by Leen Elle
Cameron let his eyes fall on the flowers for a millisecond before turning them back to the cases of beer sitting in the refrigerators. He nodded again. "Yeah. They'll look nice."
Imogen tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and giggled. "I'm sorry. This is boring for you. What man cares about flowers?"
Cameron started tapping out a new rhythm with his toes.
"My ankle's better." Imogen stuck her foot out and moved it this way and that. "I'm wearing heels again," she said, pointing to the strappy wedges she wore. "I visited a doctor, just to be sure. He said that my ankle was healing fine. I told him the whole story and he told me I should be more careful. I've started taking his advice, you know. You're not going to throw me to the ground again, are you?" Her eyes glittered playfully as she teased.
Cameron shook his head. "No. Scout's honor. You said you went to the doctor?"
She nodded.
Drat. Cameron felt the heavy guilt settling in his stomach again. "Look, if you send me the bill I can pay for it. Least I can do…" he trailed off and shrugged his shoulders. He felt bad; he hadn't meant to land her in the hospital.
The smile on Imogen's face spread from ear-to-ear. "Oh, Cameron. You don't have to worry about that. My insurance covered it. How nice of you to offer, though."
He nodded. "Well---"
"Are you hungry?"
He was about to say no but his stomach gave him away, growling right as the words left her mouth. Cameron could have punched something.
"Ah!" Imogen interjected when Cameron opened his mouth. Her pointer finger faced him accusingly, as if she were a judge and he the condemned criminal. "You are."
Her smile was one of decided triumph.
"How about you come over to my place? I make a killer sandwich. Plus I have these pretty flowers. You can't turn down a sandwich and pretty flowers, right?"
Cameron tried to smile but it looked more like a wince. "Geeze, Imogen, that's really nice and everything but I…"
"It's not a date. Would you calm down? It's just a sandwich for crying out loud. Plus, I mean, it's the least I could do since you've been so nice to me and all."
Nice? This girl was either blind or stupid. Cameron's eyebrows furrowed. "Imogen, I twisted your ankle. Shouldn't I be the one buying you lunch?"
It was difficult to follow this girl's logic. She was all over the place. He felt as if she were a labyrinth maze he was caught and lost in. Once he thought he'd found a way out, he'd hit a wall or figure out that he was just traveling in circles.
Imogen laughed and fiddled with her dangling earring. "It doesn't matter that much, does it? Anyway, I…" she shrugged. "I don't have any friends so no one's been to my apartment or anything. I just thought it would be nice to have some company."
Shit. Cameron could see the trap being laid out in front of him and he knew it would be near impossible to side-step it. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone to himself but he couldn't find it in his heart to completely reject her. The offer was nice and he could see that she was being genuine, but as cruel as it sounded he wasn't sure he wanted the privilege of being her only friend. Being the center of someone's attention scared him and threatened his independence.
"It's really nice of you, Imogen but there's a game on and I've got to get my food to the apartment before it spoils and---"
Her smile fell for the first time and she hung her head, her attention focused on the bouquet of flowers lying in her basket. They looked so pitiful and lonely.
Cameron threw his head back and prayed to God that what he was about to do was not going to come back and bite him later on. Gritting his teeth and grasping the shopping cart until his knuckles were white, he braced himself.
"Why don't you come back to my apartment, then? We can make lunch and you can maybe stick around for the game if you want. You're not buying any perishables, are you?"
Imogen didn't have many things in her cart and she shook her head. "Nope, none, actually."
"Okay. The bus stop is right at the end of the street so we won't have to walk. Are you ready?"
She smiled and swung her shopping cart toward the check out line. "Yes, I'm ready."
Cameron motioned for her to proceed in front of him. As he followed her to the check-out counter he mentally ran over the past few minutes in his head, wondering at how he became so masochistic in the last three weeks. It would have been so easy to decline. So, so easy. Yet that stupid conscious of his was getting him into trouble again and he wished that little angel on his shoulder would shut up sometimes and let the devil speak for once.
