by Jiffy Kate
After dressing, I twirl in front of Tristan’s full-length mirror and admire my reflection. I finally look like a woman . . . I feel like one, too. I’m making it in a big city by myself, doing what I love, and I’m enjoying the little bit of success I’ve had. The jeans I’m wearing tonight were a gift to myself after my opening at the gallery. It’s the first pair of designer anything I’ve ever had and, although it was hard paying so much for denim, I have to admit they make my ass look good.
Tristan is getting dressed by his bed, and I admire him. His body is long and lean, even though he’s only a few inches taller than I am, and I love watching his back muscles twist and turn as he moves. He’s very graceful, meticulous with every step. We’re so different. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll stay together for very long, or if we even should. I know I’m not in love with him, but I do love him. I try not to compare him to Deacon, but there are times when I just can’t help it. I doubt any man can make me feel like Deacon did, and it’s unfair to hold others up against him.
I walk over to Tristan and wrap my arms around him from behind. He halts his movements but doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t want to fight; I just want to see my brother and have some fun. I know where we’re going isn’t your style, but can you let loose and try to enjoy yourself tonight? For me? It’s important to me.”
He takes one of my hands and pulls it to his mouth and kisses it. “Of course, I can, Camille. I’ve never seen this side of you; I’m anxious to meet your brother and see what all the fuss is about.” He laughs and turns around so he can kiss me properly, and I melt into his arms.
“Everyone loves Tucker, so I’m sure you will, too,” I assure him. To be honest, I’m incredibly nervous for Tristan and Tucker to meet. Tonight has the possibility to go really well or become a complete disaster, but I try not to worry too much.
Half an hour later, we’re in Tristan’s car headed to a side of the city we rarely venture to. I can tell Tristan isn’t happy, and it worries me that this night might not go how I’d hoped. When he’s like this, anything and everything can set him off.
I try not to let his mood get to me, and when we pull up outside of the bar, I feel the excitement bubble up inside me.
Inside, the bar is crowded, and the music is already loud. We find a table just as Tucker strums the opening chords.
It’s so great to see him on stage again. He’s such a natural at performing. I know he’s my brother, and I’m probably biased, but he’s awesome, and I think he’s got even better since the last time I saw him play live. It won’t surprise me if he makes it big one day. The amazing thing about him, though, is that he doesn’t care if he becomes a huge rock star; he just wants to play music. I admire that about him. He’s happy just to do what he loves.
Tristan won’t get on the dance floor with me, so I stand up by our table and dance there instead. I also say a silent prayer that the stick up his ass falls out one of these days. My voice is almost hoarse from yelling and singing so much, but I don’t care. Seeing Tucker up on the stage fills me with so much pride and nostalgia, and I’m having a great time. I only wish Stacey was here with me. She’d dance with me for sure.
I’m startled when I feel Tristan stand behind me; his body pressed against my back. Thinking that stick finally fell out, I lean back against him and grind my ass on his crotch. His hands grab my hips and stop their movements immediately.
“Have some class and act like a lady, Camille,” he scolds. “I’m only standing here because of the attention you’re attracting from the other men. They can’t keep their eyes off you, so I have to show them you belong to me.”
Yep, that stick is firmly in place. Good to know.
The set ends, and I see Tucker set his guitar on the stage before stepping off and heading our way. Now is not the time for a fight, but I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“Would you like for me to stretch my leg out so you can piss on it and mark me properly?”
“You’re such a child, Camille. I can’t believe I agreed to come here tonight. I knew it was a mistake.”
“You’re free to leave any time you want, Tristan. Contrary to your opinion of me, I’m a big girl and can get home on my own.”
Before he can respond, Tucker makes his way to us and grabs me, picking me up and spinning us around until I’m threatening to throw up on him.
“Hey, little sis! Havin’ fun?” Tucker is sweaty and gross, but he’s truly a sight for my homesick eyes.
“Of course, I am. You and the band sound great tonight. The crowd loves y’all, too,” I say.
A throat clears beside me, and I’m reminded that I’m not alone, even though a part of me wishes I were. It would be nice just to hang out with Tucker like old times, without the judgmental glare of Tristan. “Tucker, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Tristan Harding.” I place my hand on Tristan’s arm. “Tristan, this is my brother, Tucker.”
“Nice to meet ya, Tristan,” Tucker says, shaking his hand. “I need a beer. Y’all want one?”
“A red wine?” Tristan counters, causing Tucker to bark out a harsh laugh.
“Dude, look around,” Tucker says, gesturing to the rough interior and dim lights. Lit up beer signs litter the walls. “Even if they did have wine, I’d advise you not to drink it.”
“Right,” Tristan says, his voice taking on a strong better-than-you vibe that I’ve heard from him a time or two, but I don’t like it. I hate it.
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to tell him without words to stop acting like a pretentious prick.
“I’ll just have a sparkling water, then,” he says as he slides back into a chair at the table.
Tucker looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Are you kidding me?” he mouths from behind Tristan.
I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Two waters,” I tell Tucker, pleading with every ounce of my being for him to not . . . just not. I can’t handle a big showdown right here in the middle of the bar. This is supposed to be a fun night, and it has been, sorta, but Tucker beating up my boyfriend would be a definite turn for the worse.
