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There had been a gut-punch of sadness for him before I remembered that I too had once had a family, that sometimes families didn't - couldn't - shouldn't - be with you forever. And while that was not a happy thing, it didn't mean that finding a new family was any less than the other family you once had.
We certainly were not less.
Just different.
Just an interesting group composed of a lot of years of damage and fucking up and scars and stories and interesting shit coming together and making something out of the wreckage.
It was a different kind of beautiful - broken souls connecting, finding healing together, maybe filling some of the voids inside one another.
And all that brokenness, yeah, it made for one hell of a banging Christmas tree.
"Have you bought any presents yet?" I asked, needing to talk, not liking too long silences. My life had been full of them back when I had no control over it. Now that I did, I didn't let them stretch long enough for lonely to nestle inside.
Cam's head shook.
"Yeah, me either. I can't seem to think of anything for Astrid. I mean, aside from the usual. I want that 'wow' gift, you know? I guess I am still trying to make up for all those years she was the only kid in her school who didn't get jackshit while all the others got everything their hearts desired."
Camden's hand reached over, giving my knee a reassuring little squeeze. It said nothing, but spoke volumes.
It told me that, one, he thought I was a good person, that he didn't think many other people who hadn't even known someone when they were little would feel such sympathy for them, feel such a responsibility to make it right. And, two, that I would find the right thing, that things had just been haywire, that once we got home, once things fell into swing, once I got my first chai latte with two shots of espresso, got out on the town, saw the Merry Christmas signs on the buildings, the wreaths on the hotels, the tree in Rockefeller Center, the people standing in never-ending lines just for the chance at a few minutes to ice-skate, once I got into the spirit of things, the idea would come to me.
See, Cam, to me, was the most exceptional person I had ever met. To be able to convey so much without needing to say a word.
I wondered a bit absentmindedly if there was anyone else in his life who had understood him like I did, who took the time to learn his mannerisms, dig deep beneath his often-stoic exterior.
I wouldn't claim it was easy.
And I was no saint, no Anne Sullivan patiently trying to teach Helen Keller to communicate.
No.
I hadn't understood at first.
I didn't know how to read him.
So his silence sometimes grated on me, especially when I needed him, when I needed someone to lean on, when I needed answers.
And his lips remained sealed.
I had ranted and raged about why he wouldn't just write it down, so we had some way to communicate. It wasn't like he was illiterate. I'd seen him write. I'd seen him read.
But he refused to communicate that way.
In a fit of near-hysteria one night, every inch of my body bruised, busted, screaming in pain, needing to hear a kind word, needing some reassurances, getting faced with only his stony silence - even if his eyes had been telling me all I needed to know if I would have just paid attention - begged him to learn sign language. I said we could take a class together, we could learn together, we could practice together.
But he had simply sat down on the bed at my side, back to me, reached down, grabbed my hand, and squeezed.
That was all he could give me.
I didn't understand the reasons, the motivations behind why.
But I understood one thing.
If there was ever a time he had wanted to talk to me, wanted to help me, wanted to tell me everything would be okay even if it didn't feel like it, that was the time. So the fact that he couldn't, it told me I would have to learn his way, would have to study him, come to meet him where he was.
That was what I had done.
And when Astrid came along, I had helped her to understand as well, to accept things as they were, not to try to fix them.
And because she didn't want people trying to fix her, she had been on board, had learned to communicate with him as well. And he, her.
As we crossed through the tunnel, the ever-present ache that had been poking at me under my left shoulder blade easing as we crossed back into our city, as we made our way toward the lot where we stashed Cam's car - having an agreement with the guy who owned it.
