Page 27

CHAPTER 27

Charlie

Soren

A smock with a little bow on the back?

Me

Shut up.

Soren

It’s okay, Picasso. No need to hide your passions from us.

Me

I’m deleting your number.

Soren

Sure you are.

We’ve been at it for the last few hours. Cami did a phenomenal job getting this entire day together, and she’s been posting on social media like a trained expert. I have no idea what she’s doing most of the time, or how she gets the photos edited the perfect way or adds little funny icons. I just let her do her thing and order me around.

I’ve been her friend for a long time now, and I’ve seen her in many life stages. Through the awkward high school years, into the transitional time in college, and now in adulthood. She is a free spirit, always doing whatever makes her happy in that moment, and it’s admirable. Her family doesn’t understand her, and it’s frustrating for me.

When she essentially closed in on herself this morning after realizing she had fallen asleep I wanted to pick up the phone and talk some sense into her mom. I knew she had been thinking over what she’s been told many times before—that she’s too in the clouds, too silly, too immature, too unstable. But everything that Miranda finds lacking in her daughter, I find charming. I’ll work hard to show Cami the beauty I see in her personality and try to undo all the damage her mom has done.

Which started with me telling her a few things I love about her this morning, and has continued as we’ve executed her plans. I knew that the words I spoke to her were needed in the moment, but I can’t help but feel a sense of dread that perhaps I went too far. Holding her face in my hands, kissing her on the forehead when it was just the two of us and there was no need for it, and swiping my thumb across her lips. It was a mistake and I vow to myself to be more careful when it comes to showing her affection in private. It was one of the rules, and I need to try to stick to them, no matter how increasingly difficult that is becoming.

I will admit, when I walked into the apartment and found the over the top banner in New York Rangers colors and the different hobby stations set up all around the place, I was apprehensive. I know what she is doing is going to help me, but part of me doesn’t want to change my closed off persona. It’s easier this way and safer, but I also acknowledge that by closing myself off I might be missing out on some relationships and memories with the people around me. I know it’s my trauma speaking, and it’s always been difficult for me to put the incident from my past behind me, but with her by my side I guess it might be possible.

I glance over at her and smile. She’s in her own world, hardly paying any attention to me. She has pink and white paint smudged over her cheek, and a scrap of patterned paper is wedged between her curls where her golden hair is thrown up and off of her shoulders. She’s a vision and I feel lucky to be able to take it in.

We’ve done painting, scrapbooking, and are finishing up soap carving now. I have found myself to be pretty good at this one, surprisingly. The painting and scrapbooking, not so much. I don’t have many creative bones in my body, so taking a blank canvas or page and turning it into something was difficult.

Cami, however, is a natural. She painted a beautiful picture of abstract lines and shapes, in different shades of pink and red. I told her I want to keep it to hang inside my house, and she agreed. Maybe it’ll bring a little life into the space.

During scrapbooking, she had printed out various photos of Alana, her, and myself through the years. She also had some photos of my sister and I growing up, which I was sure she stole by logging into Alana’s Google photos. Not the first time she’s done that.

She had blocks and blocks of different colored soaps for us to cut into, and showed me multiple different videos of people creating little designs in theirs. I found the methodic cutting to be calming, and I didn’t notice her snickering at my side until her laughs grew louder. I glanced over, trying to determine what was making her hysterical, and found the soap in her hands depicting something not very PG.

I rolled my eyes and she remarked that she would be sure to put this in my bag so I could use it in the shower.

Now, we’re finishing up our third soap design. Mine has the New York Rangers symbol carved into it. My first thought was it would be too detailed, but carving out the square symbol was easier than I thought. It’s rounded at the bottom corners and comes to a point in the center. The top sort of flares out and has two divots on either side of the middle. The words “NEW YORK” are written across the top, with the word “RANGERS” diagonal from left to right. I sit back, pleased with my work.

Cami has carved a rose that has lots of ridges and dips, making the petals look three dimensional. She chose a pink soap to start, so the design looks quite realistic. She looks over at mine and gasps.

