by Jay McLean
Inhaling a shaky breath, I let his words sink in. Along with every single emotion I've been trying to push down. The worry. The guilt. The stress. The pressure. And most of all, the grief. My eyes fill with tears and I try to breathe through the giant knot in my throat. He places both his hands on the side of my face and kisses me again. "Let it go, Luce. All of it."
I feel the water fill my nose first, then my ears, and then my mouth when I open it to scream. When I come up for air, my chest heaves with the exertion of my much-needed breaths. I open my eyes to see him watching me with his lips pressed so tight they've lost color. I suck in another shaky breath, dip my head under the water... and I do it all over again. And again. And again.
He stands in front of me. Never speaking. Never interrupting. Never telling me to stop or that I've had enough. He silently waits until I feel it leave me. Until all of those feelings are gone and is replaced with one that I thought I'd never feel again.
When I'm done, I silently walk to the embankment and lie down on the grass.
Minutes pass before he's there, lying next to me and linking our fingers together.
Not a single word is spoken.
No justification for what happened.
No explanation for my current tears.
When the cries finally subside and my breaths are level, I turn to him. "You're an artist?"
His shoulders tense. "No."
I release his hand and lean up on my elbow so I can see his face. "That's funny. I saw the flyer for Mark's sale. Whoever drew it is definitely an artist and he said it was you, so that makes you an artist. No?"
He sighs and mirrors my position so we're facing each other. "I wish I was an artist, Luce. But I'm not. Artists—they can picture things in their mind and let it flow out of them. I'm not like that. Yes, I can draw some things, but not all. I can't free hand." He laughs to himself. "Everything I do is lines, angles, symmetrical objects. What I do isn't hard. It's not creative. It's definitely not art. So no, I'm not an artist.
He looks away, his mind wandering to another place. His lips turn down to a frown, and I hate it. I hate that he knows how to fix me when I'm broken and I don't know how to do the same for him. "I tried to write a book once," I say.
He smiles now, his gaze returning to me. "Yeah?" he replies, moving a strand of hair to behind my ear.
I nod. "I got on my computer and typed four words. You wanna know what those four words were?"
"Please."
"Untitled. By Lucy Lovesalot."
He quirks an eyebrow. "Lovesalot?"
I shrug. "It was a pen name, but that's not the point. The point is, I tried. I tried and I got nothing. One day, I might try again. But you—you put pen to paper and you produced something. For me, and especially for Mark—who appreciates it so much that he wants to show the world—it's art. That makes you an artist, Cameron, regardless of how you want to see it."
His eyes widen slightly in surprise. And then he smiles; that same perfect smile that still makes me nervous. He leans in and kisses my forehead. "You make me want to try, Lovesalot." He pulls back and looks in my eyes. "You want me to take you home now?"
I shake my head. "Not just yet. Let's just stay here for a while."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
***
He doesn't ask, and I don't tell him, but we end up where we both wanted to be. His home.
We spent the rest of the afternoon at the river talking. And kissing. We did a lot of kissing.
I lie in his bed while my body fights a losing battle against sleep.
Touching my lips with the tip of my fingers, I smile against them. I can still feel his mouth on mine.
And there's that same feeling I had after my emotional release. The one that I thought I could never feel again.
Hope.
CHAPTER SIX
-CAMERON-
The next couple of days are a repeat of the last. We go to school, and then we go to the river. We hang out, talk, laugh, and learn more about each other. Each day gets better than the last.
Until today.
I rack my bike and face her. "Have lunch with me today?"
She shakes her head quickly. "I have to study."
"Where do you study?"
"Nowhere, really. Everywhere, kind of."
My eyes narrow. "That's not a real place." I step forward and take her hand. "Why won't you have lunch with me?"
She shrugs just as Logan walks up to us. "Hey, assface," he says, his eyes fixed on our joined hands.
She yanks her hand out of my hold. "See ya," she says, and then walks away.
