“What are you talking about?” I slide off his lap back onto the couch.
“I’m talking about bein’ able to take care of you and your mama.”
“Who asked you to do that?” I snap, finding myself getting to my feet, unable to sit there calmly while he goes on about rescuing me or some shit. “I’ve been taking care of the two of us just fine. I didn’t ask you to swoop in and Pretty Woman my ass.”
“Cam,” he reaches for me, my mood finally seeming to break through his jubilance.
“No.” I jerk back so he can’t touch me. “Do you even know what you’re talking about? You think you want to throw all your money at us like we’re some kind of charity case, but what about when the novelty of the whole thing wears off? What happens if I quit my job and lay all my responsibilities on your shoulders and then you realize you can do better than a desperate porn star and his sick mother?”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t know that.” I cut him off before he can try to make a promise he might not be able to keep. “You can’t see the future and you have no idea what’s going to happen in a year, two years. Hell, I have eight years of school before I’d have my DVM, you think you want to support me for eight years when we’ve known each other less than a year?”
I’m shaking from head to toe, and in all honesty I feel like a bit of a dick as Jackson sits there, completely stunned. But the utter fear gripping me keeps me from apologizing. I’m sure he thinks he means everything he’s promising, Jackson’s far too good of a person to make false promises on purpose. But there’s no way it could all be true. Life doesn’t work that way, with some handsome, perfect man coming along to sweep you off your feet and make everything perfect.
“Cameron,” he tries again, and I shake my head, holding up my hand to stop him.
“I shouldn’t have yelled, but I’m serious about this. I’m not going to take charity from you. I’m really happy for you about your show getting renewed, but I need a little space right now. I think I’m going to go stay with my mom for the night.”
Jackson doesn’t try to say anything else as I head to my bedroom and throw a few things into my duffel bag and then head out the door.
My heart aches as I get into my car. The urge to go back inside and throw myself at his feet, beg him to forgive me and forget everything I said. God, I want it all to be true—a nice little ranch outside the city, caretakers for my mom, going back to school, and best of all, Jackson by my side for the long haul. I can see it so clearly and I fucking want it. But goddamn am I scared that it’s too good to be true. Sure, Jackson thinks I’m shiny and fun now, but soon enough he’ll realize just how famous he’s becoming and he’ll find some glamorous, rich boyfriend. I’ll only hold him back if I take what he’s offering.
By the time I get to my mom’s I’m not shaking anymore, but I’m far from calm, and I’m feeling like more of an asshole than ever. Jackson was so happy and I went ahead and shit all over it.
“Did I know you were coming by?” my mom asks in lieu of a greeting.
“No,” I sigh, flopping down on the couch beside her, suddenly feeling all of five years old because the urge to cry and say I needed my mommy is way too strong.
“Uh-oh, is something wrong?” she guesses and all I can manage is to nod my head, tears burning behind my eyes and a lump in my throat. “Do you want to talk about it?” I shrug.
Rather than pushing, she unpauses the show she was watching before I barged in, and we sit in silence for a while, watching fictional characters deal with their own problems.
“He’s getting a huge raise with his contract renewal and he thinks he can just throw all kinds of money at us, like we’re a charity case or something,” I blurt out without warning.
She pauses the show again and turns to look at me.
“I assume we’re talking about Jackson?”
“Of course. He came home talking about buying me my dream house and paying for everything you need like he’s some sort of genie granting wishes,” I grumble.
“I’m not sure I see what’s so wrong with all that.”
“I don’t need someone else taking care of me, that’s what. I’ve been taking care of the two of us just fine. It makes me feel like he thinks I’m helpless.”
“And how do you think I felt when I had to start letting my son give up on all of his dreams to take care of me?” she counters and I wince.
“That’s different,” I argue.
“I’m not so sure it is. Family takes care of each other. He does this for you now, and there may well be a time when Jackson needs you to take care of him one day, and you’ll be there for him too. It’s what you do when you love someone.”
I swallow around the thickness in my throat.
“You think Jackson loves me?”
My mom scoffs. “I have eyes, silly boy. Haven’t you noticed the way he looks at you? That poor man has been in love with you since the first time he came over here to cook for me.”
“We weren’t even together then,” I argue.
“Trust your mother on this one.”
“But what if I let him do these things for me and then he changes his mind about us?” I ask in a small voice.
“Like you said, we’re getting by just fine now. We can figure it out again if need be. But love is about trust, it’s about taking that leap and having faith the other person will be there to catch you.”
“I was an asshole to him today,” I admit.
“That’s part of love too. I’m sure he’ll forgive you. Why don’t you give it the night and in the morning you can go grovel?”
“In the morning he has a TV interview.”
“How fun, we can watch it together, then you can go home and grovel.”
“Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime.”
36
Jackson
The makeup artist, a pint-sized woman who’s an absolute master with concealer, meets my eyes in the mirror, sending me a friendly smile. "What do you think, honey?"
