by Jenna Scott
God, I’m going to miss that kid more than anything. Miss helping him with his math, reading books together, playing games, building with Legos. I’ll miss his sweet, happy face when I make him a snack he likes, and his delight when I give him fruit arranged in the shape of a face, a cat, or a dinosaur. What’s worse than my own sadness, though, is thinking about how he’ll feel when someone tells him I’m not coming back. What if he thinks I abandoned him? That I didn’t love him enough?
Shoulders heavy, I trudge up the steps of our apartment building, sighing as I dig around in my bag for my keys. As soon as I walk through the door, my mom calls out.
“Camilla! Come in here a sec,” she says from her bedroom.
I swallow the lump in my throat, dreading having to tell her I’m quitting my cozy after-school job. A job she supposedly pleaded with the Becks to give me, a job I’ve managed to hold on to in spite of the Incident That Shall Not Be Named.
The state of her bedroom stops me short.
My brain immediately spins into panic mode as I take in the open drawers and closet, the half-packed suitcases on the bed. A scene I’ve witnessed far too often, a scene I’ve been a part of enough times not to immediately realize how it’ll play out.
It figures.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice defeated.
“We’re moving,” Mom says, stating the obvious as she rolls up a dress and shoves it into the suitcase, not even bothering to look at me when she delivers this latest batch of life-changing news.
It’s a good thing I’m close to the doorframe because right now I need support, and it’s right there for me to lean against as my world is completely torn off its hinges. For the first time in years, I’ve made two real friends I want to stay close to, so of course it’s the perfect time for her to decide we need to up and leave.
My voice is small and choked as I repeat, “Okay, but where are we going?”
She keeps packing, as if what she’s about to say is trivial. “The Becks’ house.”
And that is the moment my entire body just stops. I stand there, jaw unhinged, my mind blank. There’s no freaking way. This is a joke.
“Mom, for real,” I say with a thin smile.
She pauses to look at me finally. “I am being real. Mr. Beck’s been asking if I want to transition to live-in housekeeping, and with all our bills piling up lately, I decided to go for it.” Going to the closet, she pulls out another armload of clothes.
My mouth moves, but for a moment I have no words.
This can’t be happening.
“You’re telling me I have to move in with Hunter Beck?” I blurt. “Seriously?”
Mom huffs out a sigh of annoyance. Her voice is all barbs and sarcasm as she says, “It’s a pool house, Camilla. I’m not asking you to share a room with anyone.”
Scrambling for a plan B, I draw a blank. We don’t have relatives or friends who’d be able to take us in on such short notice, if at all, and we sure as hell don’t have the money to move into a new place. Not when we’d need a security deposit and first and last months’ rent. And besides all that, I doubt we’d get approved now that we’re breaking our current lease. Maybe a homeless shelter? She’d never go for it.
FML.
“What are you standing there waiting for?” Mom snaps. “We’re supposed to move our stuff in tonight. Chop chop.”
I’m in zombie mode on my way to my room, listlessly dragging my suitcase out from under the bed. For a moment, I sit on the mattress, head in my hands.
What the hell did I do to deserve this?
Chapter Twenty
Hunter
The last few days have not been pleasant.
And then, this afternoon, I had to contend with the fallout from Camilla’s little hissy fit and my friends being total dicks about it.
“The fuck was that all about, dude?” Matt had said after Camilla stormed off.
“Nothing,” I told him. “She just quit as Harry’s nanny. Whatever.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing,” he said. “I wouldn’t want that psycho babysitting my siblings.”
Steve had cracked up. “No wonder Ortega’s all over her. The crazy ones are always the hottest in bed, am I right?”
Hearing them laugh and make asshole comments had set my teeth on edge, but I didn’t correct them or even object. I hadn’t felt like getting into any more fights.
But when I got home, I just sat in my car in the driveway, zoning out. I couldn’t stop thinking about how pissed off Camilla had been at me, and how she’d wanted me to tell my friends to stop calling her “the help.” Hillary was the one who started using the term when I mentioned that Camilla was our babysitter—I hadn’t meant anything by it. Even still, I feel like shit for starting the whole thing. I’ve known Hillary for years; she smack-talks every girl that crosses my path. Camilla is no exception. It’s like Hillary actually thinks she owns me just because we made out at a party once.
But me? I never called Camilla “the help.” Servant girl? Sure, I said that once, in a very heated moment when I’d wanted to send her running and decided an insult would work fastest. Humiliation was simply payback for Camilla making my brain short-circuit on the regular. And when I’d seen her staring at me, dick-deep in another girl (who I haven’t spoken to since), it had been worse than a short-circuit.
It was a complete blackout.
Looking at her, I was struck dumb, and then I was imagining she was under me and not several feet away, and suddenly it was too late to hold back, and I was over the edge. It was embarrassing, to be honest. So I reacted like I always do when I’m thrown off my game: I make whoever’s responsible run away with their tail between their legs.
I realize that sounds bad, and yeah, I might act like a jerk sometimes, but just for the record, Camilla Hanson is no better than I am, walking around with her holier-than-thou attitude. An attitude that I know for a fact to be hypocritical.