“Alright, two waters, comin’ right up,” he says, leaning in to kiss my cheek and then turning toward the bar. I watch him as he walks right up, the waitresses giving him their undivided attention.
“Interesting,” Tristan mumbles from behind me.
I turn to him, daring him to say one more thing about Tucker. For once, he doesn’t say something pretentious or smart ass. He keeps his mouth shut. And I thank the Lord for small miracles.
When Tucker returns, the three of us sit at the table, and I try to find some common ground between the two of them, bringing up the fact that Tristan plays a couple of instruments.
“Oh, really,” Tucker says, leaning forward and putting forth a good effort. “What do you play?”
“I play the piano and the violin,” Tristan says, not willing to budge an inch. “I went to a private school and was professionally trained by one of the best teachers in North America. How about you?”
“Taught myself,” Tucker says proudly, tipping up his bottle of beer. “After our mama died, Cami picked up painting, and I picked up a guitar.”
“That’s interesting,” Tristan says taking a sip of his water, but the scowl on his face tells me it’s not up to snuff. When he sets the glass down, he pushes it to the middle of the table.
Is interesting his new favorite word, or has he lost the ability to converse and be a decent human being?
My insides are a jumbled mess, and I’m seriously considering telling him to take a hike, but just like always, he knows when he’s been an ass, and he starts to backtrack.
“I’ve always admired self-taught people.” He adjusts in his seat and clears his throat. “I think it says a lot about a person and also their talent.”
Tucker looks over at him, but I can tell by the squint of his eyes that he thinks Tristan is feeding him a load of shit, saying what he thinks Tucker wants to hear.
“Like, C
amille,” Tristan says smoothly. “She’s a wonderful painter, full of natural talent. A little rough around the edges, but with the right guidance, she’ll be somebody one day.” He smiles over at me, obviously pleased with himself. I’m sure he thinks he’s scored points with Tucker, but I can tell by the heated look on Tucker’s face that Tristan is failing miserably.
“I’ve gotta get ready for our second set,” Tucker says abruptly, downing the last of his beer and slamming the bottle back on the table.
“Another set?” Tristan asks.
Tucker just stares Tristan down, daring him to say another word.
“I’m going to go get the car,” Tristan says coolly. “Tucker, it was nice meeting you.”
The stare down continues as Tristan and Tucker both stand, and for a brief second I’m afraid the glares won’t be enough and fists will start flying.
“Likewise,” Tucker grits out.
“Give me a minute,” I tell Tristan without looking at him. I hear him scoot his chair back to the table with more force than necessary, and what I want to tell him is to go fuck himself and stay for the second set. But it’s late, and I’m tired of arguing with him. If I stayed, it would be a fight for sure.
“What the fuck? Cami, you can’t be serious about this guy.”
“Tucker, please don’t,” I plead, hiding my face in my hands. I had such high hopes for this night, but I should’ve seen this coming a mile away. Tristan and Tucker are nothing alike, oil and water. I should’ve known it would be a disaster. “He’s complicated, and this isn’t his scene, and it’s just been a weird night, okay?”
“Don’t make excuses for him.” He shakes his head, eyes still trained on the door Tristan walked out of.
“He’s not as bad as he seems,” I tell Tucker, trying to smooth the waters.
Finally, he lets out a pent-up breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like it.”
“You’ve never liked anyone I’ve been with,” I tell him.
“You haven’t been with many people,” he shoots back.
I huff, not wanting the night to end like this. I don’t know when I’ll see Tucker again, and I’m sure as hell not going to let an argument be how we leave things. I love my brother. He’s overbearing and overprotective, but he means well, and I know he only wants what’s best for me.
“Hey,” I tell him, grabbing his arm so he’ll look at me. “You know me. If I didn’t want to be with him, I wouldn’t.”
“The Cami I know wouldn’t want to be with him.”
I start to say more, to argue with him and try to make him see things my way, but I decide to let it go. Hopefully, the next time Tucker and Tristan meet, it’ll be better. But for tonight, I just want to cut my losses and go home.
“I love you,” I say, reaching up and giving him a hug. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I love you too,” he says, hugging me tightly back. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you need someone to kick his ass.”
Camille
Present
AS WE WALK DOWN THE long, stark white corridor, I have to remind my feet not to run. Everything in me is saying faster, quicker. I need to get to Deacon, and now that he’s in a room, I can’t get there fast enough.
When Annie’s hand touches my back and she begins to rub, I say a silent prayer that Deacon looks better than he did the last time I saw him. No mother wants or needs to see their baby, no matter how old they are, in that state.
Stopping in front of the door, Sam looks over at me, and we make eye contact for a brief moment, both of us probably praying for the same thing. I see him take a deep breath before he pushes the door open, quietly, so he doesn’t disturb Deacon.
The four of us—me, Sam, Annie, and Micah—walk in single file.
I let out a sigh of relief when I see his beautiful face. It’s soot-free and peaceful. The ventilator is still doing its job, but he looks so much better.
