“Good?”
I look up, nodding. “Always.” The awkwardness is starting to seep in. I can’t believe he just did what he did. If it wasn’t for the soft ache in my ass, I might believe I was still asleep. “What’s the spice?”
“Cayenne. Just a little.”
“Yup.” I can’t meet his eyes. We both eat quietly, but I feel Cam’s eyes on me. He’s wearing dark jeans and a blackDragon BallT-shirt with Goku going super Saiyan on the front of it. Everything is making me uneasy. I need to stop, I know I do. I’m living out a fantasy I’ve had ever since I first learned what sex even was.
My eyes lift and I look at him. Whatever demon came over him in my room is nowhere to be found, and Cam’s eating his muffin from the bottom up. “Why do you do that?”
“Saving the top for last. It’s the tastiest part.”
“It’s all muffin. How is it different?”
“Uh, it is different. The top is the star of the show. It’s the finale.” This boy is going to break my heart any minute. I can see it. He’s just trying to stall and find the easiest way to do it. “Do you want me to find an apartment?”
The question snaps my attention back. Why would he ask that? “No. I don’t want you to go.” And that’s the truth. I’m sure we can figure this out. In the last couple of months Cam has made this apartment his as well. He helps me clean. I just . . . I just get so tired sometimes. I’m not a dirty person, I’m just messy, and sometimes I’m too tired to care. Okay, most times I’m too tired. It takes a lot of energy to be me, and things get messy as a result. It’s been nice having him help me with rent and all the other things I’m bad at. I’m lucky my landlord literally doesn’t care what happens in here as long as I don’t damage his property.
“My father’s house is closer—”
“No!” What the hell is he thinking? “Absolutely fucking not. You can live here forever. If this is all making you uncomfortable, I’ll move out and let you live here.” I don’t even understand why he keeps in touch with that hateful prick. I know he’s been to rehab, and he went to therapy and is trying, but I can’t forgive him.
What Cam went through as a child was devastating and traumatic, and you know what . . . it was for me too. I was so young, and seeing the person I loved most run to me time and time again in different stages of pain shaped me in ways that changed me. How many nights did Cam escape his house and climb in my window only to cry against me for hours?
How many times did my mother have to tell his father that Cam wasn’t there to prevent him from taking Cam home for the night? He broke his arm in high school, and he was finally arrested on abuse charges. It didn’t happen overnight, though,and my parents had been begging the police to do something for so long.
During his prison sentence his father went to therapy, got help for his addictions, and has tried to makeup for the childhood he spent traumatizing his son. I don’t care. He’s still a dick. He will always be evil to me, and I can’t convince my brain that he’s anything but. He’s manipulative and only seems to reach out when he needs money. I hate that Cam still visits him. I hate it more that I know he feels guilty for some reason.
It’s not for me to understand, but I hate it.
My parents were very strict, but I always knew they loved me. I don’t see them as much now, since they moved to California when my sister had my nephew, but when I go there a couple of times a year to visit he comes with me. They love Cam as if he were their own.
“I’m just saying that if this gets too much, I can leave. If it makes it easier.”
Easier. No, Cam. What would be easier is not being in love with you. That’s my problem, though. Not his. “I want you here, Cam.” I pick at my muffin. “We need to talk about this, though.”
Cam is silent and curiosity wins. I look up at him. His eyes shine in the light of the kitchen. “I don’t know what to say. I feel like shit.”
“Why?”
Scrubbing his face, he won’t meet my eyes. “I don’t understand why I’m feeling like this lately. When I walked in yesterday . . .” He groans. “I couldn’t stop myself from watching. I don’t know. And then this morning . . . Bo, you’re driving me crazy and I don’t even know what it means.” He blows out a breath. “I’m scared. Honestly. Terrified.”
“Do you regret it?”
His fingers tap on the island as he looks down at his muffin. “No,” he finally admits. “I don’t understand what’s going on with me.”
“What do you mean?”
His head sinks into his hands. I don’t like that this seems to be tearing him apart.
It shouldn’t be this hard.
Which hurts. It really shouldn’t be this hard. “I’m just confused.”
Mistake.
It’s a mistake.
“Talk to me. It’s just me.” Yeah, okay, I am part of the problem, but I’m his friend first.