And then, just to put a cherry on top of my shit sundae of a week so far, I get to walk in the front door to the sound of yelling coming from my dad’s office.
Harrison’s sitting on the living room couch, eyes glued to the TV and Roo snuggled at his side. He’s hugging his knees, and I can tell right away that he’s fully aware of the fact that his parents are fighting and is trying to block it out with cartoons turned up too loud. I went through this same thing plenty of times myself when I was his age. As soon as he spots me, he looks up, big eyes red-rimmed, and I realize he’s been crying. Probably upset that he can’t do anything to make it all stop.
“Hey, man,” I say, plopping onto the couch next to him and pulling him against me for a side hug. “You watching The Last Airbender?”
Harry sniffles and nods, still too shook up to talk.
I know exactly how he must feel. My mom and dad were at each other’s throats twenty-four seven for years before Mom finally left. I can’t blame her. After that, I just got numb to all the bullshit and reached a point where I became completely desensitized when my dad would fight with whoever he was dating, especially so when it comes to my stepmom. Dad might be able to ignore the blatant gold digging and social climbing, but I can’t. The only worthy thing Karleigh’s done with her life is give birth to Harrison. My brother is a total sweetheart, and I’m not too proud to say I love him like crazy.
“Don’t pay attention to them,” I say, giving him another squeeze. “It’s not your fault, and it isn’t anything about you. It’s their own shit. Okay?”
“’kay,” he manages, his voice soft.
I sit there on the couch with him for a few minutes, pretending to watch TV, straining my ears all the while to eavesdrop. What the hell are they at each other’s throats for again? Part of me feels bad for wishing it’ll be the last straw, the fight that finally leads to a divorce, because obviously Karleigh is Harrison’s mom, and I don’t wish a broken home on anyone, least of all my little brother. But his mom is so terrible that the positives of her leaving far outwei
gh the negatives.
“The girl’s good with Harrison,” Dad is saying. “It’d be a shame to lose her. And a hassle to look for a new sitter.”
Ah. Camilla must’ve called already to officially quit. I wonder if she told them I’m the reason she doesn’t want to come over anymore. The thought of it turns my stomach a little. I mean, Harry didn’t deserve to lose Camilla on my account.
“I’m not denying that, but…” Karleigh concedes, her voice dropping away.
“The alternative is you spending more time with your son. Is that something you want?” Dad asks, his tone even and patronizing.
That calculated voice of reason is why everyone thinks he’s a level-headed man. I know better though. It’s just another mask he puts on to hide the hideousness inside.
“What about my me time?” she snaps back, getting louder. “I already spend all day doing work for your business. You do what you want in the evenings. So do I!”
Hearing her talk like that makes my blood boil. A good mom would be spending as much time with her son as humanly possible. She would occasionally hire a nanny, not insist on having one around for most of the week. Same goes for Dad, who never really spent time with me and is exactly the same way with Harrison.
Some parents learn from the mistakes they make with their eldest children. As twisted as it is, I wish that had been the case with my dad. That he’d used his failures with me to course correct. But no.
I ruffle Harrison’s hair and then get up off the couch to go upstairs when I hear Karleigh shout, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner they were coming to live with us then? And why do you keep insisting we need a live-in housekeeper?”
With that, I freeze in place.
Is she fucking serious? Live with us?
“I wanted to surprise you,” Dad says patronizingly. “You’ve always wanted a live-in nanny and maid. Now you have both.”
Immediately, I barrel down the hall and explode through the office door, and before I can stop myself I blurt, “Are you shitting me? They can’t come live here.”
“Hunter! Language!” Karleigh shrieks in her obnoxious Valley girl tone.
Dad glances at me from the other side of the mahogany desk. “Last time I checked, this was my house. My money.” He gets up from the leather chair and leans menacingly toward me, knuckles on the surface of the desk. “So you will mind your manners while you’re living under my roof and out of my pockets. And while you’re here, your principal emailed me to let me know that once again you…”
I stare at his tie and block him out after that. I know whatever he’s saying will just be a variant of the only conversation he ever has with me, about how we have a name and a reputation to uphold, and I’m ruining it all by being needlessly difficult.
I’m pretty sure he’s never actually cared about me, only about what I can do to make him look good and shine more light on the family name. Because La Jolla’s favorite real estate legend has a “reputation” to uphold, so he can’t have people realizing his eldest son is an abject failure. Things were so much easier when I was just the cute toddler in his arms for his real estate headshots. He also had this brilliant campaign where he’d stick an extra sign on the front lawns of his properties, right next to the Beck Properties sign with his name and face and contact info. It was a photo of me as a smiling baby, waving a chubby little hand, and it said in big letters “Hunter approves!”
Well, times have changed. Hunter definitely does not approve of this.
It still burns me up that when I made CIF state champion last year for swim, the first words out of his mouth were, “It’s nothing less than what I expect from you.”
No congratulations.
No I’m proud of you.
Just “what’s expected.”
“Whatever,” I say when his mouth finally stops moving. On my way out I add, “By the way, next time, try to keep your voices down. Harrison doesn’t need this crap.”
