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I can already hear Mom saying something like, “But you’ve never dated a boy before.”
Now that the haze of last night has lifted, images of what Cam’s face would look like if he heard that are haunting my every thought this morning. I’m such a fucking idiot.
“What?” I ask, when I catch him staring at my shoulder.
Shrugging, he smirks. “Nothing. You just look really good in jeans and flannel.”
I squash the urge to react to his compliment. I was determined to confess to him this morning, but when I saw him in the restroom getting in the shower, my plan was derailed. Instead, I stepped inside with him and took my sweet time sudsing every inch of his body.
When we went to his apartment to get him a change of clothes, I was going to make a second attempt. I failed again as soon as I saw the indent in one of his couch cushions. Imagining him sitting there alone every evening under that furry throw blanket he had slung over the arm of the sofa had me drawing him into my arms and kissing the life out of him. Each kiss was a promise that he’d never have to spend another evening alone now that I have him in my life.
No distractions now, Pete. Tell him. Before you go another mile, tell him.
“I haven’t told my family that I’m…that I…”
“They don’t know about me?” he supplies.
It’s not how I was going to fill in the blank. His understanding smile has my heart cracking in half.
“No.”
“I’m not offended, Pete.” He laughs. “Why would they know about me? We’re basically at day-one. I’m honestly floored that you’re even bringing me to meet them, or…bringing me along, I mean. It’s…it’s cool that you’re letting me come along.”
His nervous articulations will never cease to be endearing. I do want him to meet my family and vice versa. They’re quirky and sometimes too much, but they’re a part of me. They’re where I came from, and although they sometimes go about it in ways that are less than comforting, they understand me.
I used to think that them knowing my past made them the people who knew most that I’m broken, but as I glance at the eagerness in Cam’s eyes to be a part of my world, I know I was wrong. He wants me, broken and all, just like they do. I think for all my complaining, I go home to feel normal. The epiphany has me holding back a bewildered laugh.
Maybe it’s my tendency to compartmentalize things, but I don’t want to imagine a future where coming home doesn’t include Cam. I guess I need safety as much as he does.
Reaching over, I give his hand a squeeze. “I do want you to meet them. Just…maybe we shouldn’t mention anything yet.”
It’s a copout. I’ve failed yet again.
“Of course. I understand. Believe me. You know who my family is.” His humorless laugh as he glances out his window holds a weight that I wish I could free him of. How in the hell can I drop my bomb on him when he already has to deal with being related to the Fairways?
“Your family—are they accepting of you?” he ventures, looking back over at me.
“Yes. Completely.”
“Really?” His face brightens, looking relieved.
Was he expecting my family to think I’m a nuisance because of my OCD? They’re more than accepting of my needs, sometimes too accepting. Even Jesse. He limits his stupid ribbing to only when there’s just family around, never giving me grief in public.
“Have you ever brought a guy home to meet them before?”
The question comes at me like a fly ball. Someone passes us and honks. I eased off the gas without even realizing, so thrown by Cam’s innocent question.
I shouldn’t be thrown. It should be a natural assumption for him that I’ve dated other men. It should be plausible that I may have brought a man home to meet my family before. It should be—because that’s the massive lie I’ve grown from a single seed of deception.
My heart is palpitating. My palm is sweating in his. Drawing my hand back, I grip the steering wheel. It offers a false sense of control over what I’ve just lost, what I’m about to lose.
It would be simple to say the word no and leave it at that, but it would be one more nail in the coffin of lies that’s entombing me more and more each day. I can’t hide this from him, not any longer. Not from the brave man who bore everything to me last night. I never should have hidden anything to begin with.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked or assumed,” he starts backpedaling.
It’s the last straw. My omissions have him second-guessing his manners over courtesies I’m not even due.
Jerking the wheel, I swerve to the side of the road, instantly regretting not decelerating first. The passenger wheel fishtails in the gravel on the shoulder. Cam yelps and clutches onto the armrest.
