At the river’s edge, three firemen are dragging a hose with a piece of machinery attached, and push it into the water. A pump of some sort. They run away from us, in their heavy equipment, and two more streams of water join the effort. I’m still idly stroking Sienna’s hair. Everything looks fake, like I’m watching a news special. Maybe it’s all just a dream. Mr. Anderson’s voice is faint in the background.
“Yes, I called in a house fire. 2241 Sunset … yes … yes, I’m on the other side of the river. I have two of the victims with me.”
Victims. It takes me a second to register that he’s talking about me.
“Yes … two teenagers. Cameron Fuller and…” Mr. Anderson is looking at me. “Cameron?”
“Sienna. Sienna Walsh.”
“Anyone else in the house?” He’s hesitant, quiet, and the question doesn’t register. I’m mesmerized as I watch the streams of water make impact. Everything I’ve ever owned is engulfed in a giant, flaming water fountain of destruction. “Cameron?”
“My parents are out of town,” I say. “Maggie’s at school.”
“Yes, just the two,” he repeats, visibly sighing in relief.
“Sienna’s phone number, son?”
I have no idea. Her cell’s in the house and I don’t even know if she has a house line. If she does, I’ve sure as hell never called it. We’re more texters.
“I don’t—” I look to Sienna, who is still sobbing, her head slumped down onto the seat.
She rattles off ten digits that are barely recognizable between her sobs, and Mr. Anderson relays them to the dispatcher.
“They’re both injured … yes … third-story jump.” He shakes his head. “One seems to be worse. Broken bones … yes … yes, I’ll meet them. I’ve got them in a boat. I can dock a ways down … one can’t walk. Okay … thank you.”
Mr. Anderson presses buttons and the phone is back at his ear. There’s a long moment of silence. “Trevor, it’s Mike Anderson. Listen, there’s been a fire. Cameron’s fine, he’s with me. Fire department’s on the scene, but it’s bad. You’ll want to head home as soon as you can. I’ll leave my phone with Cameron so you can reach him. Give him a call when you get this.” Then he hangs up. I guess it’s not a “talk to you later” kind of phone call.
Mr. Anderson hands me the phone and backs the boat away from the dock once again. We make our way down the river, pulling along the bank a safe distance from the fire. The boat is close to the bank, and I take the wheel while he fishes under the cushions, pulling a large metal anchor out. Thrusting it onto shore, he pulls it until it digs into the soft grass. Moving to the back of the boat, he does the same, the boat now pinned parallel to the shore. The water is choppier here, and as we crest each wave and slam against the shore, Sienna lets out breathy grunts.
I see the lights of an ambulance cutting across the grassy yard, closing the distance. The flames are smaller now, and from this side, I can see that most of the top level of the house has collapsed. I can see the charred stone shell of the house, the melted strips of siding along one side that used to be a dark red, and there, in the driveway—illuminated by the fire trucks—my parents’ red BMW.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
NOW
CAM
The bus is always a million degrees, especially at night. Most mornings when I wake up covered in sweat, I’m not sure if it’s just the sweltering heat, or if the nightmares are back. I’m not sure if they ever stopped. So when I wake up with something hot coiled against my legs and chest, I’m even more confused than usual. And my confusion turns to shock as I open my eyes and realize the coils of heat wrapped around me are Vee’s arms and legs. She has one arm slung over my stomach, a leg across mine. Her head is resting in the crook of my shoulder. What the hell. I must be dead, because no way is this my life.
When I brought her onstage to sing with me last night, at the very least I wanted to give her some sort of positive memory of the tour. Of our time together. I wanted to give her the push she needed to pursue her music. And I wanted her thinking about me when she left in a few days to go back to Riverton. Vee in my bed? That’s not at all what I expected.