I turn my head to both sides to check my appearance in the mirror. It's amazing what a little makeup and some strategically placed concealer can do. If you saw me now, you'd have no idea I barely slept a wink last night. How could I, after the way Cameron left?
The makeup artist is still waiting for my answer, so I smile back at her. "That's looking mighty fine, thank you."
She nods with satisfaction, then packs up her supplies and gestures me to a waiting area where a director-style chair has my name on it.
It broke my heart, what Cameron said. Not because I think we’re over. Of course we’re not. I refuse to let that wonderful, sweet man walk out on me that easily. No, my heart broke because underneath it all, he's so darn insecure, so convinced I could do better. And I get where he's coming from, but that's not how this works. That's not how love works.
Back in high school, we learned about Greek mythology. There was this myth that explained how humans had gotten so arrogant, became so full of hubris that Zeus decided to cut them in half to teach them a lesson. After that, humans spent their whole lives trying to find their other half—literally.
And that's what Cameron is to me, my other half. I can't explain how I know, but I do. In hindsight, I think I knew from the moment I met him. My heart recognized him as my other half in some way.
So what happened yesterday is nothing but a setback. I won't deny it hurt me, seeing him be so defeatist about our relationship, about our future together. But I've said it before and I will say it again. I have time and I have patience, and both will work in my favor.
But right now, I have to focus on this show. All around me, there's busyness. Multiple people are hurrying back and forth, talking quietly into headsets, carrying coffee or furiously typing into phones. And I'm sitting here, on a chair that has my name on it, looking all spiffy and ready to perform.
I wonder if I will ever get used to this. There's something so surreal abou
t getting this much attention when I still feel like a nobody inside. But I guess that being on the biggest morning show in America means I am really past being a nobody, even if my brain and feelings haven't quite caught up with that.
"You're on in five minutes," a production assistant tells me, and I nod.
It's a great opportunity the network arranged for me here. They've procured three consecutive segments on the show, starting with me. Tomorrow, Ethan will star, and the day after will be Brenda, who plays my mom. But I guess my agent was right that I've become the biggest name on the show, which in itself is mind-boggling.
Katie is now sending me a daily digest, as she calls it, of media clippings. She neatly arranges them in files labeled positive, critical, and tabloid. The latter category, she warned me about. She compiles them, but it’s up to me whether or not I want to read them, she explained. She would keep an eye on things and promised to make me aware of anything she felt I needed to know. But she assured me it was my prerogative to ignore that category specifically.
The first few days she sent me these clippings, I read them. And good heavens, there is some unbelievable nonsense out there. And I'm not even talking about anything to do with alien babies, though I admit that made me chuckle, at least. No, it's the stories that have no factual basis whatsoever that leave me baffled. The ones where they use grainy pictures of me in a most unflattering form, taken with a zoom lens from heaven knows how far away. The whole thing is as unattractive as it can be, which perfectly matches the tone of the articles.
Three days of those, and I decided to let Katie handle that file. The positive ones are pretty sweet to read, though, if still highly surreal. Me in People magazine, come on, how insane is that? There was even a suggestion I’m a contender for “Sexiest Man Alive,” and if that’s not the biggest joke ever, I dunno what is.
The production assistant gestures at me it's showtime, and I follow her to the edge of the set. The show’s anchors are joking around with each other, laughing and at least pretending to have a good time. Then Jenni, one of the anchors, turns toward a camera and does my intro.
"Hill Country has been the breakout hit this season. If you haven't watched this engrossing drama show about a family in Texas dealing with the loss of their husband and father, start watching now. Eight episodes in, we can't stop obsessing about it. We have questions, lots of them, and let's see if the show’s new superstar can help us find some answers. We’re happy and excited to welcome Jackson Criswell to the show!"
With a steadying breath, I walk onto the set, exactly as instructed. I kiss the show’s two female anchors, Jenni and Shonna, and shake hands with the male one, Brian, then lower my frame on the high chairs they use. I've watched the show enough times to know that shorter guests have issues looking elegant on these chairs, but with my long legs, that's a problem I don't have.
"Jackson, thank you so much for being here," Jenni says.
"It's my pleasure, ma'am."
She lets out a giggle, then gently elbow-bumps Shonna. "He called me ma'am," she stage-whispers.
Shonna laughs, then turns to me. "We have to ask, your accent, is it real or did you learn it for the show?"
Katie made me practice for questions like this, which at the time I thought was ridiculous. But now I'm grateful, because I can dial up the charm just as she advised me. "Why, yes, ma'am, that's all me. I grew up in a small Texas town, so the show’s setting is like home to me."
They lob softball questions at me for a few minutes, and by the time the first commercial break arrives, I'm feeling good. But after the break, Brian turns toward me. He's known for more critical questions, especially considering this is a morning show focused more on entertainment than hard news.
"Now Jackson, it's no secret that you're gay."
Since that's not really a question, I merely nod, but on the inside, I tense up. Where is this going? This wasn't in the prep questions Katie sent me.
"And you're in a committed relationship, am I right?"