He vowed that this was the last time. The last time. No more being Mr. Nice Guy, he promised himself. It was exhausting, being a humanitarian of sorts. He didn't understand how so many people did it every day. People with many friends and acquaintances baffled him.
He just hoped Imogen was right about her killer sandwiches, because it seemed as if that was the only good thing that might come of this.
* * * *
His apartment looked cleaner than it did when she was first there. The dishes were washed, the floors swept, and it even looked as if some dusting had been done.
Impressive, Imogen thought, smiling to herself. Cameron came in after her, the sound of shuffling feet and the rustling of plastic bags filling the air around them. He grunted as he lifted his groceries onto the counter. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and pointed at her as he started to take his things from the bags.
"You can set those on the table or… anywhere," he panted. Imogen set her two bags on the table and took out the flowers.
"Do you have a vase or something I can put these in? I don't want them dying."
Cameron raised an eyebrow. "A vase? Is that a real question?" he asked as he loaded the cottage cheese, sour cream, and milk into his open refrigerator. "No, I don't have a vase. This is not Casa de Martha Stewart. I'm a single man, not a homemaker."
Imgoen made a face and held her hands up. "Point taken. No vase, okay. Do you have a large cup, then?"
Cameron moved to the cupboard and grabbed a large plastic cup and set it on the counter next to the sink. The movement was quick and fluid and then he was back to unloading his groceries. The beer went in next.
She grabbed the cup and filled it halfway with water before transferring it to the table, where she unwrapped the flowers and placed them in the temporary vase, moving the flowers around delicately with her fingers. She stepped back with her hands on her hips and surveyed her work, smiling. Behind her were clanging sounds as food was moved around in the fridge.
"There," she said in triumph. "They look fantastic." She turned toward Cameron, who was taking the last of the items out of his plastic bags. "Don't they?" She asked.
He didn't glance up but he nodded.
"You should think about buying flowers more often, Cameron. They brighten the place up so nicely."
"I am not having this conversation again, Imogen. This is not a woman's apartment, this is a man's apartment." He closed the refrigerator door with his foot and it slammed. Cold air hit the side of his body and ruffled his hair. "Men do not own vases and they do not put flowers on the table or by the bed or in the windowsill or wherever the hell you're supposed to put flowers, okay. We don't care what they smell like or how they make our places feel or look. We're only concerned with flowers when we're trying to make up with our girlfriends or when we're at a funeral, alright?"
Imogen shook her head and gave him a sideways smile. "You really need to get out more, Cameron. There is nothing wrong with flowers."
He scoffed.
"Well fine," she said. "You don't have to like them anyway. They're mine and I like them and I think that they look nice."
Cameron looked at the LED clock on his microwave. It was only three o'clock. He wondered how long she was planning on staying here but he was already counting down the milliseconds. Only another billion to go.
Imogen stood against the table with her hands folded in front o
f her, watching Cameron move around the kitchen, putting away the last of his items. When he was done she looked at him with a question on her face and, without hesitating, he answered it.
"Plates." He pointed to the cupboard which held the plates. "Cutlery, cups, bread, condiments, Et. Cetera." Imogen made note of where he kept everything and she started on making lunch while Cameron grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to his sofa.
She was amazed at how little time it took for Cameron to become immersed in the television. It was as if he had gone blind and deaf to the world around him. She wondered if he would even jump if she snuck up behind him and screamed in his ear. A large part of her was tempted to try this out as an experiment, but she refrained.
"Nice day outside, isn't it?" She said.
His response was something muffled. Not even a nod of his head.
"Are days like this typical of the Chicago spring season?"
Now she got a nod out of him, but no vocal answer.
"What time is the game on?" she asked.
