Page 32 of Good Days Bad Days

Charlie

Present Day

“It looks like you’re moving,” Cam says as he tries to shift the boxes in the trunk of my car into a Tetris-like pattern.

We need to make space for three more large containers at his feet labeled “Hedberg Public Library” and the black faux-leather-covered rectangular case waiting on the sidewalk with a barcode on one side and library stickers on the other.

“Hoarding must run in the family.” I try to make a joke of the collection of memorabilia I’ve accumulated in the back of my car.

I could easily bring them into my rental house—there’s a whole second bedroom I’ve barely even examined—but something about keeping them in my car makes them seem like a puzzle I’m on the verge of finishing.

“This whole thing blows my mind. It’s like you’re getting to know your mom before she became your mom, it’s like . . . like time travel–level stuff,” Cam says, finding room for one more box and slipping it into place.

The sun is setting on the other side of the Rock River. We stopped at the Janesville library after I’d spilled every single detail of my low-key investigation during our walk.

“It’s not a foolproof method,” I admit, stacking an additional box on two others in the back seat.

“I’ve been sitting with Betty playing cards and then bam, my mom calls me Lottie and tells me my nails are too long or something.

Or accuses me of putting her in ‘this place,’ or in the worst of times, she thinks I’m a kidnapper holding her prisoner. ”

“Not painless but you’re still making the most out of a difficult situation, maybe?”

“You are one ‘glass is half full’ SOB, Dr. Stokes,” I say, stepping back to assess my completely stuffed vehicle and shaking my head. “I took too many canisters, what do you think?”

“No way. They would’ve let you take the whole library if you asked them. I don’t think they let just anyone stick around after closing. Being famous has some perks.”

He’d admitted at the beginning of our date, or whatever the hell this is, that he’d only recently found out about my television persona but still claims he’s never seen an actual episode of Second Chance Renovation.

I’m sure he has plenty of questions since the whole focus of the show is my relationship with my cohost/husband, but he didn’t push after I told him Ian and I are separated.

I really like that about Cam—he doesn’t push me, which is exactly the energy I needed after the call with CEO asshole Alex.

He doesn’t push, but he does encourage. Like, when I brought out my mom’s book at dinner, it was Cam who questioned how much of it was written by my mother and how much came from the perspective of the trademarked Classy Homemaker.

He pointed out that by the time I came around, we weren’t a traditional home, with all Mom’s collections, nor did we have a traditional family structure, with Mom calling the shots more than my dad.

And in my head I had to admit he might be right.

Then it was Cam’s idea to walk a few yards away to visit the library and search for archived copies of my mother’s show.

The Classy Homemaker ran from 1969 to 1974 on WQRX, ending four years before I was born.

We found five years’ worth of episodes available as kinescopes on 16 mm film.

Well, not all five years’ worth. The librarian explained that the collection wasn’t complete due to some water damage ruining nearly half of it, but once she started showing us all the remaining metal film tins, it didn’t seem like a huge loss.

And though I’m getting damn good at taking care of myself and others, I like having Cam with me on this leg of my investigation.

The setting sun has turned the world to pink and orange, the sky filled with creamsicle-colored pulled taffy clouds, and inviting an aching chill that cuts through my light leather jacket. I fight off a shiver, but Cam seems to pick up on my discomfort.

“That’s it. I’m calling an audible. The rest of these are going in my car. I’ll follow you back and drop them at your place. Then you’ll be free of me, I swear,” he says, stacking the last three boxes and carrying them to the rear of his SUV.

“That’s two hours round trip. I can’t ask you to do that.

I can rearrange some things . . .” He slams the rear door before I can finish my protest. Clapping his hands together like he’s dusting them off, he places them lightly on my shoulders, the last few sunrays illuminating the golds and greens in his eyes so the tiny brown flecks embedded in his iris stand out.

“You’re not asking me to do it—I’m offering.

” He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, his fingertips somehow blazing hot in the rapidly chilling evening air.

I breathe in his natural scent still discernible beneath his fading cologne and shiver again, this time for an entirely different reason.

