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Chapter Twenty-Two

Cameron

One good thing about staying with my mother is she isn’t an early bird. And if I’m really lucky, she’ll sleep until late afternoon. Not that I plan on hanging around the house all day, as spending time with her is the last thing I want to do, but while I’m here, I am curious about some things. Mostly the in-law apartment I spent most of my time in once I hit high school.

My mother was glad to have me “out of her face” and I enjoyed the privacy.

I’d asked her about staying there last night, but she said it was unsafe due to the floor caving in. Then she went on a rant about how she doesn’t have money to fix it. I wanted to tell her that if she did something with her life, that wouldn’t be a problem, but I was hoping for a bed to sleep in, so I kept my mouth shut. She was hoping I’d offer, and I’m surprised she didn’t outright demand I pay for the renovations. Of course I can afford it, but she doesn’t deserve that from me. I don’t care if she spent sixteen hours pushing me out of her body. I wasn’t the one who made that happen.

I get dressed, making sure I have all of my things because I do not plan on staying here again tonight. Honestly, I’m not sure why I chose to stay all weekend at all. I should have booked a flight out first thing this morning, but at the time, Sunday night seemed like a good time to leave. I could change my flight, I guess. I’ll look into that later.

I put my suitcase in my car before heading back inside and going to the door that leads to the stairs that brings you to the in-law apartment that’s over the garage. My mother doesn’t own a car and hasn’t ever, as far as I know, meaning the garage is full of junk that’s probably ruined or damaged.

The stairs creak as I walk up them, and I wonder if they’re going to cave as I go. Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to me, so I keep going, flipping on the light when I reach the top of the steps. Stupidest thing about this apartment is that the light switch for this stairwell, that has no windows, is at the top of the stairs…

They flicker before staying on. Dust particles float all over, and I push open the door to get into the apartment. It’s been broken since I kicked it in when I was sixteen and no one ever bothered to fix it.

The bright morning sun shines in through the curtainless windows, illuminating the room, but it’s eerily silent.

It’s not big, and from here I can see everything except the bathroom, that’s in the back and off to the side, behind another door. Everything else is an open plan, even the section for the bedroom.

I step into the kitchen, the white and blue tile peeling at the corners. There’s an inch of dust and dirt on the counters and what looks like rat shit. I scoff as I move deeper in, looking at the dip in the floor my mother mentioned. It takes up most of the living room floor. Definitely looks like it’ll go through if I step on it, so I make sure to walk around it and then step into the section that was made into my bedroom.

Seeing that bed sends a million memories flooding through me. It’s bare now, the mattress stained and topped with acorns and leaves that some animal brought in. The dresser is just as dirty, and I walk over to it, picking up one of the photos that fell down, face first.

I shake my head, smiling when I see a photo of me and Austen. It was after one of his first games. They won and he was thrilled. Someone on the team took the photo for us, and because he was giving my favorite smile, I made sure to keep it and get it framed.

I put it back on the dresser, face down. Best I don’t dwell on the past when it comes to him. I pull open the top drawer and dig through old notebooks of drawings and school work.

The second drawer is much of the same, and the third is more photos. I take them out, looking through them. It’s all photos of me and Austen or just Austen. God, I was so obsessed and so fucking stupid. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I continued to be friends with him, knowing it would only end in pain. Obviously for me, and not for him. I fix the photos so they’re arranged and go to drop them back in the drawer, but pause, looking down at the top photo which is a selfie we took in this very room. He’s got his tongue sticking out and my eyes are crossed. We’re maybe fifteen?

Because I’m a fool, I snap the drawer shut and shove the stack of photos into my back pocket.

I get on my hands and knees to look under the bed, smiling when I see my portfolio underneath. I pull it out, swiping off the dust and opening it. Some of my best artwork is in here, and not that I care about it much, but this stuff could be worth some money now. Maybe I could sell prints or something. It’s not that I’m Johnny Depp famous, but I’ve made a name for myself and even though it isn’t for art, people love art. And from what I hear, they love my work.

There’s been a lot of begging for me to do some nude stuff, especially since word got out that I used to model nude for school, but I haven’t brought myself to do that yet. Not sure it’s ever something I’ll be comfortable with. Art class is one thing. Porn is another.

I close the portfolio and take one last look around before carefully making my way back to the door, down the stairs, and to my car. I put the portfolio in the trunk and then get in. I lift my ass off the seat to pull the photos out and shove them into my backpack.

The post office is on the other side of town, but according to their website, they open in twenty minutes.

I mess with the radio to find a good station as I drive, but they all suck, so I shut it off and drive in silence. Saturday mornings in this town are relatively quiet. I pass a few people walking their dogs, and a few kids playing outside. The local diner is packed, and there must be something going on at the high school because there are cars parked in the lot.

