you any less hurt? I don’t think so; at least, not if you can’t let go of your pain on your own.”

  I was speechless. I didn’t think Cam was an idiot, by any means. Even being the star quarterback, I’m sure you still had to have somewhat of a head on your shoulders to get into USC. I just didn’t expect that response from him. He spoke as if he understood. He spoke as if he’
d been in those shoes himself. He spoke as if he knew inside my soul—knew I’d had to let go to move on.

  “Or something like that.” He shrugged, taking my silence to mean I didn’t approve.

  “Yeah, yeah, I like that. But now I have to come up with the opposite.”

  “This is a partner project, right?” I nodded. “So we’ll do it together.”

  We spent several days a week over the past few weeks jotting down ideas, coming up with points we thought were relevant, and points we disregarded. We would get together for coffee—which he bought me a blended iced mocha each time after he had discovered that was my favorite—we met at the library several times, and we even had lunch together once. I enjoyed hanging out with him. I probably enjoyed it a little too much, seeing as he was nice and very good-looking. He didn’t seem to notice me that way. I mean, he flirted, but that just seemed like part of his personality. Other than that, he didn’t give me any other signs. We had another few weeks before this assignment was due, and I had a feeling we would continue down this path until we turned in our paper.

  Aside from Amanda, I didn’t spend that much time with anyone else. He was the closest thing to a guy friend I’d ever had. I just wasn’t sure what I was to him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Past

  Cameron

  Two weeks earlier …

  I WANTED TO KISS her. I wanted to take her face in my hands and watch her eyes penetrate mine as I slowly moved my mouth closer to hers until our lips touched, until I felt their softness, until I tasted her, until my tongue danced with hers. My body wanted a lot more, but all my mind wanted was a kiss.

  When I saw her with that drunk asshole, my first instinct was to go over there and rip him off her. Whether it was because I was afraid she was in danger like the first time I’d met her or whether I just didn’t like seeing her with another guy was beyond me. I just knew I didn’t like it. So I called out to her.