Page 20

CHAPTER 20

Camden

I’m not sure why I’m nervous when Naomi and Liam arrive at my house with Panda in tow. Mike finally convinced Naomi to let him cut Liam’s hair—and mine—the night before I leave on a weeklong road trip. Jordan still refuses even a trim but said he wanted to be here to watch the show. I think he even brought popcorn.

Despite all the time we’ve spent together, she’s never been to my place and Liam hasn’t met Mike or Jordan. I wrap an arm around Naomi as soon as she’s through the door, pressing my lips to her cheek. Jordan’s grin is big enough to be picked up from outer space.

I ignore him. “Hey,” I tell Naomi quietly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I finally get to see your house!”

“It’s not really very … me.”

“I can see that,” Naomi says, sounding amused.

Her house is also a rental, but it already bursts with life and personality in the short time she’s lived there. Meanwhile, I’ve somehow managed to live here almost two years without changing anything. It came furnished with very model home-esque pieces and framed art prints and stock photos. Clean, functional, and it could belong to anyone.

This feels deeply embarrassing as Naomi’s curious eyes drink in every nondescript detail visible from the front hall. I want to defend myself, but what would I say? Telling her I’m never home only emphasizes how impossibly busy my schedule is. It would sound even worse if I tell her it’s because I never settle down anywhere.

This is the third team I’ve played for since college. Harvest Hollow and the Appies have felt the most like home of anywhere I’ve been, but I never assumed I’d stay.

Suddenly, I remember the certainty in Naomi’s voice as she said she wanted to end up back on Oakley Island at some point. I’ve never felt that passionate about living anywhere, and I think it shows.

Oh, hey—maybe it’s not time for an existential crisis in my entryway.

“You know, I’d be happy to help,” Naomi says. “I’m no decorator, but it’s fun to make a house look more like the person who lives there.”

“It’s just a rental,” I say, and then want to take those words back at the quick flash of hurt flashing over her face.

I don’t know if it’s because she’s also in a rental and I’ve somehow insulted her, or if it’s because I made it sound like I don’t have long-term plans to stick around.

Whatever bothered her about my words, now she’s hugging Jordan and introducing him to Liam while I stand off to the side in the crowded entryway.

“Come on in,” Mike says, ushering them further inside like this is his house.

“Yes,” Jordan echoes with a smirk. “Make yourselves right at home. And who is this handsome and hairy gentleman?”

“This is Panda,” Liam says. “Panda, sit.”

I’m impressed by the way the dog immediately flops back on his haunches next to Liam. Panda practically vibrates with energy, waiting for a command.

“Okay,” Liam says. “Good boy. Go say hi.”

Immediately, the dog lunges forward with his version of a smile, shoving his head toward Jordan and then Mike for scratches.

“What am I, chopped liver?” I ask after a moment, raising my eyebrows at the dog. In the past week, I’ve spent more than my fair share of time throwing balls for Panda in Naomi’s backyard and finding his favorite spots to be scratched.

Now that Liam knows about us—or now that we know Liam already knew about us—there’s less making out in cars and more kissing on the couch after Liam’s in bed. It also means more time with the dog, who has grown on us all.

Panda might come to me last, but I swear his butt wiggles just a little harder for me when he wags his tail. I never had a dog growing up, and my schedule now wouldn’t have allowed it. I'm glad I get to vicariously because there’s something so solid and comforting about Panda. He’ll be good for Liam.

As he presses his head into my hand, demanding more scratches, I think he’ll be good for me, too. Especially tonight with the off-kilter way I’m feeling.

“Debbie made dinner. So, let’s eat, and then I’ve got everything set up in the kitchen for haircuts,” Mike says, still playing host.

I can see Naomi bending to whisper something to Liam, probably explaining who Debbie is. She told Liam about Mike’s condition, and he seems to be taking it in stride.

Jordan was actually the one who made dinner. We’ve discovered his love of cooking—especially if I’m the one footing the bill for ingredients. I even bought a fancy set of pans and knives after hearing him talk about them. It makes him very happy, and it makes Mike and me very happy as well, since we’re beneficiaries of his newfound culinary interest.

“As long as you don’t quit on me to become a chef,” I told him, and he only laughed, which didn’t reassure me. I’m not sure how I’d do this without Jordan.