There are three other cars in the post office lot when I get there, so I take my portfolio and head inside. It’ll cost an arm and a leg to mail this, but I don’t want to risk losing it. When I leave here, I’m not going home right away because I have a photoshoot in California. Honestly, I’m hardly ever home and it would be cheaper to sell my condo in New York and live out of hotels.

One older gentleman is at the counter when I get inside, and he’s taking his receipt from the worker.

“Have a lovely day,” he says to the woman behind the counter, waving and then leaving.

“Good morning, sir, how can I help you?” she says when I get to the counter.

“I need to ship this. Not sure of the best way to do that.” I hold it up.

She looks it over, then nods.

“We have some boxes over there that should work. You can play around with them and see which works best. Prices are listed on the wall.”

“Thank you.”

I go to the wall and grab a few boxes then take them around the corner to see which one will hold the portfolio the best. It’s awkward as fuck, but eventually I find one that seems to work just fine so I get it all situated before returning the others and grabbing a roll of tape that is ridiculously overpriced.

I tape up the box, then use the pen on the table to write my name and address, then head back around the corner to the counter, where I abruptly stop, dropping the box with a loud slap.

Austen fucking Brewer is at the counter, talking to the post office worker with a bunch of boxes stacked on the counter. He turns at the loud sound, frowning, until he notices me and his eyes go wide.

What the fuck. Why do I have to be so unlucky? And it’s not like I can just run out because I used material that I have to pay for. I pick up the box, then get in line. Austen is still staring at me like he can’t believe I’m here. Lucky fucking him.

He’s sharing quiet conversation with the worker, and maybe if my ears weren’t ringing so loudly I’d be able to hear what he’s saying. Another person comes in, getting behind me.

Austen nods, then turns to face me.

“Can we talk?” he asks carefully.

“No,” I answer. “Are you done?”

He nods, stepping aside, and I put everything on the counter, pulling out my wallet to pay. I feel Austen staring at me, knowing I’m not getting away so easily this time. And without liquid courage, I’m not so sure I’m confident enough to tell him off like I did last night. You’d think it would be the other way around. That I’d be more likely to give in and do stupid shit when I’m drunk. But it seems I’m way too nice when sober, and I get way too cocky and confident when drinking, allowing me to say what I’m really feeling.

I ignore Austen as I move to walk out. At least, I try, but he’s following me. All the way out into the parking lot.

“Cam, please. Can we just talk?”

“I said no , Austen.”

I unlock the car and tug the door open, but he catches it, slamming it shut. I look up, glaring at him.

“Please,” he says, his voice shaking. I grit my teeth, furious that he’s going to pretend to be hurt about this. He has no fucking right to be upset about this. I’m the one who should be upset! But I’m not. Not any more. I got over all this a long time ago. Now I’m just pissed. But fuck, he looks so hurt and I hate that. Even if it isn’t called for.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he says. “Or breakfast. Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes,” I say, lying.

He narrows his eyes. “About having eaten… or dinner?”

“Nice to know you haven’t changed,” I answer, turning to him and crossing my arms. “Still a smartass.”

He grins, shrugging.

“I think you left your stuff inside,” I say, gesturing to the building.

“They aren’t important. I’ll get them when we’re done.”

“We are done.”

“No, we’re not. I understand you’re mad, and I get why. Really, I do. And even if you don’t forgive me for what happened, that’s fine. But please give me the opportunity to explain.” He gazes back at me with sincerity. “I mean, it’s been seven years, Cam. Let me get this off my chest.”

Oh, so what happened between us has been bothering him, has it? Good. I’m glad I haven’t been the only one hurting over here. Even though he has no reason to be upset at all, since I’m not the one who did anything wrong. He’s the one who accused me of taking advantage of him. There’s no way in fuck I am going to forgive him for that. But because I’m a nice guy, I guess I can allow him to get it off his chest. Maybe then he’ll leave me alone.

“Dinner at seven,” I say. The relief that falls over his face is shocking.

“Thank you,” he breathes out.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I say, knowing there’s a chance I won’t show up. “I could change my mind.”

He’s frowning again.

“Luigi’s okay?” I ask, picking one of the most expensive restaurants in the area, mostly to be a dick.

“Absolutely. I’ll make reservations.”

I look him over, noting the dark bags under his eyes, and the fact his eyes aren’t quite as blue as they used to be.

“Yeah, you do that.”

I pull open the car door, this time he doesn’t stop me. So I drive away with a pit in my stomach, knowing damn well I am going to show up for dinner.