“All right, if you insist.”

“I insist,” he says, running his hands down my arms, warming my frozen fingers with his fiery ones. I linger there, indulging in the electric current running into my body from his skin. I break our connection, reaching into my jacket pocket for my keys.

“I’m staying on Center Street. Across from Josh Dunleavy’s house.”

“Got it,” he says, watching me walk away, then calling after me, “Drive safely.”

I volley the sentiment and climb into my car, grateful for the solitude but also missing him almost immediately.

I flick on the radio, crack the windows to help with the mildewy scent invading the car’s interior, and intentionally leave my phone turned off and stowed away, hiding from all my future problems a little bit longer.

I pull into my rental’s driveway almost exactly an hour later, my skin cool and fresh from the breeze, the tip of my nose numb. Cam parks at the curb. We meet on the cement walkway that leads to the front door, just outside the half circle of yellow porch light.

“My God, I haven’t been out this way in years. I’m having flashbacks,” Cam says, examining the Cape Cod–style house across the street that used to belong to his best friend, Josh. “Remember the huge oak out back? The tree house?”

“The one that got struck by lightning?” It’d been the biggest shock of our freshman year.

Sparks from the blaze blew onto the roof of Josh’s house and burned enough of it to make the family homeless for the next six months.

The town held bake sales and clothing drives to help the Dunleavy family get back on their feet.

“Not struck by lightning, actually. You wouldn’t know that, though. It came out after you left that Josh was smoking cigarettes in the tree house. He caused the fire. Got probation or something like that. The town kinda turned on the whole family after that, and they moved to Illinois.”

“I had no idea. That’s wild.” Hearing Josh’s sad story, I think about how people must tell my family’s tragic tale. The mom is psycho. CPS took that poor girl away. Never saw her again. Someone should do something about that house, though. It’s an eyesore. “Did you keep in touch with him?”

“Yeah. He’s an electrical engineer now, three kids.” Cam chuckles, still staring at the perfectly rebuilt house.

“Bet they don’t know about his run-in with the law.

” I think of all the stories from my formative years I’ve kept from Olivia, giving her the edited version of my childhood.

It’s like those photo filters she likes to play around with that can erase wrinkles, blemishes, and dark circles or even raise cheekbones and sharpen jawlines.

“That’s a parent’s prerogative,” he says, his gaze running up and down my face like he’s scanning it into memory or updating an old one. “Did you ever tell your daughter about . . .”

He doesn’t finish but I can tell he wants to ask if I’ve ever talked about him, about my first love, about the boy who kissed me with his eyes closed, who left me flowers in my backyard on the shore path so my parents wouldn’t see them, who I still dreamed of for years after leaving this town.

“No, I kinda left all this behind me.” I motion to the town, but I think we both know it includes him.

I’ve always felt justified in cutting off the dead limb of my childhood, my parents, my hometown, and burying it in a shallow grave I avoid at all costs.

But the past month has unearthed the unmourned remains, and I’m often the one holding the shovel.

“Until now,” he reminds me, holding up a finger and sliding his feet a few inches closer, causing a soft whooshing sound in my ears. The unreleased electricity from our connection in Janesville tingles at the tips of my toes and fingers.

“Until now,” I repeat.

Cam touches my cheek and then digs his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck, sending a tremor down my spine.

If I don’t move, if I keep staring up into his eyes and letting the loaded silence expand between us—he’s going to kiss me.

If he kisses me, this is a date. If I kiss him back, I’m dating a man that isn’t my husband.

If I’m dating someone other than Ian, does that mean my marriage is over?

I inhale sharply. His eyes fly open and he’s about to speak when a bluish-white beam of light cuts through our bubble of reminiscence, making us blink.

A car pulls halfway into the space behind my rented Audi.

I expect it to back up immediately, likely a tourist realizing their mistake while looking for their own vacation rental, but instead the engine clicks off and the sound of two doors opening and slamming follows.

Cam angles his body toward the intruders as though he might need to protect my honor, which is totally endearing.