The bus is still quiet, and no one else seems to be awake yet. I reach for the curtain, pulling it closed slowly, careful not to move her. Whatever has come over her, I know she’ll be mortified if someone finds her this way. I don’t want this moment to end with an obnoxious comment from Anders. Or with another scandalous video clip. I don’t want this moment to end at all. Even though it’s barely six and we didn’t go to bed until well after two, I can’t bring myself to go back to sleep. I don’t want to waste a single second of having her with me like this. A million reasons run through my head, explaining why she would end up in my bed: Was there some sort of family emergency? Maybe she and Logan had a falling out. Or she found a pair of Reese’s old boxers in her bed, and mine is a last resort? I can think of a thousand reasons she would end up in my bed. Not one of them has anything to do with me.
At seven o’clock I begin to stroke her arm with my fingertips. “Vee,” I whisper against her ear, “wake up.” She comes out of it slowly, nestling down into my shoulder before she fully wakes. The moment she realizes where she is, I know it. Her eyes are huge, like soccer balls. Her arm, which had lain loosely over my chest, is now rigid.
“Shit.”
I keep rubbing circles into her arm and laugh. “You got into my bed.” I shift to my side, so we’re facing each other, and slide my arm over her hip. “Can’t be mad,” I say, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, letting my hand drift behind her neck. Her body relaxes and her eyelids flutter shut again.
“I’m tired, Cam.” Her eyes are glossy and wet as she stares at me. “Hating you is exhausting.”
I run my finger across her cheekbone, trapping the tear that has escaped. “You don’t hate me.”
“I should.”
I nod. Maybe she should. We’re pressed up against each other in the tiny bunk, and I think of the two of us under a blanket, on the sand. “I’m going to kiss you.”
A barely perceptible nod, and then my lips are on hers. The kiss is soft at first, hesitant even. This feels wrong. Undeserved. Am I actually allowed to do this? She isn’t pulling away, isn’t stopping me. I can taste the salt of her tears, and I can’t help but think of our first kiss. What a different place we were in then, how different we were. And also, how similar it all is now; being with her, wanting her, loving her. We’re destined to kiss at inappropriate times. Maybe I did condition her to cry when we kiss. Maybe she always will. I don’t know if I even care, as long as there’s an always to worry about. I pull her closer to me, press us together, feel her warmth against me. I suck her lower lip, and then our tongues are meeting, twisting and tangling. Our bodies move in sync, our hips pushing, hands pulling.
Vee wraps one leg over my hips, bringing us even closer in the small space. She makes a sound like a single guitar string being plucked, a soft, tinny hum. The only thing that separates us is two thin layers of cotton and even that feels like too much, and also not enough. Being with her is like being wrapped around an exposed wire, like baring all of my raw nerves. My hand slips from her waist down to her hip, slipping under her pajama pants and resting against her warmed skin. I leave it there, letting her decide where it goes. She twists toward me, and my hand drops further, following her leg all the way down to her knee before slowly running my fingers back up. I’m waiting. This is all too good, too surreal. She’ll stop this.
She doesn’t. My hands continue to wander and explore, and our breath is loud in the small space. Her hand wraps tightly in my hair as she kisses me fiercely, roughly, like it’s the last time. Like she wants me as much as I want her. Which isn’t possible, because since I met her, I’ve wanted her more than air. The humming still fills my ears; a song, soft and low. Her lips are stilled against mine, before she captures my mouth again. The song continues, grows louder, is muffled by our mouths. It ends like it starts, with
a single note, a hum. The sound of our breathing, our chests pounding in rhythm between us. The bunk above us squeaks and Vee tenses.
I kiss her hair, letting my lips rest there, as her body begins to relax again.
Her face is pressed against my chest. “You have nightmares.”
“Yeah.”
“I usually just stay until they stop.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Most nights.” Her voice is soft, muffled by my shirt. “I must have fallen asleep.”
She’s been treating me like an inconvenience for weeks; barely speaking to me. And at night she’s been crawling into my bed. She’s been holding me. I don’t like the little seed of hope that’s growing in my chest.