“Charles Cade.” Her hand shoots up to her chest as if she’s taken aback. “You really are so good at this.” She pulls her phone out and I gear up for another video. “Everyone, look at what Charlie made.”

I hold up the bar of soap proudly, smirking at the camera. “And to think, you all probably counted me out for this one.”

“I never counted you out, babe.”

I blush hearing the pet name, then remind myself that it’s all for show. I lean forward and place a loud kiss on her cheek, knowing the camera won’t see it but will be able to hear it. She laughs as she stops the video, tagging me and closing out. I repost it, like I’ve been doing all day, and we start to clean up.

“Okay, so we’re grabbing sandwiches at Waverly and heading to the groomer. We made up some time with the scrapbooking since you were so terrible at it”—I roll my eyes—“so we have about forty-five minutes until we’re supposed to be there.”

“Sounds good. You want to pick up this mess before we go?”

“Nah, we’ll deal with it later.”

Classic Cami.

We each put our shoes on, pull on coats, and head out into the crisp city air.

* * *

“So, you’re going to take the curved shears and lightly carve out the shape you want the face to be in. Nala’s owner likes her hair around her face cut into a teddy bear shape.”

Nala, the teacup Goldendoodle, stares at us like we bore her. She’s just been freshly groomed and her body has already had a trim, one that I hesitantly did with lots of help, and now we’re onto her face. Thankfully, they chose a calm dog for Cami and I to work on.

“A teddy bear shape? What does that mean?” I ask.

“A teddy bear shape is basically when we trim her coat to about one or two inches long. It’ll be a rounded face trim, which makes her look like a teddy bear plush,” the groomer says. “I’ll show you with this one, and if you come back for another try we’ll let you give it a go.”

I hand over the shears happily and watch her work her magic on this sweet pup. Eventually, Nala is all fixed up and looks beautiful. Our grooming was uneventful, and while I didn’t hate it I certainly wasn’t a big fan. I couldn’t drown out the constant barking and whining of the dogs in crates waiting for their turn. The staff was extremely friendly, and even allowed dogs with high anxiety out of the crate to roam or lay by their feet while they worked on other dogs, but I know I couldn’t do this every day.

Once we finish and Cami has taken and posted videos of the whole process, we make our way back out onto the street. She tucks her arm through my elbow and stays close as we head to our next spot, a local florist. We stop for coffee before getting on the subway and taking a short ride to 5 th Ave, close to The Empire State Building.

It’s started snowing, a light blanket covering the ground, and the hustle and bustle of everyone around us warms my heart. Even though I like to be alone and stay to myself, the city provides a weird sort of opposition to that part of me.

The door dings as we step through the small entryway of the florist. There are bouquets of all different kinds of flowers surrounding the shop and the smell is intense. It’s an amalgamation of lots of different floral smells, and it’s a bit overwhelming at first.

“Hi, my name is Cami. We have an appointment to make our own bouquets,” she says as she greets the shop clerk. They speak for a few moments, getting details arranged, and Cami reaches for her card. I interject before she slides it over the counter and hand the woman mine.

“I planned on covering it,” Cami says.

“I’m not letting you pay for your own flowers.” I turn before she can argue and look at the various flowers behind us. The clerk joins us on the other side of the counter and talks us through arranging our own bouquets. She shows us which flowers we can choose from—ranunculus, peonies, roses, amaranths, carnations, poinsettias, and orchids—and demonstrates how to gather them onto the paper we’ll use to wrap them up.

After a few minutes of instructions, we get to work and start gathering different flowers and bunching them together. Cami goes for a few white roses, then takes a pinkish purple peony and places it in the center. She chews on her bottom lip as she surveys it, determining how she should proceed.

I turn away and begin collecting my own flowers, not really putting much thought into the task. My mind is wandering, specifically back to the fact that she tried to pay for our appointment. I realize then, that she must have dropped a pretty penny on just this one single day.

“Cam, send me the bill for all of the stuff we did today. I’m paying for all of it, you did it for me.”

“It really wasn’t much.”

“You had to have spent a fortune. Between all of the materials and the appointments for the dog and the flowers, it couldn’t have been cheap.”