"What's with her?" Logan asks, his gaze fixed on her ass.
I shove him. Hard. "Quit looking at her."
His eyes bug out. "Holy shit, dude. You got it bad."
"You were staring at her ass."
"I wasn't—"
"I claimed her! I said she was mine! You promised you'd leave her alone!"
His brows pinch, and he shoves me back. "I wasn't checking her out." Then a smirk develops. "Okay, maybe I was." He shrugs and starts to leave.
My fists ball at my sides. "Cocky little fuck," I shout after him.
He freezes and slowly turns around. "What did you say?"
I step forward. "You heard me."
"Fuck you, Cam. This bitch is making you crazy."
I snap. "Don't fucking call her that!" I lunge forward and tackle him to the ground. He's bigger than I am, but I'm angrier. And emotion always wins.
We don't get far before we're being pulled apart. Jake's annoying accent grinds on my nerves. "Leave it alone, mate," he says.
But I can't.
I can't let it go.
***
"I'm sorry." Logan sits opposite me in the cafeteria. "If I was looking at her like that, it wasn't intentional. I meant what I said. I'd never take my friend's girl. Ever."
I watch his face for a sign that he's fucking around, but there is none. "I can't find her."
"She left school?"
"I doubt it." I shake my head. "Yo, if I liked reading, where would I go?"
He laughs. "Um. The library?"
And that's where I find her, in between racks of books. Sitting on the floor and reading. "Lucy?"
Her eyes lift from between the pages and a smile appears—like she has absolutely no idea what she caused this morning. "You found me." She scoots over so I can sit next to her. I take the spot, but I keep my distance. I haven't stopped thinking about the way she was when Logan showed. The dropping of my hand, the refusal to look at me, the way she just walked away.
I think of the right words to use... to spare her feelings. But then I realize, fuck it—I'm the one who's hurt. "So you like Logan?"
She snorts. But her cheeks redden and she looks away. My heart hammers loudly in my ears. There's a burning in the pit of my stomach and I don't know what it is. "Just say it, Lucy. Say you're into him."
She turns to me now, her nose scrunched. "I mean, he's cute, but it's not like I have feelings for him or whatever."
"And what about me? Do you have feelings for me?"
She rears back and looks around us. "What's this about?"
Her non-answer is all I can take. I stand up—just so I can glare down at her. "That's why you won't hang out with me? That's why you don't want me kissing you and shit? It's all fine and good when we're alone, but not in public? Because you'd rather be with him?"
I watch her face change, like she's about to cry, but then a different emotion takes over. She throws her books in her backpack, swings it over her shoulder and stands up. She shoves past me just as I grab her arm to stop her. She can't walk away from this. Not anymore. "Say it, Lucy. Admit it. Tell me you're into him."
She flattens her palms against my chest. The movement's slow and gentle—almost intimate. But then her eyes narrow and her lips purse.
And then she pushes me.
Hard enough that it causes me to fall back and crash into the bookshelf behind me
.
Her eyes widen in surprise, but she doesn't look sorry. She looks pissed. "I don't do that shit at school because people talk, Cameron. You haven't heard the rumors because you run in your perfect little upper-circle with all your jock buddies and no one dares talk shit about you. But me—I'm a nobody. Or at least I was. Now though? Now I'm the girl with the dead mom and the alcoholic crazy dad, and you were the one to save me. Now, I'm staying at your house, sleeping in your bed. And no—you can't just be doing it out of the kindness of your heart. Of course not. Of course I'm putting out. Spreading my legs. Whoring myself to you for your generosity. I'm a whore, Cam. Didn't you know?"
I suck in a shaky breath, struggling to let her words sink in. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
"So no, Cameron. I'm not hiding from you because I have feelings for your jackass friend. I'm doing it because I have enough shit to deal with as it is. My mom, my dad, my brothers, my entire fucking life! I don't need the petty dramas of high school to make it worse. And if anyone should understand that..." Her shoulders slump with her sigh. She stands there, her head tilted back, looking up at me. A frown pulls on her lips, but its impact has nothing compared to the disappointment in her eyes. Seconds feel like hours as I watch her eyes fill with tears. "I thought we were friends," she whispers. "Maybe someday, we could have been more."