I pull the covers back up around us. “So when people have nightmares your first thought is to climb into bed with them?” I’m trying to lighten the mood. “I sure hope Reese never gets lucky enough to have night terrors.” I kiss her on the forehead and she laughs against my chest. “Thank you.”
I kiss her again, because I can’t get enough of touching her and I don’t know how long it will last. How long I’ll be allowed to be near her whenever I want.
VIRGINIA
The fans are in love with “This Girl,” so at the next show—my last show before I leave for the wedding—Jenn tells me I’m going to play it with them again during a special off-camera encore. It doesn’t sound like a request; it sounds like a task. Like when she tells me to set up a promo contest, or to prep Anders for an interview, so he doesn’t sound like a mumbling idiot (her words, not mine). “This Girl” and “Purple Shirt” have become fan favorites, and the second time I go out onstage it’s still terrifying, but it’s easier.
Logan hasn’t gotten me a present since I was ten, but when he goes off-script during a radio interview to mention that he and I aren’t actually together, I know it’s an “I’m sorry,” wrapped in a box, with a bow on it. He casually mentions to the deejay that the seriousness of our relationship has been “inadvertently misconstrued,” and I wonder if Jenn prepped him, because the words don’t sound like him. The whole thing has a bit of a “friends with benefits” vibe, but I’m not about to get picky. He’s the one stepping in front of the firing squad. I wonder if people hear the underlying truth in his words: We lied; we got caught.
When they ask him about the photo of me and Cam, Logan actually does tell the truth: he doesn’t know—it’s no one’s business but mine and Cam’s. But the band and me, we’re like family, he says. It’s sort of shocking how well Logan handles the whole thing. He gave the interview this morning, and by afternoon, the clips of his statement are everywhere.
The response from fans is mixed—some think Logan’s explanation makes perfect sense. He’s perfect, they love him, and of course they knew it was lies all along. Others aren’t so trusting. They think he’s protecting me—the girl he’s still in love with. Either way, Logan has come out unscathed by the whole twisted situation, which is all that matters to me. I don’t care anymore if nameless people on the internet think I’m horrible. What do I care? By next month I’ll be old news. I just don’t want the band to suffer because I’m on tour. With everything I have to think about with Cam and me, I’m suffering enough for all of us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THEN
CAM
It’s almost midnight when my phone rings. It’s Vee’s house phone calling, and I can’t help the bubble of hope that’s rising up in my chest.
“Hey.”
“Cameron?” an unfamiliar voice says.
“Um … yeah, sorry … this is Cameron.”
“Honey, it’s Millie, have you seen Virginia?” She’s talking so fast, it’s like all of her words are running together.
“Um—she’s not here. Did she say she was here?”
“No, I was just hoping. We got some upsetting news and she left about an hour ago. Call me if you hear from her, please?”
“Sure. Of course.” The line goes dead before I can even finish. I pull on my socks and then my boots, my knit cap and gloves, my thermal shirt and polar fleece, then my ski coat. I shove an extra pair of gloves in my pocket and make my way outside.
* * *
Vee is sunken down into the snow, sitting on the wood planks of the boardwalk. She’s a purple smudge on a clean canvas. The wind is fierce, biting and cold, but I can still see her footprints. She hasn’t been out here long. I’m glad to see she has her big puffy winter coat on, but the jeans she’s wearing are already covered in a fine dusting of white. She has tennis shoes on.
“Vee?”
She waves me off like I’m bothering her. “Go away, Cam.”
“Not likely.” I bend down and scoop her up before she can fight me. Walking through the snow-filled parking lot with her in my arms like a little kid, she kicks her legs and smacks at my chest. “Stop it, Vee. It’s freezing out here. I’m taking you home.”
“I don’t want to go home.” Her words are practically a scream.
“Fine. I’ll take you to my apartment,” I say, and she nods, leaning her head against my chest and closing her eyes. Once we reach the road, I deposit her on the passenger side of my car, which is running and warm.
