Chapter 21

[vibe track: in for the kill danger’s ocean remix - la roux]

Cameron felt a weight pressing down on her, making it hard to breathe. She opened her eyes, but her vision was still dark ... and ... furry?

She jerked her head back, gulping for air — and relaxed as she recognized the culprit.

Da Vinci raised his head and looked back at her, curled up on the pillow in lazy annoyance, miffed that she woke him up.

She plopped her head back down next to him, resting against the contented cat as he purred and settled — but with her nose unencumbered this time.

The early morning sun was pouring in through the ugly beige curtains, but Henry wasn’t next to the two of them in bed. The noises coming from down the hallway through the open door said he was still home, though.

Running her hand lazily over Da Vinci’s fur while he fell back to sleep, Cameron felt utterly comfortable in a way she hadn’t in weeks — the stresses that had pushed her to a breaking point seemed to have melted off of her. Her mother was buried, and she was ... well, maybe not ready to move on, but ready to stop dwelling on things that already happened.

Or at least, that’s what I’m telling myself at 6 a.m. in a comfy bed when I have nowhere else to be and nothing else to do.

When she’d left the hospital, she still hadn’t been ready to face her own room. Or Kendra, really. Nobody in the world knew her better — which is what made the sense of shame so excruciating when Kendra would look at her like she was fragile. It made her feel fragile.

But having to spend a night in that room again ... it just wasn’t something she could’ve done.

I would’ve spent all night thinking about the last time I was there.

She sighed again and gently scratched Da Vinci behind the ear, inducing a twitch.

Does he think about shit like that? Does he dream about, like, the day Henry was a few minutes late to feed him and he almost starved or something?

Henry’s deep brown eyes never told her he thought she was fragile. Not when he’d held her crying when they first met, not when he’d seen her in pieces at the hospital, not when she did nothing but sleep while she recovered.

She had trouble feeling ashamed when he looked at her.

He was running water in the kitchen now, maybe washing a dish or something. Everything always seemed quieter here, calmer than at her apartment.

Probably because I always end up awake at the ass crack of dawn here and the rest of the world is still asleep.

Things with Henry were moving a little fast for her liking. She knew that. But she also knew that things moving at all was always too fast for her liking.

Cameron tried to remember a serious relationship she’d had before ... but couldn’t come up with any.

How the fuck is that possible? Really?

She’d been close with people before. Of course she had. But ... she knew herself well enough to know her pattern by now.

When things get too serious, I bolt.

Maybe it was the early morning sunshine. Maybe it was the feel of the cool sheets against her skin and the warm, purring ball of fur next to her. Or maybe it was the way Henry had so easily seen into her mind the other day when he’d apologized for Kendra coming to the car, forcing Cameron to face her — how well he’d understood what was going on in her cluttered head.

Maybe this time I won’t fuck it up. And maybe that’d be just fine with me.

A soft knock at the open door lifted her and Da Vinci’s eyes to Henry, dressed in what she presumed were his work clothes: a tucked-in, checkered button-down and khakis. It reminded her of the photo she’d seen of him and his wife when they were in college — but with a few wrinkles transferred over the years from the shirt to his face.

He gave her that little smile again, and she felt the corners of her own mouth spread just a little. She realized she’d smiled more in the past 12 hours than she had in weeks. Maybe months.

“Saw you were up,” he said, sitting side-saddle on the bed and giving Da Vinci a scratch. “I’m headed out. You two need anything?”

Da Vinci looked like the only thing he needed was for everyone to stop disturbing him, though he reluctantly tolerated the attention. Cameron was usually used to that feeling, too.

The way Henry beamed down at her cemented her feelings about how he saw her.

Like ... like he admires me. Though she couldn’t imagine what about her there was to admire.

She shook her head.

“All right, lemme know if you do. I’ll be back around 4-ish probably,” he said.

Then he leaned in closer, bending over Da Vinci toward her face. Instinctively, she jerked back like she had when she’d first woken up with a face full of fur.

“Wh-what the fuck are you doing?” she heard herself say. She didn’t sound angry, just surprised — which she was. But even as she said the words, she felt stupid, and wished she could stop them from tumbling out.

Wait, fuck, no, why did you stop him? What was so weird about that?

Henry’s face flushed with embarrassment and he quickly stood up.

“Oh, umm, yeah, I-I don’t...” he stammered while he smoothed out his shirt nervously. “I don’t know why I was trying to kiss you goodbye, sorry, just, umm, a reflex, I guess.” He shrugged, his cheeks even redder. “Yeah. Sorry. Umm, yeah, well, t-talk to you later.”

