Look at You

Chapter 55

55

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. I force my cheeks up into a smile, but it's so frightening—the dark circles, the bloodshot eyes—I almost gag. I let my mouth droop and then flick off the bathroom light, watching the grim sight of my features disappearing into darkness.

I head into the living room and sling my backpack over my shoulder and take a deep breath out as I reach for the apartment's door handle. My thoughts are suddenly back on Cam, his fingers gripping mine so tightly Saturday morning. He had driven off before I could even make a move to turn back toward the house. So fast, like he'd been waiting for an out all along.

I don't blame him, of course. I play a game in my head.

Was it my stubbornness? The wheel in my head spins—lands on another tile. This one is my inability to admit that I had gone too far. Punished him too much. Came back to him too late. After all, I had forgiven him in hours. Spin again, and you'll find it was my obvious failure to give him any sort of validation, any sort of emotion other than sarcastic, stubborn asshole because apparently, Jay never taught me how to say how I feel. The last spin is a big red slice. In glaring horror movie font, it tells me he knew you'd never be enough.

The game show ends and I'm suddenly back at my house. Saturday. I had stumbled up the front porch steps and into the kitchen. Jay's voice echoed around me—something about dinner plans—and I was having trouble standing up.

"Hey, why'd you shoo Cam outta here so fast?" I grabbed the edge of the kitchen island, frantically blinking my eyes. I couldn't see.

"Simon?" It was Elizabeth, but distant. Coming from somewhere down the hallway, I imagined.

"Yeah hun, where's Cam?" Mom. She didn't wait for me to respond. She resumed her conversation with dad and started moving in the opposite direction like she couldn't see that I was having trouble existing in my own body.

"Simon!"

And then someone was running, and it must have been Elizabeth, because all I could feel when she scooped me up was the space between us where I couldn't pull her flush against my chest.

I lock the front door on my way out and descend the same tread-worn stairs down to the sidewalk that I do every day. Every day, with each step a memory surfaces of Cam—pushing me against the wall on the third step from the top, grabbing my hips on the fifth from the bottom. I never know which one will come, but it's always sickening. I bolt for the vestibule and take my first breath of fresh air when I'm safely outside it.

I slept for a grand total of fifty minutes last night and the night before, so I head toward Buzz instead of the space my Rover takes up in the apartment's garage spot.

I'm busy texting Callie for her drink order (she'd forgiven me for yelling at her, or maybe it was that I'd forgiven her for kissing Cam), so I don't see that the person holding open the door to the coffee shop is the single cause of my terrible sleep score. Well, him and my unborn nephew. And the two hundred thousand dollars I'm putting into a college fund today. 

"Thanks so much," I say before looking up from my message. It's when I see those trademark work boots that my heart drops. I'm sure my face does too. Because when I meet Cam in the eyes, he gives me a half smile. It's ok, it says. I used to love how well we could read each other.

Now, I hate it.

"Course," he mumbles under his breath, quickly taking his hand off the glass and pressing forward to the barista waiting for him at the counter. I slip inside after him, but I can't even get a good enough look at him. Is he exhausted? Are his dreams full of my face? Is that relief, in the way he's standing—one hip higher than the other—or is it like me, with my hands in my back pocket feigning nonchalance when all I really want to do is grab him and never let him go?

I dig my AirPods out from my jeans just so I don't have to hear him schmooze the barista (thankfully, it isn't Kayleigh) and wait three paces behind him. He doesn't acknowledge me when he takes his latte to the lid station by the door.

I pull out one headphone and step up to the counter. My heart is beating stupidly fast. I hate being nervous. It isn't in my DNA.

"Large black coffee," I say, practicing my terrifying Joker smile. After I say it, I realize it's already in front of me. The barista nods toward the steaming cup, grinning.

I turn around to catch Cam's eye, but the door is already swinging, and he's gone. I turn back around. I don't know this barista. She doesn't know my drink. "Did he—" My eyes drift over my shoulder again.

She pushes the coffee toward me. "Yup. You're all set."

For some reason, this makes me fall in love with him all over again.

__

"Ok, I know I said I didn't want anything from Buzz but in the spirit of communication, I expected like a little treat." I can't even look at Callie. I'm sick to my stomach. "Like a little treat." I power on my computer. "Si?" I shake my head. "Oh boy."

It must be the sunken eyes—or maybe just my general aura of misery—but she doesn't pull me into the conference room. She doesn't say another word all day, and neither do I. I'm not hungry, I've had my coffee, and I've recently invested in a 40-ounce water bottle, so I could sit here all day without moving.

When I decide to shut my computer down around 5:15 and head home, she finally reaches a hand out and grabs my arm. Her head is tilted. It's the first time today I'm noticing the tangerine-colored dress she has on. It lights her up.

"Can I come over?"

I pause my exit pursuit and try to consider it, but in truth, the only thing I've wanted to do since I stepped into work is go home and cry. And she can call me her best friend all she wants, but I know Callie. She won't have a single ounce of sympathy for me, not after the way I've been acting. Besides—I've seen Cameron's name pop up on her phone at least once a day for the past week. No shot.

I shake my head, then make my way toward the elevators.

__

Tuesday is more of the same. It's Wednesday when I break down. This time, when Callie asks me if I'm okay in the elevators on the way down from the office, I shake my head. "No." It's the first time I've spoken in hours.

She doesn't say anything. She loops her arm through mine and doesn't let me go until she's opening up the passenger side door to the Rover. When we're both safely inside, she says, "Okay. Let it out."

I turn and look at her like the guilty mess I am. Because she knows I've done this to myself. I know I've done this to myself. But here I am, acting like a kicked puppy.

"Oh Simon," her fingers wrap around my forearm. "I'm your best friend. I'm always on your side. Even when you're an absolute idiot and I don't agree with you for a second, I'm going to sit here in your car and cry with you if that's what you want. Or I'll sit with you over a bottle of wine and Mamma Mia for as many nights as it takes for you to get over him."

I'm looking at the midnight blue of her nails. "And what if I just want him back?"

She doesn't say anything, so I look up. Her eyes are on fire. "Then we get him back."