I don't call her name. I don't stop her from walking away. I just drop to the floor and bury my head in my hands, and wonder what the hell I'm going to do to keep my promise to make it stop. To make it better. To make it right.
I should have been her right.
***
Her hands barely touch me. Normally when we ride her arms wrap around my shoulders, and she leans in so close I can feel her breath on my cheek. Sometimes we talk. Most of the time it's just me talking, trying to make her laugh. Trying to gift my ears with the sound that makes my world stop.
She runs upstairs and into my room. She hasn't spoken a word since school let out. I throw myself onto the couch, cover my eyes with my arm, and drown in an abundance of shame and self-pity. "I'm an asshole," I whisper to myself.
"What did you do?" Mom stands over me with her arms crossed and a concerned look on her face. Before I get to answer her, the front door opens.
Lucy.
And her bags.
I stand up and get to her so fast my head spins. "What are you doing?"
She stares down at the floor. "Going home."
"No, you're not." I try to pull the bags from her hands. My voice comes out desperate and needy. Because I am. I'm a desperate, needy brat and she's my toy. And I don't want to let her go.
"What's going on?" Mom says from behind me.
Lucy's gaze lifts now. "Thank you for allowing me to stay in your home," she says, her voice breaking. "I left some money on the counter for the food and stuff. It's not much—"
"Honey." Mom steps around me. "You don't need to do that, it was a pleasure having you here." She lifts her keys off the hook next to the door. "I'll drive you home."
"MOM!" My name's Cameron and I'm four years old.
"I'll wait out front," Lucy says.
Mom waits until Lucy's out of earshot. "She needs to go home, Cam. It's time."
-LUCY-
There's a random woman standing in my kitchen and I want to punch her. "Who are you?"
"You must be Lucy."
My arms fold over my chest. "And you must be dumb because I asked you a question."
"Lucy," Dad's voice booms from behind me. He walks up to the woman and stands next to her. At least he's upright, that's something. He smiles. I want to punch them both. Who is this woman with my dad, cooking in our kitchen and why is he smiling? He's moved on. This woman is replacing my mom.
"We're poor," I tell her.
Her brows bunch in confusion.
"You're trying to get my dad for his money. He doesn't have any. We're poor." It’s a lie. We're not poor. My Dad has his own construction company. We live on a trillion acres and have the biggest house in town. But she probably already knows all that.
"Lucy." Dad shakes his head. "This is Virginia. She's our live in nanny."
"Live in?" I scoff. "Where does she live, on Mom's side of the bed? She died in there you know?"
After the crappy day with Cameron, I don't have the strength to filter my thoughts. He was my strength, and now he's gone.
"Give us a minute," Dad says to Virginia. More like Vagina.
When she's left the room, Dad approaches me. He smells fresh. Not like the disgusting smell of booze I'd gotten accustomed to. He eyes me up and down. And even though his beard covers most of his face, like it has for years, I can see the frown. I can see the sadness. "Baby girl," he whispers, wrapping me in his arms. "I've missed you so much."
And I'm no longer mad or pissed off at the world. All of a sudden I'm four years old and my daddy's arms are the safest place in the entire world.
He kisses the top of my head and pulls back. "One day I'll make it up to you. I'll be a better man."
"I don't want a better man," I tell him. I hold on to him tighter and wipe my tears on his shirt. "I just want my daddy back."
***
When I apologize to Virginia, she chuckles. "It's fine, Lucy," she says. "At least you didn't call me Vagina."
We both laugh just as the doorbell rings. I look from the door, to her. "I'm a nanny, not a maid." But she opens the door anyway.