“I had all of the materials. I’ve done my fair share of hobbying through the years.”

I guess that makes sense. She is constantly trying new things and I admire that about her. She follows the things that bring her joy, like a flower to sunlight. Her constant hobbying has made our day much smoother because of her detailed knowledge of all of the tasks.

“And the dog grooming?”

“They didn’t charge us for that. They said they were happy to have our help.”

“Well, that was nice.”

“Yep.”

She grows quiet as she continues gathering her flowers into the perfect bouquet. I wonder what she’s thinking about, but after a few moments of us working silently, she speaks in a soft voice.

“How are you feeling about…everything?”

“You mean like us, everything?” I whisper, looking around and making sure the shop clerk is not in earshot. She nods her head yes, still keeping her eyes trained down on the flowers.

“I’m feeling okay about it. I think things are going well.” I gather a few roses and add them to the bunch of peonies in front of me. “What about you?”

“I feel good. The response on social media has been good so far.”

She’s right. Ever since the first article dropped we have had an overwhelmingly positive response, not to mention all of the comments and likes our stories have had today. Seemingly reminded of it, she picks up her phone and holds it up. I grab a rose and hold it up to her, staring beyond the camera and into her eyes. She snaps the picture, looking at me and not the screen, and hesitates a moment before looking down at her phone to edit and post the photo.

My phone pings as the notification of her mention comes in, and she stares in the direction of my back pocket waiting for me to pull it out and repost.

“My hands are busy. Help me out?”

Her eyes flit from my face, to my waist, and back again. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches her hand around me and into my back pocket, grabbing my phone and pulling it out. I work hard not to react to her touch, but relish in the small smirk that plays on her lips.

She messes with my phone, unlocking it and navigating to the app where she reposts. After that we continue working in silence, only a Taylor Swift song playing softly over the store’s speakers. After an hour, we leave with two beautiful arrangements in hand and head back to the apartment.

* * *

The amount of ink covering my hands is a little concerning. Is there such a thing as ink poisoning? How much ink does one’s skin have to absorb before succumbing? I’m pondering these questions as Cami cleans up the calligraphy materials around me.

When we got back to her apartment, we made a quick dinner—grilled cheese and tomato soup—and sat down to watch countless tutorials on how to achieve the perfect handwriting. I didn’t realize how technical calligraphy was. There is special ink, specific paper, and fancy pens and brushes needed. After a few too many attempts and lots of fits of laughter, we’ve decided to give up and move on to our last hobby of the day.

I’m going to admit, I am wiped. This has been the most exhausting day in the best way. I don’t think I’ve had someone put this much effort into something just for me in, well, ever. I’m touched at Cami’s attention to detail and planning, when that isn’t usually her thing. It communicates that she really cared about this day, and about me.

She carries an arm full of materials into the kitchen and I tidy up the small living room while she puts everything away. I fluff the pillows on the couch and pick up the throw blanket, fold it, and drape it over the corner of the loveseat. I think, not for the first time, about how much cozier her place feels than mine. I’m glad she did all of this here. It would have felt wrong in my huge penthouse.

“Okay, so for the last one we’re taking it to the bedroom.”

I pause, running her words over in my head trying to make sense of them. I know she doesn’t mean what my brain thinks, and maybe hopes, she means.

“What?”

“Charlie Cade.” Her hand flies out and hits me square in the chest. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I meant knitting. Knitting is the last hobby of the day, and I always do it while cuddled up in bed. It’s a requirement to be cozy and comfy while you knit, so bedroom it is.”

I see her roll her eyes as she walks ahead of me into the room and it sounds like she mutters “men” under her breath. Following behind her, I step into her room and take in the scene. There are lots of different colored bundles of yarn piled on the bed and two pairs of needles sitting near them. She plops down on one side and pulls a blanket onto her lap, then pats the spot next to her.

“So, there are three basic things you need to know when knitting. The first is something called cast on, which is basically how you start the project. The next is the knit stitch, and then cast off which is how you get the stitching off of the needles.”