Inside my apartment, I set her down on her feet, unzipping her jacket and pulling it off of her shoulders and down her arms. She kicks off her snow-covered shoes. Her whole lower body is caked in snow.
She stands stiffly as I try to brush snow from her hair, but it’s melting and wet. “Go in my room. Take off your clothes and get in bed.”
“Cam—” She gives me a glaring look and I can’t help but smile.
“Get your mind out of the gutter. Grab some clothes and wrap yourself up in the covers.” I kiss her on the forehead, and after weeks without touching her, she lets me. “Call me when you’re done.” She looks at me questioningly one more time, but makes her way into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. A few minutes later I hear my name.
The covers are twisted and tucked around her, but she’s still shaking. I lie next to her, pulling her as close as I can, with the covers still between us. We lie, wrapped around each other, completely silent, until her shivering finally stops.
“You want to tell me what happened?” I say, brushing the damp hair away from her face and up onto the pillow. It’s torture being this close to her after so long. We still feel a million miles apart. “Something with your parents?”
A tiny gasp slips past her lips, and the tears follow. I kiss her head, draping a leg over her cocooned body. I wish I could absorb her. There’s no getting close enough.
“Nonni…” Vee lets out a jagged breath. “She had a st-stroke. It’s really bad.”
My stomach clenches, then drops, like one of those free-fall amusement park rides.
“I should have seen her more. I’ve been horrible. I mean, what—what if this is it?” She sucks in a long breath. “What if I don’t get to fix it?” She sobs and shakes against me and I hold her tighter. I’m not sure if it’s for her benefit or mine. “She’ll be fine. Right? She’ll be fine … she’s tough. Nonni’s the toughest old lady I know.” She’s rambling, like she needs to convince me it’s true, so she can believe it herself. Maybe she does.
I should say something. I should tell her it’s all going to be okay. Of course Nonni will be fine. Not to worry. I know I should say it, but I can’t. Even with my nose pressed up to her hair, all I can smell is the flowery scent of the funeral home, like a million cheap scented candles have been burned. My ears are filled with the soft classical songs that barely break through the bustling noise of people. Say something.
I feel hands on my back, arms around my shoulders. Instead of Vee’s cold skin, I feel the cold, smooth metal of the caskets under my fingertips. The soft drop of roses on dirt, the squeak of my crutches with each step I take toward my aunt and uncle’s car. Say something. I hear the slam of car doors, smell the unfamiliar scent of a home that isn’t mine. I feel the coldness from my s
ister, who has been silent; feel the gaze of her eyes, which are filled with tears. Eyes that won’t look at me. Cold blue eyes I haven’t seen in almost a year now. Say something.
I should be comforting Vee, telling her it will be okay, but all I can think about is how bad shit like this happens all the time. People die. It happens every day, to good people. Strong, tough people. And we can’t do anything about it. It doesn’t matter how much our families love us, or how many friends we have, or if we’re rich or poor. It’s not up to us. We’re helpless. There are so many things going through my head that I know I should say, but only one thing comes out of my mouth: “I’m going to take you home.”
She struggles to turn toward me, trapped by the blankets and my arms. Her breath is warm against my face. “What?”
“You should go home.” I can see it in her eyes; the moment she realizes I don’t want her here. It’s the same moment I realize that I can’t do this. I can’t be what she needs.
“O-okay.” She slowly slips out from under the covers and for just a second it feels like déjà vu, seeing her in my St. John’s sweatshirt, a pair of my pajama pants rolled down at the waist, so they stay on her hips. She stares at the door and not me. “Let’s go.”
* * *
My phone vibrates, buzzing across the nightstand. I ignore it, letting it buzz until it finally starts ringing. LOGAN flashes across the screen. I let it ring, until it finally becomes impossible to sleep through the incessant sound.
“Hey—”
“I need you to come over here.” Logan sounds fully awake.
“It’s 1 A.M. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Love Songs & Other Lies Page 20