Fuck, should I—

He gave an awkward wave and left the room while Cameron was left trapped in her own head, unable to figure out how to recover the moment.

GodDAMMIT Cameron! You JUST fucking said you weren’t gonna fuck this up.

She dropped her face into the pillow.

Fuck. What was the big deal?

Cameron heard the front door close as Henry left the house.

She just ... hadn’t been prepared for it, that’s all. Hadn’t thought about it. She never thought about shit like that.

Here I am, fucking thinking about how things are good, that I’m cool with this, that I like this ... and fucking immediately fucking do what I fucking always do.

She didn’t do kisses goodbye. Cameron couldn’t remember ever kissing anyone goodbye. Not any of her foster parents, not Kendra, not any of her boyfriends or girlfriends she’d rotated through.

Gram, maybe. MAYBE. But Gram doesn’t count.

She rolled over onto her back and groaned. Da Vinci looked at her unsympathetically — as if she’d needed the confirmation she’d been an idiot.

Rubbing her eyes with her palms, she froze, realizing what she’d said to herself.

Oh shit. Gram.

Cameron spotted her phone on the nightstand next to her — nightstand? Had there always been a nightstand there? — and grabbed it. Some messages from Kendra, a few missed calls from club bookers ... and one from Gram. Gram wasn’t a texter, so if she knew about the hospital stay, it would be a phone call. She hadn’t left a message, but she didn’t need to. Cameron knew what she’d been calling about.

She sat up, holding her phone in her hand as she caught a glimpse of herself in that stupid mirror on the wall next to the bed. Her hair was flat and flopping over half her face, and she noticed all of her piercings were out.

The effect was that she looked... young. Like a kid. She sighed.

Is this what he admires?

Maybe this whole thing was too weird anyway. He wasn’t as old as he sometimes acted — he’s only 36 for fuck’s sake, he’s not old at all — but ... as she examined her softened face and wrinkled tanktop in the mirror, Cameron felt the age difference acutely.

Thirty-six-year-olds have carpools. Tuck in their checkered button-downs. Kiss fucking goodbye.

With a deep sigh, she got up, leaving the warmth and security of the bed behind her as she dialed Gram, who answered quickly.

“Hey,” Cameron said, deference in her soft morning voice.

“Hmph,” was the response. If Gram could see her, Cameron wouldn’t have let the smile show. But Gram’s grumpy act let her know she wasn’t too mad. That didn’t mean she wasn’t mad, though.

Cameron’s mother had never really been much of a mom to her. She was never around, and when she was, she was usually too high to take care of a kid. That meant a series of foster parents as Cameron grew up, but since she was 5, it’d been Gram’s apartment where she’d always felt at home. And she still did.

“Gram” is what’d been easiest for Cameron to call her as a 5-year-old, and it didn’t feel right to call her anything else — even now.

Cameron wasn’t Gram’s daughter, or her granddaughter — or her anything. Not by blood or any other official way.

They weren’t related — although other than her skin color, it certainly seemed like they could’ve been. Gram was small, shorter than Cameron and shorter still every time they met, it seemed like. Gram’s mocha skin had started to sag on her bones now, but the same iron was inside as ever — except for that soft spot that always let Cameron snatch an extra cookie or stay up an extra few minutes after bedtime to finish a song.

“I know ... I’m sorry, Gram,” Cameron said. And she meant it. She hadn’t wanted Gram to know she was in the hospital. She hadn’t wanted to worry her. Or at least ... that’s the reason she wanted to believe, anyway. Deep down, she thought it was probably more that she didn’t want Gram to know how... well I just didn’t want Gram to see me that way, is all. That’s all.

“Mmmmhmm. You better be,” Gram said. The woman was nearing 80, but could still make Cameron wish she had a tail to tuck between her legs. “Hmph.” Then Gram continued in a softer tone. “So. How’s my girl?”

Ever since she was an angry little kid, hearing Gram say those words out loud had always made Cameron feel warm inside — a reminder that she did belong somewhere, with someone.

Gram had a grown daughter of her own somewhere, though Cameron had never met her. Her childhood room had become Cameron’s. And through all the official addresses, through all the assholes who fucked with her at school, through all the pouts and fights and screams and tears — Cameron knew she could always come back there. To Gram. To home.