How would this work if Naomi and I got married? The thought has crossed my mind before, but never with the urgency it does now. Hearing the voices bouncing off the walls in the kitchen, watching as everyone loads up their plates and sits around the table, I’m getting a very real glimpse at what this might look like. It’s … a little weird.

There’s Jordan, with his hemp necklaces and earthy patchouli smell, cracking jokes and now cooking for us while keeping Mike stabilized.

Mike, who might be existing in any decade at any given time. Jovial but in and out of touch with reality as the rest of us do improv to whatever he says.

Naomi, with her wit and quick comebacks.

Liam, with his litany of facts and passion for so many things.

And now, Panda, with his incessant need for scratches, nudging his head into my lap under the table.

Weird, yes. But the house is no longer devoid of personality. It’s not about having artwork on the walls or whatever else might make this look like a home, but having the people bring life into it.

Under the table, Naomi’s hand finds mine, giving me a quick squeeze. She smiles, and it grows as a wet dog nose snuffles right into our palms.

* * *

If I had known that the familiar feel of scissors snipping at my hair and the buzz of a razor on my neck would hurtle me back in time, I would never have agreed to let Mike cut my hair.

Especially not with Naomi, Liam, and Jordan here, watching while I try to pretend nothing is wrong. The mild headache that began during dinner has morphed into a pounding in my skull as I fight off memories.

Hopefully, I’m keeping the feelings off my face. Eyes closed, I have my fists clenched beneath the black plastic drape Mike placed over me. He and Jordan went shopping earlier in the week with my credit card to get supplies. I wonder what happened to Mike’s old set, the one he refused to replace even though the razor’s cord was held on by duct tape, a total fire hazard.

Snip.

“Are you going to cut my hair that short?” Liam asks.

“I’ll cut it only as short as you want it. Or,” Mike amends, “how short your mom wants it.”

“Good call,” Naomi says, and even with my eyes closed, I can picture her tilting her head to examine Liam. “Let’s see … I’m thinking maybe a mohawk? Or a sideways mullet.”

“What’s a sideways mullet?” Mike asks.

“Shaved along the top and long on the sides. I’m not sure that’s the official name, but I think it would look good on you, kid. Really bring out your eyes.”

Mike laughs, pausing at his trimming, and Liam groans. I almost smile. But then there’s another metallic snip of the scissors, and I tense again.

It’s strange—I’m able to think back on my time living with the Bells fondly. They went above and beyond what my teammates talked about their billet families doing for them. Especially that second year, they really became more of a family. I had good teammates and friends. I played well enough to impress the scouts.

And yet something about having Mike cut my hair is throwing me back to the worst parts of that time. The parts I have locked away in my mind and refuse to think about. Right now, though, I’m not remembering so much as viscerally experiencing a whole host of emotions I’ve shoved down for years.

Mike’s fingers gently tugging my hair … rejection from my parents as their weekly calls trickled to a stop.

The silver snip of the scissors … the sense of abandonment as all my teammates took pictures with their families at the end of our second season and I stood alone in a suit I had to borrow from Mike.

The razor buzzing at the back of my neck … the bitterness and anger burning hot through me as I shifted into a self-destructive spiral.

Mike, waiting up for me one night when I came stumbling in after drinking beers some college girl had bought for us. The disapproval on his face and the kind but firm words that were the start of my turnaround.

Panda whines softly as he settles next to me.

I’d like to reassure him, to tell him it’s okay, but I think that’s what he’s trying to say to me.

Drawing in one steady breath after another, I clench and unclench my hands. Why now? Why does all of this need to bubble up tonight?

I thought I had dealt with this—or at least shoved it all far enough down that it couldn’t reach back up again like a hand sticking up from a grave.

Maybe when it comes to hurt inflicted by family, you can’t do either of those things: get over it or bury it.

One thing I haven’t tried, something that comes to me now, when I’d least like to think about it, is reaching out. Taking a step to mend things.

Mike sets the clippers down and goes back to trim the hair around my ears. I almost tell him just to grab the clippers and shave the whole thing so it will be done. I’m almost willing to do it myself.

Snip.

Naomi’s laughter at something Jordan said pulls me back into the moment, and I’m grateful.

Opening my eyes, I zero in on her. She’s seated at the kitchen island, knees pulled to her chest, bare feet hanging off the edge of the stool. Her smile changes when she catches me looking.

It softens, and for a moment, I can breathe again.

Then Mike says, “Your dad called me this week. Said he couldn’t reach you.”

