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60
Camdyn
Four months later
I’m sorry in a million ways, he’d said. If we shoved past Camdyn’s faults and focused on my insecurities, then maybe we could excuse the lack of trust.
Every morning, Camdyn’s latest texts are the reason I survive the day and encourage my sister through a heated divorce. Thad Bernard was a freak. He not only married my sister, the sugar baby he met through Madame Azalea, but he kept another on retainer. That wasn’t all. He had yet another mistress, unbeknownst to all parties. This side, side hoe, also could be described as a baby freak. Younger than me. I should’ve seen the signs of him spiraling when he wore that silk robe with nothing on underneath, inquiring if I wished to have Momma moved.
Now, Thad and his wrinkled balls are in prison on molestation charges. Hillary and I have a job on our hands. Save their home. The little baby freak’s family—say that five times out loud—sued the attorney too. That was a mess in itself.
At the beginning of summer, Hillary and I started studies at LA Trade Tech. Screw a vacation. The Greene Girls are out for success. Hillary as a paralegal, as well as flirtatious studies. She’s secured a potential love interest. I’m in a psychiatric technician program.
“You should’ve gone to Spelman,” Hillary grumbles, sliding a plate in front of my textbook. “We have four cars left.”
I hadn’t lied about discussing my options with an associate to Camdyn. “Housing wasn’t included in the scholarship.”
“Hello, four cars.”
“Those are your assets, Hil. You had to lick wrinkled balls.”
“All balls are wrinkly, girl, bye.” She settles down.
I chuckle. “We’re eating Hamburger Helper in a mansion. This is ‘the life’ if you ask me.”
“You need to eat healthier.”
“We’retaking vitamins. Anyway, I need a job. Once I’m employed at a loony bin,” I fork up a noodle and some ground beef, “I’ll have benefits. God willing, it’ll include tuition discounts for my psych PhD.”
“Sheesh, if you’re the psychiatrist for El Santo, I’m pretending to be you during one of your sessions. Ride some crazy dick. Now, must I call my little sister Doctor Greene?” She grins.
I snort. “El Santo will be electrocuted by the time I’ve enough skill to dissect a serial killer’s mind. And yes, you can call me doctor . . . the same as you’ll be calling your next husband?”
“Eh, the doctor was last semester. My new professor’s name’s David, like King David.” Her eyes hood, lustfully.
“You’re really Momma’s daughter. Every time she made us crack that tome while young, you went straight to the tryst and freaky shit King David did.”
Hillary wiggles a brow. “I’m heading to the wine cellar. We have a few bottles left. I’ll tell you more about my King—”
“Get the wine, Hillary. I interviewed at Target today, so I’m speaking it into existence.”
“Okay!” She scampers out of her seat. I glance at my cellphone and view another text message from Camdyn.
He’s attending therapy this evening. About a month back, my daily flower delivery ceased. In their place, he’s sent invitations to therapy every Wednesday. I know it’s not conventionally romantic or a romcom’s version of how the guy wins the girl back in the last five minutes of a movie, but my heart warms over all the same.
I push aside my plate, tears collecting in my eyes. I concentrate on the true story surrounding his snake tattoos and scars. I’d read online the MacKenzie boys were targeted, and Jamie was abducted for a week. His return was quite the mystery too. Eyewitnesses shared how a little boy was dragged half a block in a fleeing SUV, and I know that boy to be Camdyn.
Not a day goes by when my heart doesn’t cry for him. For the first time since graduating, I respond with Good Luck. I’m so proud of you. Seconds later, my cellphone lights up as he calls. At each trill, my heart somersaults in the pit of my stomach like a fish desperate to traverse volcanic sand to the sea.