Cameron rolled his eyes. "Did I sign up for a game of Twenty Questions with you or something? Yes, it's a nice day and before you ask, no, I don't care to spend it outside. Yes, this is how spring is in Chicago most of the time and for the love of God, the game is on right now so I'd appreciate some quiet."
He'd done it. Imogen stood in the kitchen, unmoving. She was stunned and she felt a displeasing sensation throughout her entire body. It was the sensation of being disliked, that nagging sensation that maybe she was being annoying.
Cameron went back to watching the television, but was unable to enjoy it. The silence from Imogen rang heavy in the apartment and he dropped his head and groaned.
You dick.
It was Cameron's turn to roll his eyes at the voice of his subconscious, which had taken to repeating the word "dick" in a nee-neer-nee-nerr-nee-nerr tune loudly in his head.
He turned from his seat on the couch so that he could see her where she stood in the kitchen. She didn't look too noticeably different, but it was clear that her mood had shifted. Guilt for barking at her finally took over and he murmured, "I'm sorry."
She looked at him as she placed a slice of cheese on either sandwich and gave him a half-hearted smile before returning her attention back to preparing the food.
A few minutes later she announced that lunch was finished and he joined her, to her surprise, at the kitchen table. There wasn't much conversation and even though Cameron would have claimed that he at least attempted to be attentive to Imogen, a large portion of his interest was on the baseball game. His team- the Chicago Cubs- was losing to the Cincinnati Reds. Currently the score was 2:1 and it was only the bottom of the first inning.
Imogen tried to be interested, for Cameron's sake, the way she tried to be interested when her father would watch the games when she was a child. She marveled at this phenomenon, that a mere game could be all entrancing. There was an entire ritual around it, something her father engaged in multiple times, she remembered. There were huge parties for games, complete with massive amounts of alcohol, nachos, and, of course, tons of meat.
Occasionally she would jump when Cameron would shout something at the TV and she only hoped that he didn't see her. By the end of the game he was practically raving, mumbling profanities to himself and otherwise in a more surly mood than he was earlier that day.
Sitting on the couch, with his back facing her, one long arm stretched across the top of the cushions and a beer in his other hand, Cameron reminded Imogen of her father. She couldn't help but smile. Then she realized how much she missed him.
Days here were hard at times. She was so far removed from everything that she knew and loved, everything that she grew up around. But this place was also far, far away from the disaster, from the memories, from the pain and heartache at every corner, and so it became for her a sort of haven: she moved to Chicago to start a new life for herself and she was succeeding at it. Just last week she landed a job at a small, family owned bookshop as a desk clerk. Her earnings from that plus the money her parents left her was enough for a comfortable existence, for which she was extremely grateful. Every morning she woke up and smiled at the sun shining through the blinds in her bedroom and counted her blessings.
It was the nights that were the worst, though. Enough time had passed for her not to cry every single night, but there wasn't one day that she didn't think about her parents or the rest of her family and friends or the things she left back in Louisiana. She vowed to herself that she was going to stay strong and so far she was true to her promise, but she was only human. Sometimes she needed a release, too.
"Damn it," Cameron growled, using the remote to turn off the TV.
"I'm sorry your team lost," Imogen said.
He shook his head at her and made a large gesture with his arm. "Eh," he replied. They stood awkwardly. Imogen stood at the counter contemplating how she should leave.
"I'm surprised you stayed the whole time. You didn't have to." Cameron said as he walked to the kitchen to do away with his empty beer bottles.
"I know."
"So why did you?"
Imogen shrugged. "I thought you invited me."
Cameron laughed, somewhat darkly. "Yeah but you didn't have to stay if you didn't want to. I wouldn't have minded."
What he really meant to say was, "I kind of wish you would have left."
"I didn't want to be rude."
Game. Set. Match.
Cameron felt a sting in his gut. She nailed him, and it hurt. He watched her with his mouth half-opened as she turned and gathered up her grocery bags and her flowers.
"Thank you for inviting me over," she said. This time she was sincere, and the smile on her face showed it. "I might not have been that interested in the game but it did sort of bring back a few nice memories."