I nod my head as I get comfortable next to her, feeling confident that those steps sound simple enough. We both pick out our colors, and she shows me how to get the yarn on the stick thing, which she tells me is called a needle. After a series of loops, she’s created a perfect set of stitches that sit right up against the needle, readying it for the rest of the project.

Once we both have done the cast on step and have about twelve stitches, she tells me that we’re ready for the knit stitch.

“This is the most basic stitch for knitting. First, you push your free needle through the first loop here,” she reaches over and points to the spot she’s mentioning, then guides my hands to complete the step. “Good. Then you wrap your yarn around the back, and pull it down between the two. Yep, exactly like that.”

I smile to myself, feeling a sense of pride at my ability to get my large calloused hands to do something so delicate and detailed. It’s satisfying.

“When did you start doing this?”

“Knitting?”

“Yeah. I knew you did it because I’ve seen the balls of yarn lying around, but what got you into it?”

“Well, I’ve been doing it for about a year. I saw an ad for a knitting group online and joined on a whim.”

“Not surprising,” I say and she huffs a laugh.

“No, I guess not. Anyways, when I showed up I realized it was at a retirement home. I went in anyway and ended up really liking the ladies there. They meet weekly, and I go as often as I can now.”

“That’s sweet, Cam. How did I not know you were doing that if you’ve been going for a year? Kinda sounds like something we’d discuss.”

“Yeah, I don’t know.” I can sense her starting to close off. She looks down and focuses on what her hands are doing. I give her the space to determine if she wants to elaborate further, and eventually she does. “I kinda stopped mentioning things like that to people. I don’t normally stick to things for very long, so it’s easier to just not talk about them.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Cami I know,” I say and she looks over at me quizzically.

“What do you mean?”

“The Cami I know can’t shut up about the stuff she enjoys spending her time on. She’s bubbly and sunshine personified. She doesn’t care if something is around for a day or a year, she’s going to be excited about it. It’s one of my favorite qualities about her.”

“You like that I can’t make my mind up and waste money and time on random things?”

“Is it a waste if you’re enjoying it? Even for a moment?”

Her hands have stopped their motion and her gaze has left mine. I can tell she’s thinking about what I said, so I wait for her to speak.

“No. It isn’t a waste.”

I nod, happy she’s come to that conclusion. She looks like she’s been in a fog and it’s just now clearing.

“Who made you feel like the things that bring you joy were wasteful?” I ask quietly.

“Um, I guess my mom. I told you the stuff she said about me never finding a man to settle down with.” Anger blooms in my chest and I take a deep breath in an effort to tamp it down. This isn’t about me avenging her right now, I’m just here to listen. “She’s said stuff like that for a long time about pretty much everything I choose to do. So eventually I just stopped sharing in an effort to spare myself the embarrassing comments. I guess that bled into my friendships as well.”

“You don’t have to censor yourself for me. I want to know all of you, every stitch,” I say as I hold up the knitting in my hands and smirk. She laughs, and even though it sounds weak I know it lightened the mood a little. “Sorry about my dad jokes, but I’m serious. You don’t need to hide parts of yourself from me. I’ve seen almost all of them and you haven’t scared me away yet.”

She blushes and looks down in an effort to hide it. Before thinking better of it, I reach out and catch her chin in my hand, drawing her eyes back to mine. They’re wide as she looks up at me, surprised by the sudden contact.

“Tell me you understand. I don’t want you to pretend with me.”

“I understand,” she whispers.

I lean forward and place a soft kiss in the center of her forehead, smiling into her skin at the little gasp that escapes her lips. “Good.”

I feel something change between us in this moment, and while I know it isn’t smart, I can’t find it in me to draw back. To close off. Not after everything she did for me today and the sacrifices she’s been making to help me stay on a team that I love. She knows this is important to me, and she has gone to great lengths to ensure my spot on the team. That, plus all of the things she’s done today have snapped whatever control I had around her and have shown me just how much I care about her.

We silently go back to knitting, and after a long time we settle under the covers to watch a movie. I wake up the next morning early, before the sun has risen, and slide out of bed, quietly closing the door behind me. I vaguely remember a rule we made for no more sleepovers, but just as easily decide to forget it, and I think I’m okay with that.