While Annie, Sam, and Micah stand by Deacon’s head, whispering to him through their tears and sniffles, I stay by the foot of his bed. From this vantage point, I can look over his entire body, and I take my time scanning for injuries. I don’t doubt any of the information we’ve been given by the doctor; I just want to see everything for myself.
Just like the doctor said, Deacon has a few scattered bandages on his body that, I assume, are covering his minor burns, but it’s his leg that makes my breath catch in my throat. It’s not covered by a blanket, so it’s easy to see the long strips of gauze covering the stitches he just received. All of this will heal, though, and I say a quick prayer of thanks that things didn’t turn out any worse than they are.
“Cami, we’ll let you have some time alone with Deacon. We’ll be in the waiting room when you’re done,” Sam says. I nod my head and watch them walk out of the room. Already they seem much lighter, not as burdened as they were just ten minutes ago, and I even notice a hint of a smile on Annie’s face before the door closes behind her.
I pull up a chair right next to Deacon’s head but, before I sit, I gently kiss his forehead.
“Hey, Deke,” I whisper softly. “You’re gonna be just fine; you hear me?” My voice starts to tremble, so I clear my throat. If he can hear me right now, I don’t want him to know how scared I am. I have to be strong . . . strong for both of us. “I need you to wake up, though, okay? Carter, your parents, Micah, Tucker . . . everyone who loves you, we’re all waiting for you to wake up.”
I grab his hand, sliding my fingers through his, and bring it up to my mouth so I can kiss it. I hold his hand against my cheek and revel in the feeling of his skin against mine. Feeling his strong pulse beat against my arm reassures me that he’ll wake up soon.
This is just another trial for us, another test for us to pass. Deacon was there for me during one of the darkest, hardest times of my life, and I’m more than happy to do the same for him.
Camille
Past
RESTING MY ARMS ON THE white marble countertop of Tristan’s pristine bathroom, I fill my hand with water and bring it to my mouth. It’s been five days since I threw up the first time, and I’ve dry heaved at least once a day since then. I’ve ruled out food poisoning, a twenty-four-hour bug, and the stomach flu because I’m not running a fever.
I was on WebMd yesterday but quickly closed that out. According to them, I’m dying.
After I gargle the warm water, I spit it back out into the sink and pat my mouth dry with a towel, examining my face in the mirror.
I can’t be pregnant.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
There’s just no way.
But if I am, what then?
That’s not exactly in my plan, not that I have one.
But, if I had to guess, many babies probably aren’t.
Well, I was.
My mama told me. She wanted a girl so badly; she convinced my daddy it was better to have your babies all at once, so they can grow up together. My daddy agreed because he didn’t think they’d get pregnant so fast, but they did . . . and there I was. So, see . . . I was planned, and I still surprised them.
I’ve heard Annie say time and time again over the years how babies are never a bad thing.
I think I feel the same way, but that still doesn’t mean I’m ready to have one.
I can’t be pregnant.
“Camille,” Tristan calls through the door, exasperation thick in his tone.
“Yeah,” I reply, cracking the door to talk to him.
“We’re receiving the Langley pieces today. I need you to be on time.”
“Right, I’ll be there.”
He gives me a tight smile and then turns to walk away. “If you’re still sick, you really should go see a doctor.”
“Yeah,” I reply, quietly shutting the door and turning the lock.
Bending down, I pull out the large stack of fluffy towels and reach into the back where I stash my tampons. Inside the tampon box is the small package I hid there after my trip to the
drugstore. There’s only one way to find out what kind of doctor I need. I might as well put on my big girl panties and figure it out.
Sitting down on the toilet, I read the small directions printed on the foil package, and they look pretty straight forward: open, pee, wait.
And that’s what I do.
I put the stick on the counter because I figure it’ll be better, more accurate, if it’s on an even surface. After only a few seconds, it starts to change—the white fading into a pale pink plus sign.
I grab the package out of the trash and piece it back together, my hands shaking, as I search for the picture that showed an example of what it’d look like if the test is positive.
A pink plus sign.
I look back at the stick to make sure it didn’t change, but it’s still there.
My heart is racing as I stand up. I look toward the door and then back at the stick. And then down at my stomach and then back at the stick. And then I shake the stick. I don’t know why, but I do . . . because maybe it needed more time to process, like a polaroid picture. When my hand stops moving, I look back at the teeny tiny window, and the pink plus is still there, possibly more vibrant than a few seconds ago.
Stumbling over to the mirror, I look at myself again. Or maybe for the first time. I don’t know. But my cheeks are kinda pink for someone who’s been throwing up a lot. Is that normal?
Oh, my God.
Have I eaten anything I’m not supposed to?
Have I drank anything I’m not supposed to?
Don’t I need vitamins?
I should tell someone.
I open the door and Tristan is still standing in the living room, fixing his sleeves like he does right before he leaves.
Should I tell him?
I mean, of course, I should tell him, but now?
My blood is pumping through my body so fast I feel light-headed, and I brace myself on the wall.
“Camille?” he asks, hearing me and turning around. The frown on his face could be mistaken for concern, but it’s not, it’s annoyance. I know that frown.