Cameron ground his teeth together instead of answering her and Imogen moved to the door; as she attempted to open it he stopped her.
"You left a bracelet here last time. I'll go get it."
This time she hadn't been invited but she let her things fall carefully from her hands, following him then down the hallway to his den. It was still just as messy and disorganized as she remembered it. Shadows and light fell in awkward angles from the windows because the horizontal blinds were bent and broken in spots. Imogen could see the dust moats floating lazily in the air, rising up, up, up or falling down, down, down. She wished somehow she could join them. What would it be like to be so small and weightless, she asked herself. She wanted to move in that ever-changing sea of air, to ride its waves; she would be free to go wherever she wanted, to land anywhere she wanted…
The scratching noise of the bracelet against the desktop brought her back to reality.
"Here."
"Thank you."
Their fingertips brushed briefly in this exchange. Cameron noticed how warm hers were. Imogen noticed how cold his were.
She undid the clasp and put the bracelet on, letting her arm drop back down and feeling its weight around her wrist.
Cameron pursed his lips and took a deep breath.
"Can I just ask one more question?"
His raised eyebrow told her to go ahead.
She swallowed hard and moved to the bookshelf. Cameron moved so that their bodies wouldn't collide in some small way again. He didn't like the spark of energy she passed through him. It reminded him that she was twice as much alive as he was. For as long as he could remember he practically ran on Auto-Pilot.
The question she wanted to ask him never came. She stood at the bookshelf, letting her eyes roam slowly over every last book. Her fingertips followed. There was a clean line against their covers where her fingers brushed away the dirt and dust. She picked one from his collection: that old, brown monstrosity she was so curious about before. She opened up the pages and took a deep breath, closing her eyes for one fleeting moment before letting her hand trail across the length of the first page. She read something and a smirk cros
sed her lips. Then she turned the page over and did the same.
Cameron stood against his desk with his arms folded across his chest and curls falling into his eyes as he watched her.
Still. Everything was still. Only the steady sound of their breathing and blaring car horns four stories below was audible.
She took another deep breath and placed the book back in its place, but her gaze never moved from it.
It was an oppressively hot day. Sweltering, even. I remember watching the heat waves rise up from the black concrete of the street where we lived, rows of quaint little houses with tiny yards scattered evenly up and down the block; it was a new housing tract, and your mother and I just moved in. I was about to take a sip of my lemonade, the cold beads of condensation sliding down the length of the glass one by one, creating a puddle around its bottom ring. That's when I heard her scream my name. And that's when I knew, very soon, that I was going to meet you for the first time.
"What?"
Imogen turned suddenly. Cameron's face was painted with an irritated scowl, his question barked like a demand.
She hadn't realized she spoke aloud.
She shook her head, resting her chin on the knuckles of her right hand. "Nothing," she sighed, her eyes stopping on a buzzing bee outside the window to her right. "It's the story of how I was born. My dad used to tell it to me over and over again, because it was my favorite story in the world to hear. I didn't care about a magical princess overcoming a jealous queen. I cared about the story of my family, the story of our origins."
For a moment Cameron held his tongue and Imogen thought for one second that maybe he was human after all; his lack of snarky commentary was all the proof she needed. But Imogen thought too soon.
He scoffed. "Bit egotistical, no?" He turned away from her, sitting in a chair and hunching over his desk.
"How?" Imogen demanded, whipping her head in his direction.
Cameron's broad shoulders rose and fell in a half-hearted shrug and he turned his face so that she saw half of his profile. "I don't know. Think about it. Most kids love hearing all that fantastical fairy-tale crap, but not you." He chuckled darkly. "Oh, no, not you. You'd rather make your father recount for you over and over the story about how you were born, the story about how you changed your parents' lives. You don't think that's egoism at its height, Imogen? Hearing all about yourself and how great you are? Give me a break."