That is a question, so I have to answer. "Yes, sir."
He chuckles at me. "You know you can call me Brian, right?"
I swear I'm not doing it on purpose, being this polite. It's so ingrained that I would have to work hard not to do it. Katie says it's part of my charm and that I should stop worrying about it. That's good, because right now, I am far more worried about where Brian is going with these questions than I am about how I address him.
"My mama raised me to be polite, sir," I say, shrugging.
"Nothing wrong with good manners," Shonna says, coming to my aid.
"Earlier this month, a video was released that caused a bit of uproar for your boyfriend and his chosen career. Now, this is a morning show, so we won't get into specifics, but how do you feel about this?"
Oh, he's sneaky, that one. He knows there's a heck of a lot I can't say, what with this being broadcasted during daytime. It’s gonna be mighty tricky to deflect without getting into trouble.
"You know, Brian, I'm always a little confused about people’s reactions to his career, as you refer to it. It has such a stigma, and people are so quick to condemn it or belittle it, and I don't understand that. He works hard, he's good at what he does, it's a legal job that pays the bills, and I think we can all agree it fulfills a need. If people didn't want to watch the kind of videos he makes, he wouldn't have a job, now would he? We all know just how popular his videos are, so why yes, I do have an issue with people judging him for that. Why would you look down on people who provide something others need or want?"
Brian blinks, a subtle twitch near his eye signaling he wasn't expecting that response. I’ve managed to subtly criticize people for attacking porn without saying porn. And without really getting into the whole debate about that video.
"So you're saying you have no problem with his profession?"
Of course I do, but not for the reasons he thinks, but that's not something I can explain on national television. "I would never judge someone for working hard in any kind of legal job to pay their bills," I deftly evade the question again.
He knows it too, and so do Shonna and Jenni, who share a meaningful look. My guess is they didn’t know Brian was gonna ask a question like this.
"The pictures that were posted of the two of you certainly made you look like you’re in love," Jenni says, confirming that she's eager to change the topic to something more friendly.
The screens behind me show a picture the paparazzi took of us last week, with me and Cam walking to the farmers market, our arms around each other. We look like we’re lost in our own world, our little bubble of happiness, and I guess we were. How can I not be happy when I'm with Cam?
"That's a great photo," I admit, and I feel my mouth curl up in a goofy smile.
I don't know why, but I think of a selfie we took right after we came back from that farmers market. We'd cooked together, or rather, I had cooked for Cam with him distracting me in the kitchen. We ended up eating on the couch together, with him seated between my legs, because for some reason, we just couldn't let go of each other, and we were goofing around and kissing and being silly. I took this selfie of us, this snapshot of pure joy.
I don't even think about it, but I whip out my phone and say, "You should see the picture we took the other night."
And then I pull it up and show it to her. She takes my phone and holds it sideways, so Shonna can see it as well.
"Aw," they both say in a perfectly timed chorus. "What an incredibly sweet picture," Jenni continues, then angles my phone so a camera can capture it.
"So are you in love?" Shonna asks.
I say what's in my heart, not caring how many millions of people are watching. "He's the love of my life, the man I want to grow old with. I'm an old-fashioned guy, and I have no interest in playin’ the field, or whatever you want to call it. He's it for me, and all I want to do is marry him, buy us a home with a white picket fence, and spend the rest of our lives together."
37
Campy
My heart skids to a halt as I hear the words come out of Jackson’s mouth.
"He's the love of my life, the man I want to grow old with. I'm an old-fashioned guy, and I have no interest in playin’ the field, or whatever you want to call it. He's it for me, and all I want to do is marry him, buy us a home with a white picket fence, and spend the rest of our lives together."
“What…um…what did he just say?” I ask my mom, my mouth dry as I continue to stare dumbly at the brightly lit morning show and its hosts with their toothy grins.
“He said he’s in love with you, sweetie,” my mom answers and I shake my head, still unable to believe it.
“That’s…that can’t be what he meant.”
“And why not? I told you last night, it’s obvious he’s been in love with you for months.”
My heart races with longing. I want it to be true so badly, but I’m not sure I can believe it until I hear it from Jackson himself…in a situation that can’t be construed as a publicity stunt.
“I have to go.” I jump up and look around wildly for my shoes. “Wait, are you okay? Can I go?” I say, realizing I can’t just leave my mom.
She rolls her eyes and me and makes a weak shooing motion. “My nurse will be here in half an hour, go.”
“Okay, I love you, Mom.”
I give her a quick kiss on the cheek, finally spotting my shoes across the room and darting for them, not even bothering to put them on, simply picking them up and jogging out the door to my car.
The drive home is excruciatingly long. As Murphy’s Law would have it, I get caught up in traffic from two different fender benders, and hit every light on the way. I realize as I sprint up the steps to our apartment that Jackson may not even be home. I don’t know if he was supposed to have filming after the interview or not.
I stop outside the door, taking a second to catch my breath before putting my key in the lock and opening it.
Campy (Ballsy Boys Book 4) Page 25