Inferno

fifteen | the blunder

If I wasn't focused on mediating the stifling energy between Chase and Mr. Cameron, maybe I would have noticed just how bad those burnt plasticky meatballs taste. Almond milk had already got me teetering over her edge, and now I am safely off board the vegan train.

"Did you go through those excels I sent you about our quarterly targets?" Mr. Cameron, his eyes torn between his phone and Chase, asks.

"I might have blocked you on mail, so no idea," he earns a displeasing look, a harrowed sigh, and I can just picture my mother sitting in place, the overtly pervasive fragrance of Armani replaced by Little Miss lady in the disturbing scenario.

They only exchange scavenging looks for the next few minutes, and while silence is better of the two devils, it's such that I can hear my teeth breaking down crunchy bits of the food while I force myself to eat. "So Serene's having an office in Spain, too? I never knew that."

"That's because we don't," Mr. Cameron shrugs, as if it's as obvious as the earth being round. Wait, but I thought Chase told me he'd be working in their office back in Barcelona.

Side eyeing him, feeling weight build on my chest, I reach out for the sangria in front of me. It's clean, but somehow still helping get my head all fuzzy and out of the pickle I realise I've put myself in.

Life might be bland without the ifs and if nots, but is this really worth it? "So Leia, what do you do?"

Mr. Cameron didn't enquire about anything I haven't answered a billion times, but I still feel unnecessarily jittery while spilling it out this time. "I'm a novelist and free lance content writer."

"Oh, nice. It's refreshing to hear that for once someone who didn't have a plan is actually doing something, instead of running a sob story on national television." He scoffs. "Reality tv is the up and coming fool's industry, I tell you."

I bear a smile, short of laughter as the jab hits me hard in my guts, and the virgin sangria burns my throat to a choke.

I almost believe it'll get by unnoticed until Chase intervenes. "And those who have a plan, they dig up treasures, is it? Or is that what the modern world calls gathering on PR by turning down fake lawsuits?"

Damn. Mr. Cameron laughs, the sound of it acrid and unsettling. "First prove your worth out there, then talk business with me, son. Believe it or not, I'll be waiting for that day when you can get through something more than putting down a glass of—"

"That day will never come, so you can save your precious time and mine," the beige napkin in his hands bunches into a ball before he throws it across the centre of the table. The legs of the chair screech against the floor as he pushes back on it, helping himself out. "There's pie in the fridge, you can take it along for desert." Jaw clenched, he retreats into his room, and before I watch his back disappear past the Ivory walls, I see Mr. Cameron's shadow hover over the table, flickering with the lights overhead.

"It certainly was a pleasure meeting you, Leia. I apologise on behalf of my son's temper and I wish you the energy to see past it. If there's anything past it," he adjusts the frame of his steel grey frames, briefly gazing at the gold plated Rolex on his wrist, the dial gleaming when he does so.

"It was nice meeting you too. Although, I believe, or rather I'm sure you were expecting to come to a empty house. We're sorry for that," his demeanour swindles to perplexed from stark, and without exchanging any more parting words, I grab the faux wine from the table and head inside.

I'm not sure if it's because the ice cold bottle is pushed to my chest or because I find Chase by the foot of his grand bed, holding a photo frame closer than I've seen him hold a miniature, that I feel my breaths turning shallow. "Chase," I don't think he hears me, or the depression of the memory foam mattress when I sit on his side, my feet swinging next to his trembly knees.