My chest feels like it’s being crushed by a pile of bricks as I make my way back out to the living room.
“What were they fighting about?” Harry murmurs.
“They’re just excited,” I lie. “Your babysitter’s moving in.”
“Milla’s coming to live with us?”
The kid is beaming with happiness at the prospect. An enthusiasm I don’t share in but can understand. Dad had been telling the truth when he said Camilla’s good with Harrison. Not once have I seen her angry with him, not even when he’s being stubborn and won’t do something he’s supposed to. And I’ve seen how happy she is when she serves him a snack or helps him build Lego castles. It’s adorable.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m sure it’ll be great.”
Not long after, I hear the front door open, a cacophony of footsteps and the unmistakable glide of suitcase wheels on the tiles, and Karleigh saying, “Helena! Camilla! Welcome. Thomas just filled me in—I’ve been trying to get us a live-in housekeeper, so it all works out perfectly. We’re so happy to have you.”
I know it’s the excuse Dad gave her, but still…Karleigh can’t actually be this oblivious, can she? Does she truly think he did this as a favor to her? That it came from the kindness of his heart and not as a mandate from his dick?
There’s more faux-enthusiastic conversation from my stepmom, and then they all file into the living room since the patio doors are the quickest way to the pool house. Camilla’s red-faced as she walks by, suitcase rolling behind her. Harrison immediately runs to her, hugging her waist. “Milla, you’re moving in with me?”
“I guess so, for a little while,” she says, cracking a smile for his benefit.
“Awesome!” Harrison looks at the luggage in her hand. “Do you need help? I can carry something!”
Camilla laughs, a light, free, genuine sound. “That’s fine, kiddo. I’ll manage.”
She ignores me. I ignore her, keeping quiet, though inside I’m nothing but pissed off. So she makes a huge scene in front of my friends and then has the balls to show up at my house and freaking move in on the same day?
However.
Judging by the permanent pinch in her face and the fact that she basically won’t even look at me, I can tell Camilla’s as unhappy about this entire situation as I am. I want to blame her, but I know it’s not her fault. Our parents are the ones at fault, both of them, but if I’m not my dad, then I can’t treat her like she’s her mom.
And she wasn’t, and isn’t, entirely wrong to be upset with me.
I have been a jerk to her, and without good reason. The truth is, I don’t have one. It’s just that every time I see her, all shy and clueless, I have the urge to bend her, to see how far I can push until she breaks. And she did break, at least a little, earlier today.
From the living room couch, I take a long slug from my Coke can and pretend not to watch her move in, going back and forth from the car to the pool house over and over. Pretend not to notice how her jeans hug her ass, how a bead of sweat runs down the back of her neck. She’s got her hair up in a ponytail, leaving that perfect slope uncovered, as if asking me to lick it off her.
Harrison flits around her, and I see she’s caved in to his offer to help since he’s happily carrying small items—books, mostly, old and worn out, and a couple shoe boxes that I assume belong to Camilla’s mother since I’ve only ever seen Camilla in her school shoes or her sneakers.
Shit, I guess I could go help too. I probably should. But I don’t trust myself around her, not after what happened the last time we were alone.
It hits me that I can’t stay sitting here any longer, or I will say or do something that will make things worse. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but Harrison’s here. And he’s so happy, how can I take that away from him?
Camilla shouldn’t be living here. I shouldn’t have to deal with her living here.
I take off to my room, and that’s where I stay for the rest of the evening.
The days pass, full of awkward tension every time I walk into a room a
nd see Camilla or her mom, until finally it’s Sunday afternoon. I’m having my late morning swim with Harrison when Camilla shows up, telling him it’s lunchtime. Guess she didn’t quit, after all.
As Harrison gets out of the pool and lets Camilla wrap him in a dry towel, I don’t say anything to her. She doesn’t say anything to me either. But I can tell what she’s thinking because she’s as open as the books she’s always reading.
She’s thinking about how she failed our debate assignment because of me. About how I avoided her afterward because I didn’t want to deal with the consequences.
Even when I tried to be nice that night I had a party and she walked in on me and some girl at the pool house, the worst of me had come out. All I meant was to wipe away her tears. Until she looked at me, her long eyelashes still wet, her parted lips trembling, and I knew it was because of what I’d done.
I don’t know why I didn’t kiss her. I wanted to. Camilla looked like she wanted it too.
The way she’d felt when I pushed her against the wall—warm and breathless and curvy in all the right places. The way she’d bitten my collarbone, as if she’d been as hungry as I was.
No one had ever pushed me away like that before, though, not when they were right on the edge. I could feel it, the way she was about to come in my hand.
She must really hate me.
She has no idea that the reason I didn’t go to the mandatory homework sessions Spencer assigned us was because I knew Camilla would be there. Now I can’t even relax in my own home because she’s here all the time too.
It was hard enough avoiding her when she was just a babysitter. Now that she’s living here, it’s going to be impossible.
And I’m afraid of what I might try to do the next time we’re alone.
Chapter Twenty-One
Camilla