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His father had had the good grace to never be a decent man. Much less a father. But this guy? Max? He’d taught Cameron everything he understood about being a man.
Josie stepped up to the place across the table from him.
And he made the stupid mistake of looking at here. Right at her. It was like staring into the face of the sun. The girl she’d been was still there. Still recognizable. The freckles. The green eyes. Her wild red hair had changed to auburn and it caught the light behind her and made her glow. She was still tall and thin, and he wanted to ask if she still ran road races every spring. He’d done that with her for a few years because the training runs were such a good chance to be close to her. God, what a fool he’d been. He hated running.
She was wearing black jeans and a silky black shirt, and he’d seen that New York uniform every time Netflix or YouTube brought him into their offices. She was in television somewhere in the city. And every time he’d said yes to those visits, he’d had to force himself not to imagine running into her on the subway. Or in some bodega getting coffee. And he hadn’t. All day he’d walk around not thinking about her.
But at night he would dream unhinged dreams about her.
Dreams that made him uncomfortable. Dreams about anger and sex.
He’d wake up hard and grieving.
And angry.
He felt it now as he sat across the table from her. The attraction and the loss and the anger. Wanting something he couldn’t have. And shouldn’t even want anymore. Wanting something he’d hurt.
He took one last glance at her face, to memorize the grown-up version of the girl he’d been so wild for.
She was crying and trying to hide it.
She was crying and trying to stop.
She was crying.
Because of me.
And he would have stayed no matter how uncomfortable he was. How angry and resentful. How hurt.
But he wasn’t going to stay and hurt her.
Shit. Just…shit.
He looked at Helen. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
And he turned and left.
The Mitchell family was quiet behind him. Speechless. The reverse, maybe, of the shattering glass of before. He’d leave—again. And everything would go back the way it was supposed to be.
And he grabbed his winter coat, swung his heavy bag over his shoulder, and headed outside. He’d rented a car for this trip, thinking in the back of his head that he would need a getaway option.
And it sat at the side of the road, a nondescript dark sedan. He’d never been so happy about the decisions that past him had made.
He fished the keys out of his pocket and hit the fob.
There was the sound of feet behind him and he didn’t turn to see who had followed him.
Helen, maybe. The instigator.
Alice? He’d write her an email, explaining everything. She’d understand. For a long time she’d had her own sharp edges that kept people from getting too close.
Josie?
He hoped not. Couldn’t imagine it. He’d spent the first year of his exile imagining her finding him in his tiny apartments and hectic jobs. In Baltimore and Wyoming. San Francisco and Vancouver.
All while deleting pictures of her from his phone. Ignoring her emails.
He’d had to leave the continent to leave that daydream behind.
“Cameron?”
Jesus. It was Max.
Cameron sighed and stopped. Not because he wanted to talk to the guy. But because he knew Max wasn’t going to let up and this whole thing could end with Cameron running him over with the car or some bullshit.
He turned to face Max. “Max, I think we can both admit it was a mistake for me to come. I never should have—”
Max just kept walking. Not stopping, and Cameron felt the way he had that night, like Max might hit him. And he wasn’t a boy anymore, and if it was going to come to that, to a god damn fistfight with his old mentor, then—fine. Weirder shit had happened.
He shrugged out of his backpack and changed up his stance. Max was still big and strong, and he had that ice-hard I’ve-killed-a-man edge to him that had always frankly terrified Cameron, but Cameron had been broke and homeless on the streets of Bangkok on more than one occasion.
He knew how to handle himself.
“Jesus, Max!” he shouted as the old guy got close, and he threw out an arm, a loosely gathered fist because, honest to god, he didn’t want to hit the man. But Max grabbed him by the shoulders, his dark eyes searching Cameron’s, and Cameron tried to step back but Max wouldn’t let him.
“I’m so sorry,” Max said, and wrapped his arms around Cameron.
He held himself still—shades of the glass breaking—before pushing at the guy’s chest.
“Max—”
“I’m so goddamn sorry, and if I was a better man—”