“I’m okay,” Cameron finally responded, after thinking seriously about the question. She paced idly around the bedroom as they spoke, and fiddled with a dresser drawer. Socks and underwear were inside, folded and neatly arranged.

“Good,” Gram said, genuine relief in her voice. “I’m old, you know. I worry when I hear you’re in the hospital and then can’t get a hold of you.”

There was real annoyance there, but Cameron knew it was masking real worry, too.

“I know ... I’m sorry, Gram,” Cameron mumbled again, feeling like she’d just been scolded for not doing her chores. She opened another drawer just a little, enough to see what was inside. This one had a few jumbled stacks of framed photos.

“Mmmmhmm. Okay,” Gram said, signaling she was done with the scolding and was moving on. “So. Kendra says you ain’t at your apartment. Where you stayin’?”

Cameron wasn’t quite sure how to answer that.

“Umm...” she said, then snorted quietly. She was starting to appreciate the utility of the utterance. “I’m at ... at a friend’s house.”

Cameron fumbled with the photos in the drawer — they were all of Henry and his wife. Their wedding, on vacations, some other events. A blown-up version of the one in his wallet, the one by the tree. A drawer full of memories he was either trying to forget or to hide. Maybe both.

She looks so beautiful in all of these, not a fucking hair out of place and dressed like she’s got a fucking designer.

But it was Mal’s electric smile that seemed to practically vibrate out of each photo. Even without knowing her, Cameron could see that life with her was probably exciting. And happy.

She glanced to the mirror again before shutting the drawer with a thud.

“A friend’s house, hmm. Some 40-year-old friend who’s stashin’ my girl in his bed fresh outta the hospital? That kinda friend?” Gram didn’t sound playful about it. She sounded pissed, like she had the night teenage Cameron had tried to make a flamethrower out of a lighter and a can of Axe body spray. What Cameron was doing now, her tone seemed to say, was even stupider — and more dangerous.

“It’s not like that,” Cameron said sharply as she walked out of the bedroom. She didn’t like the scenery in there.

“No? What’s it like then, hmm?” Gram retorted, just as sharply.

Cameron sighed. “It’s...” She wasn’t really sure what it was like. That was the problem. “I dunno ... He’s...”

“ ... a 45-year-old man shackin’ up with a 23-year-old girl who’s still drugged up from the hospital??” Gram interjected. “Because that’s what it sounds like to me, Cameron.” She only used her name when Cameron was in trouble.

“Uggggghhh,” Cameron groaned, trying to figure out how to explain it when she didn’t really know herself. “If you already know, why’d you even ask me!”

“Just wanted to give you the chance to tell me yourself,” Gram said calmly, making Cameron feel dumb for how easily she’d gotten exasperated. “And to remember that no matter how old I get—”

“—yeah, yeah, ‘there ain’t nothin’ about you I don’t know first,’” they said in unison as Cameron rolled her eyes. She added in another groan for good measure. “I know, I know.”

“Mmhmm. So. If it ain’t like that, how’s it like then?” Gram said, a challenge in her tone.

Cameron was in the living room now, flipping absent-mindedly through a photo flipbook she’d never noticed before on the end table next to the couch. They were family photos across years. None of his wife. They looked like they must’ve been Henry and his ... mom and sisters? And their families?

How many siblings does he have? Do I have any idea?

It drove home to her again just how little she knew about Henry’s life and how uncurious she’d been about it. He wasn’t that way about her.

The last time she’d been here, that same realization had scared her so much she ran out the door and intended never to talk to him again. Now ... now it just made her feel guilty. And only added to the feeling that she really didn’t know what the hell they were doing, much less how to describe it to Gram.

“Well?” Gram repeated.

“Well, I mean, shouldn’t you know already? You know everything about me, right?” Cameron said smugly. Inside, though, she wished Gram really could tell her what this — whatever this was — was like.

But Gram let the stony silence speak for itself — then added a little more on top to let Cameron know she wasn’t fucking around. “I know you better not be gettin’ smart with me, young lady,” she said, her voice ice.

Cameron snorted, unimpressed — maybe only because she knew Gram couldn’t reach through the phone. But it didn’t help her answer the question any better.

“He’s ... I dunno, Gram,” she mumbled again, slumping onto the couch with a sigh. “Whatever you’re thinking, he’s not like that.”

“Hmph,” Gram said, implying she could think a lot of things.

“First of all,” Cameron said, “he’s 36.”

Gram snorted. “Oh, well, that makes it okay then! And is Mr. 36 there right now?”