It Would've Been You

XI

"𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐎 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊," Miles responds to my rant, crossing his arms and standing before me. He reaches over to grab a handful of my popcorn and stuff it into his mouth. "But you could use some. . professional help, you know that, right?"

"You don't get it." I groan.

He raises an eyebrow, giving me a perplexed look. That was a dumb statement to make, he knows how this goes; he lived it.

"You don't get me," I try to correct myself, but his expression remains. "Forget it," I place the bowl of popcorn on the floor and stand up.

I don't want to leave, but this conversation isn't going in the direction I want: him agreeing with me and allowing me to skip school for the rest of the year.

"Look, all I'm saying is talk to someone. You haven't been to therapy in how many weeks?" Here goes his lecturing again. He's been doing it way too often. I roll my eyes, heading for the door but he tugs me by my shirt.

People need to stop doing that.

"You can't leave because of Ava and Ava can't go with you. I get that." He sighs, "Why don't you just tell the police about your dad?"

Is he insane?

"Miles, this isn't something that started a year ago. I've lived with this my whole life." Or that's what it feels like. I huff. I don't want to go home and I don't want to lounge around in Miles' apartment for the rest of the evening.

He waves his hand, dismissing me with a sigh, "Then do whatever you want, Morgan. It's all on you."

That was my plan, anyway.

——

I haven't heard from Cameron in over a week, and a small part of me feels guilty for not thanking him after what he did, knowing what he lost. So with nowhere else to go, I find myself walking a few blocks down to the apartment building he took me to.

I see his figure standing in the distance as I reach the top of the stairs. I'm rethinking my choices of coming here, but I've gotten this far. I make my way toward him, noticing the flicker of dim light in front of him.

"This is what you do instead of showing up at school?" I announce my presence.

"If I did, I would've probably burnt the place down." He mumbles, shifting his body slightly to block the breeze. His hand cups around the lighter and the cigarette tip, shielding the flame as he flicks the wheel again.

"An arsonist shouldn't carry a lighter." I snort, leaning against the wall.

Cameron tilts his head. The cigarette's ember brightens as he takes a drag, exhaling a stream of smoke. "And a suicidal girl shouldn't be on a roof," He replies flatly, finally turning to face me. My expression remains neutral, masking the tightening feeling in my chest from his comment.

I watch him take a seat on the ledge, and after a moment I join him.

"There goes my chance of leaving this shithole," he says, almost too quiet for me to catch.

"No one ever told you to fight him."

He huffs out a humorless laugh, "He deserved it. And it's not the first time Aiden has fucked up my life."

The more I talk to Cameron, the more I realize how much the 'group' of football players isn't much of a group at all. They hate each other. I doubt they could even be considered friends with the animosity.

I hesitate before continuing, trying to gauge his mood. "It's just one game, right? You'll recover."

"The final game and my final season. We won't be here next year, remember?" Cameron shakes his head, "And you think the recruiters care? No playtime means no offers." His tone is heavier than I expected like there's more to this than football.

"Can't your parents just talk to someone?"

"My mom?" he replies bluntly, the cigarette in his hand glowing faintly in the dark. He looks down over the city but doesn't focus on anything. "She's too busy playing house with my step-dad to bother."

I tilt my head, curious despite myself. "She doesn't care?"

"She pretends to. She's good at that." he snorts, "Acts like she's still in her twenties and treats me like I'm her best friend."

"That's. ." My voice trails off, unable to find the right word to use.

"You have no idea." He flicks the ash off of his cigarette in growing frustration. "She used to be different. Before. Back when it was just me, her, and my dad." Cameron's body stiffens as he speaks like he's fighting the memories coming to him.

"She ruined him," he continues, his jaw tight. "They were in love, or that's what I thought. Then she cheats on him, leaves him for my stepdad, and now she acts like none of it ever happened. My dad was—" He cuts himself off, clenching his jaw. "He deserved better."

I don't say anything, purely out of shock that he's telling me—of all people—this information.

Cameron's lips press into a thin line. "He's in North Carolina now, remarried. He's happy, I guess. Good for him."

"You miss him," I say softly.

"Yeah, I miss him," He looks at me, running a hand through his hair. "He was the only one who gave a shit about me."

I don't know what to say to that. Instead, I shift the focus. "So the scholarship is for him?"

Cameron nods, his expression distant. "He always wanted me to play college football. Thought I'd prove him right, show him I'm not just wasting my life."

"But you've surrounded yourself with a group of assholes who like to terrorize everyone around them?" My internal thoughts make their way out of my mouth before I realize it.

"Unfortunately."

"But no one actually cares about you, you know that, right?" He mutters, "They tease you because you allow them to."

"I allow them to?" My eyes narrow at him, "I don't pay attention to any of you, yet my name is always in your mouth." I'm going through enough to waste time worrying about a group of boys I won't see again after graduation. But that's why I'm so easy to pick on.

It's a game.

Continuously target the girl with problems; there's a fifty-fifty chance she may kill herself over it. I know that they'd all get away with it too. The parents would cover up my death and they'd go on to live their lives scot-free while I rot six feet under.

He scoffs, "I like your name, maybe that's why I say it so often."

"Was that the whole point?" I ask, "To get all vulnerable and play it off with meaningless flirting?"

"I wouldn't say it this much if I didn't mean it," He ignores my claim, toying with the cigarette between his fingers. He brings it to his lips before passing it to me, "Can't you take compliments, or do you just not take mine?"

"I wouldn't take anything from you," I contradict myself by taking a puff from his cigarette.

Cameron's expression shifts, but it's unreadable, "Do you hate me as much as you say?"

"I do."

His lips curl into a small smirk.

I don't know if he thinks that would've changed, but it didn't. I still find him extremely irritating, and he should know this. I look away from him, watching the traffic move ever so slowly beneath us. His eyes are on me. I feel nails against my face, almost as if his gaze is piercing my skin.

The thought of him analyzing me is raising my anxiety.

Our shoulders touch when I hand the cigarette back to him.

"What?" I shift a little, avoiding his eyes. Cameron does this all the time. That stare. I hate how intense it is. When he looks at me for too long, it seems like he's reading me: every thought in my brain, every emotion I try to suppress.

He's probably going to make a snarky remark like he usually does.

He's probably going to comment on the lack of make-up I'm wearing.

He's probably going to. .

. .kiss me?