Look at You

Chapter 49

49

"Do you know how to tap up a keg?"

"Uh, hello."

She scoffs. "Hi Cam," she pushes on my chest, forcing me back down into my seat. I had stood up when she arrived—the lowly gentleman breathing the same Channel Number 5 infested oxygen as the iconic Louis Vuitton tote bag. Apparently, chivalry is dead.

Her eyes stare at me unblinking as she settles in across from me. "So do you?"

I take a sip of my Buzz—not in a to go cup for once—and nod. "Tap. Not tap up. And yes. I've done my fair share."

A weight physically lifts off Callie's shoulders. She eases out a long sigh. "Thank god." She reaches for the cinnamon latte she's asked me to order and gulps it down feverously. "I can't bring this into the office. He'll know we're speaking."

I laugh, despite how the comment feels like gut punch. I wonder if he is why she's called this morning meeting, or if it was really just about the keg. Both, maybe. "It's just Buzz, Callie. It doesn't have to be from me."

"Yeah, but he'll ask why I didn't get him some, then I'll have to lie, or tell the truth and either way he'd know you were involved. I swear he has a Cam scent detector."

I don't answer.

Shockingly, Callie is content to sit in our morning coffee silence for a few minutes longer than I gave her credit for. Eventually she says, "He looks shittier than you do."

I take it she's noticed the bags under my eyes, or maybe the Sox hat that's back on my head like it's a part of me again. I was beginning to avoid grabbing it in the morning.

I can't sleep, hell I can't fucking breathe without thinking about him. What he's doing after work, how the apartment looks, if that one bug on the site finally got resolved. He's been working on it for ages.

"Does he?" My voice is small. I hate how validating it is to hear that he's fracturing just as much—more, maybe—than I am. It makes my stomach a guilty mess.

"I won't say more," she says, dragging her now half-full cup across the table we're sitting at. "But I'm trying my best with him. I am, Cam."

"Thank you," I say, even though I'm not sure what she means.

"Anyway," she straightens up, tossing a piece of her glowing black hair over her shoulder. "I'm having a party this evening. 7 p.m. sharp."

I wince. "Kinda early, no?"

"No."

Either way, this doesn't feel like a good idea. Not until Si and I talk.

"I don't know Cal, Simon--"

"I don't want to hear excuses. You'll be there. I already bought you kombucha and seltzer."

"Wow." It takes something very important to bring me to any true sense of the term choked up, but for some reason, I can barely swallow. And the woman is talking about kombucha. I don't even drink kombucha. "Thanks." It's all I can say, and the small tilt of her head tells me she knows.

She stands up and squeezes my shoulder. "Okay love. I'll see you later." I nod. The coffee mug across from mine is stained with her wine-colored lipstick and already empty.

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I'm the first to arrive, but I'm 30 minutes early (typical) so it's expected.