Mark stands on the other side. He looks panicked. Or afraid. Maybe both.
"If you're here about Cameron, then you can save it."
"Cameron? That little turd?" He shakes his head and loosens his tie. "No. Remember how you told me about the spreadsheet and the envelopes and the printing of said spreadsheet on the envelopes?"
I nod.
"I can't work out how to do it and I have another mail out that I need to do by Monday. I need your help." He links his hands together in front of him. "I'm here to offer you a job. No—I'm begging you to please take the job." He shakes his joined hands, begging. "Please."
"When?"
"Saturday."
"That's tomorrow."
He nods.
I shrug. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."
CHAPTER SEVEN
-LUCY-
Mark drops a box of envelopes on his desk. "You got everything you need?"
"Yeah."
It takes longer to do what he wanted because the files on his computer are a disorganized mess. I don't know how long he planned on hiring me for, but I end up writing a list of other things that need to be done.
"Yo," I hear, and then a bang.
A piece of paper is being held up against the window of Mark's office with black and white comic strip gracing the page.
Cameron.
For a split second, I actually consider hiding under the desk, but I'm too late. He's already looking into the office, his hand still pressed up against the glass. His eyes go wide. "What—" His voice cracks.
Clearing it, he removes the sheet off the window and steps into the room. "What are you doing here?"
"Mark—" That's all I can get out. Holy crud bucket he looks good. He removes his cap and runs a hand through his hair. His stupidly, perfect, messy hair. And then it hits me—what it is that's making all the words catch in my throat. He's in his baseball uniform. I knew he played, I'd seen photos at his house, but I'd never seen it up close, in real life. Stupid baseball uniform.
"So?" he says, a smirk developing on his face. He knows I've been checking him out.
"Mark asked me for some help with some stuff so that he could get some stuff done and he said he needed help with the stuff." I bow my head in shame of the non-sentence I just dribbled.
I hear his footsteps approaching, but I don't look up. Then I smell him, the same smell I'd gotten familiar with from sleeping in his bed the last few nights.
His arm brushes against my chest, causing me to flinch. I push back from the desk. The wheels of the chair catch o
n the carpet and then I'm falling backwards...
He catches the chair just in time—his stupid smirk getting wider. Smirk face. That's what I should call him. Or smirk-the-jerk. I laugh to myself.
He looks at me like I'm crazy.
I am. Him and his stupid hair, and his stupid uniform, and his stupid smirk-the-jerk face have made me crazy.
His head tilts to the side as he leans over me, his eyes never leaving mine. Then I do something that's legit crazy.
I sniff him.
"Did you just—"
"No."
"I thought I just heard you—"
"No." I square my shoulders. "What do you want?"
He reaches over me, lifts the phone off the base and presses a few buttons. His eyebrows bunch as he takes me in, eyeing me up and down. He clears his throat, the sound repeating through the speakers of the building. "Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, please return yourself, and all your Good Vibrations, back to your office. There's a beautiful girl sitting at your desk. No need for alarm. Apparently she's just here to sniff around."
A moment later, Mark walks in. He tries to contain his smile, but it's evident he found it just as funny as I did. I don't laugh though, or even smile, because if I did... smirk-the-jerk wins.
He smacks Cam on the back of the head. "What did I tell you about using the PA system as your own personal microphone?" He winks down at me. "You want me to tell the beautiful girl at my desk about that time when you were ten and you thought you could beat-box? And how I had to upgrade the entire phone and PA system because you spit so much saliva into the receiver there was a permanent crackle in all the speakers?"
Cam's smirk disappears.
And I laugh.
All out laugh.
It completely takes over me.
I've laughed a few times since Mom died, but not like this. Not so hard that I can't control it. I hold my sides, trying to ease the pain. When I finally settle and open my eyes, Mark's gone. Cam is leaning back against the desk watching me with an emotion on his face I can't decipher. He pushes off the desk and blows out a long, heavy breath. "You make my world stop, Lucy."