Beside

47 - celestial

"Fox, where's your lunch?"

"I think Faro forgot today. He was crying last night a lot."

"Here, my lunchbox is magic. It always has enough."

"Oh. Thanks. Can we give the cheese and crackers to Gwen? He probably forgot hers too."

"Yes. And the apple. She can have that too."

ｃｈｒｉｓ

The morning air is crisp, a clean slate. Cam drives us through the city, chatting about how awesome Noah's speech was and how nice it was that we came to support him. It's been nearly ten days but she's still on about it. I love the way she loves.

It's all a crisp, clean slate, so I try not to dwell on the scent of my skin, how I smell him—always him—no matter how many lavender candles I light, or shower gels I buy.

"Switch." Cam hands me the sweet potato fries we picked up for brunch. I give back the chicken nuggets. "Don't give him any more."

I pout at the terrier in my lap. "But he wants one."

"He's too old. Too wheezy. I'm worried about his enlarged heart."

"His heart's enlarged?"

"Probably," Cam says around a mouthful of fries. She moans, gripping the wheel. "Fuck these are good."

I offer Charlie a pet in consolation. "Sorry, buddy. You're officially off nuggets."

He huffs, big brown eyes turning mournful, but he's too relaxed in my lap to put up much protest. I wrap an arm around him as I eat nuggets myself. It tastes nothing like chicken, that's for sure.

"I'm stress eating, Chris. Noah's leaving. I don't want him to go." She shakes her head, correcting to, "I do want him to go, I just don't want him to be away." She looks at me. "You know?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry we can't go with him."

"Same," she mutters. "Sounds pretty cool, actually."

After we've polished off the junk food, Cam flicks the turn signal as we pull into Waterman Avenue Townhome Complex. The vehicle slows to a crawl as we weave through the maze of grey units.

"83," I tell Cam. She nods, eyeing the numbers as we go along.

It's strange—Cam seeing this. It's still nothing like the penthouse. These places here are tight, small boxes, pressed together and painted with varying shades of exhaustion.

Cam pulls up to 83, yanking the parking brake in Noah's Bronco. He lent it to us for the day, which was nice.

Cam's eyes linger on the boarded-up windows next door and the peeling paint on the townhomes. I see a flicker of something in her expression—it looks like disapproval, but it feels more like concern.

I try to recall what I know of the bonfire night—I wasn't awake for most of it. Walker's bravado clashed with Cam's fierce loyalty. The arm-wrestling match, Walker's win, and the way Cam snapped at him for an offhand comment about police. About Faro. I hope the tension between them has dissipated.

"Walker's been fixing it up their place," I say, shifting in my seat. "Whit says he's always trying to make it feel like home." Maybe that will help.

Cam just steps out, straightening the hood of her bubble-gum pink sweater. She shuts the door and I follow suit, carrying Charlie. As we walk up, Cam ties back all her curls into a big poofy knot and steals the dog from me, aggressively kissing his face.