I go very, very still.

So does everyone in the room except Mike, who switches to my other ear.

“Are you planning to keep ignoring him?”

I don’t answer. I can’t look at anyone’s faces, afraid of what I might see there.

“Avoiding them won’t fix anything,” he continues, his voice gently reproachful. “I think you should consider going home for spring break instead of?—”

I stand swiftly. The scissors nick the top of my ear, but I ignore the sting of pain as I rip off the drape.

“All done. Looks good.” My inflection sounds dangerously manic.

“You didn’t even see it,” Liam says, a tremulous question in his voice.

“I’m fine—I mean, it’s fine.”

Mike blinks at me, the scissors still in his hand. His frown tells me he knows something is off, but not what. I can almost see his brain scanning, trying to follow the threads, plucked loose by his condition.

“Your ear,” Naomi says quietly, and I realize she’s standing in front of me.

She lifts a paper towel toward the side of my head, but I grab it from her hands and press it to my ear myself. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” she says, and I can’t stand the hurt in her voice.

“Hey, Mike,” Jordan says, hopping down from his stool and shaking his hair out of its ponytail, loose and long around his shoulders. “How about giving me a fresh look?”

Jordan is being my shield, offering up hair he doesn’t want cut as a way to pull Mike into a tangible moment. As a way to defuse whatever bomb is about to go off in my chest.

I don’t feel like I deserve his kindness.

“You know,” Mike says, “normally I’d say yes. But to be honest, it suits you. Liam—you ready? Hop up here, kid.”

Liam, still clearly trying to figure out what just happened, does as Mike says and climbs onto the stool I just vacated. Mike picks up the drape I left on the floor, shaking off the hair.

“What’ll it be? Just a trim or something a little more dramatic?” Mike asks. “Naomi? What do you think?”

It’s still startling how Mike can shift from thinking I’m in high school one minute to remembering Naomi, a woman he’s only met a few times. He did forget her name earlier, but only Jordan and I caught it. Once, I caught him frowning at Liam, as though trying to place him. There’s no rhyme or reason for how it works.

I step past Naomi and start down the hall leading to the bedrooms. The paper towel comes away from my ear red. Maybe the cut is a little worse than I realized.

“Do whatever Liam wants,” Naomi says, and I hear Liam’s cheer over Mike’s chuckle.

I duck into the hall bathroom. It’s the one Mike uses, and though Jordan must have come in and cleaned off the countertops, the room smells of English Leather—the same scent Mike has been using for years.

Gripping the edge of the counter, I lean forward until my forehead touches the cool surface of the mirror.

It’s all too much, and I’m buckling under the weight.

Back in Wisconsin, tree branches would break off during a winter storm. Ice would make them rigid, and when strong winds blew in, they were unable to bend and would simply snap.

That’s me—frozen, inflexible, breaking from the slightest breeze.

“Camden?” Naomi knocks softly on the door.

I don’t answer, but I guess I didn’t lock the door because she comes inside and closes it behind her. We lock eyes in the mirror, and I’m not sure what she sees in my face, but she steps up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and pressing her cheek to my back.

For a moment, I’m stiff, waiting for her to ask what’s wrong or try to make me talk about it.

She doesn’t. She just holds me. And holds me.

“I …”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Naomi says after a moment. “Not until you’re ready. And only if you want to. But I’m here either way.”

This is more comforting than anything else she could say.

Unless … she told me she loved me. Because I’ve been waiting for her to say it. Waiting for her to reassure me she feels the same. Maybe her actions are already telling me, already showing me.

But now, with the sour feeling swirling in my gut, my head still pounding, and the memories of my family invading my thoughts, I could really just use the words.

She doesn’t say them.

It’s not about her , I remind myself, relishing in the warmth of her body against my back. I don’t need her words .

What I do probably need is to deal with my hurt over my family or it will just keep festering under there, popping up at the most inopportune moments. Avoiding them won’t fix anything , Mike said tonight, an echo of an exact conversation we had years ago.

And he’s right.

But now that it’s been years of doing exactly that, I’m not sure how to go about fixing any of it. Or fixing myself.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and Naomi’s arms tighten around me. I let go of the sink and turn so I can wrap my arms around her in a real hug.

“Please don’t apologize. I just want you to be okay. Are you okay?”

“Not really,” I admit. “But I’ll work on it.”