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This morning has been one giant disaster. My dad’s flight was cancelled, and he thought to use it as a chance to spend breakfast with me. I was foolish enough to get excited when he called and woke me an hour before my alarm. I was even feeling the positive energy enough to leave a note for Morgan saying that I was truly sorry I lied. I was still hurt by her opinion of Cameron, but even those feels were muted in the morning sunlight.
My cheerfulness lasted about twenty minutes, ending the second I met my father in the Welles alumni lounge. I should know better by now after years of letdowns. These chance moments are never really about spending time together. Instead, he ran me through the list of people I need to be sure to say hello to at the gala in two weeks. That was after reminding me to be careful with my leg, noting that I should be wearing my brace, especially if I’m going to work out at night. I don’t like talking about my surgery and my recovery around him. He wasn’t there for any of it, and it makes me resent him. I don’t want to resent him despite the fact I so often do.
“You’re right.” Cameron breaks through my moody thoughts, his mouth incredibly close to my ear. He must have stepped up behind me while I was looking for Cole and daydreaming. I spin around fast and find myself facing his chest, the drink holder balanced in his palm to make room for me.
“About what? That you gave it as good as you got with Cole?” My nostrils flare as I peer up at him. He hits me with that stupid crooked smile.
“No, Brooky. That we never shared a real kiss. When we do, believe me—you’ll know.”
I blink up at him, mouth open, wanting to spar but also . . .when we do?
“Brooklyn, your order is ready!”
I look in the direction my name was called for maybe a breath, long enough for Cameron to skirt around me and leave the café. And to top it off, I count seven drinks in the carrier, not eight.
Goddamn mean-ass barista.
Chapter8
Cameron
Admittedly not my best moment. That Cole dude pushed every single one of my buttons, though. First, what the fuck is up with wearing boots with a suit? No way that guy has ever stepped foot in real dirt, much less been near a horse, to earn the right to walk around in ropers. And I’m sure that was Armani he was wearing, or something like that.
Still, I could have handled it all, blown him off or buried him with my own brand ofnobody cares.But he started talking about fathers as if there is some scale for comparison of privilege and shit luck. That’s where my line is carved deep in the sand. I don’t talk about my dad with anyone. And yeah, for lots of reasons that maybe aren’t noble, but mostly because the relationship I have with my dad is between us,me and him,and fuck everyone else.
The whole interaction put me on edge. I wasn’t much help at the firm today, and I even volunteered to grab lunch for everyone. Nobody volunteers to be the gofer twice in one day. I needed out, though. I still do. I’m not in the mood for McKenna Lowell’s passive aggressive guilt trips. I went on four dates with her—I enjoyed zero of them. I did it as a favor to make people in my family happy. I did it for her dad, who is now my internship boss, which makes everything super uncomfortable and weird.
He and I actually hit it off first at a Welles alumni event. He thought I would be perfect for McKenna, or at least, he wanted me to be. But how do you tell a guy you respect that his daughter is high maintenance, a narcissist, and likes to make up rumors about other girls just to watch their social circles burn?
I tried to let her down gently with the whole “it’s not you, it’s me” thing, but when you’ve burned as many girls as she has, allies are hard to come by. Other than her immediate circle of friends, the rest of the Welles world leapt at the chance to pile it on. Which made her resentment of me skyrocket. Somehow, through it all, her dad still loved me. It’s how I got this internship. My grades are mediocre compared to the others in my group, which is meaningless in the real world, in my opinion. I guess Karl Lowell agrees.
I text our political science teacher, Mr. Dax, that I won’t need a ride back in the van then head in the direction of city hall. Brooklyn is always there late. She puts in the work, more than any other student at Welles. I hope all of the over-achieving gets her where she wants to go, but my jaded self has doubts.
“Well, would you look at that; it’s Welles Boy Cam!”
I’ve met Cole once and the sound of his voice is forever etched into my memory, like a track laid on hot wax in my brain. My back to him still, I tuck my chin to bury my smirk, glad I’m not yet with Brooklyn. She doesn’t need to see this side of me.
“What a pleasure. Harassed by a privileged wannabe surfer cowboy twice in the same day!” I turn slowly to meet the expression I was expecting. His nostrils flare like a bull as he pushes up the sleeves on his oddly metallic-looking jacket.
“You’re one to talk about privilege, Welles boy. That’s a real smart mouth you’ve got on you, too. You learn that in school?” He’s swaying on his feet, which triggers my instincts that he probably wants to fight. Nothing like throwing down outside Boston Common on a cold fall afternoon as the sun sets. Almost poetic. Perhaps I should be wearing cowboy boots too for our duel.
I breathe out a short laugh at his absurdity and my own amusing thoughts then run the back of my hand over my bottom lip, prepping my muscles just in case.
“Dude, you know zero about me. I’m sorry we had to meet, but Brooklyn’s professional like that I guess. Probably best we pretend we didn’t and move along, yeah?” Tongue tucked inside my cheek, held by my teeth, I size up his body language in an instant. My guess is he’s had the same pining crush on Brooky that I have, only he’s got zero shots and he knows it.
“Her dad meet you yet? He’s a real hard ass about the company she keeps. Maybe I’ll put in a good word for you.” His smirk is fucking obnoxious, and for whatever reason, it’s the thing that sets off my irrational side, not that I have much of a reasonable one to begin with.
“Yeah, all right,” I say, spitting at the ground to my right as I cock my left arm and take a full-bodied swing at his jaw.
My punch, however, never lands. Fucking surfer cowboy dodges it then swats my arm away with his palm, completely throwing me off-balance as his knee comes up to nail me in the gut.
“Black belt. Among other things,” he says, spitting on the pavement where my eyes are zeroing in on a few scurrying ants. I try to laugh out in disbelief that this is happening, but it’s useless. He’s knocked the wind from me.
“I’ll be sure to mention to Mr. Bennett that Brooklyn’s buddy Cam isn’t much of a fighter,” he says, his mouth way too close to my ear. I lift my head up in a jerk, smashing the back of my skull into what I think is his mouth. The bloody gash on his lip when I right my vision confirms it, and that laugh I’ve been waiting on finally makes it out of my mouth as he spits a little blood this time.
“Street fights and pick-up hockey, among other things,” I say. My stomach is twitching from the impact, and I might throw up, but I have a few good swings left, if I need them.
“Hi, how you doin’?” I nod to a woman who passes us, veering out into the gutter to avoid us as best she can. I’m used to the glances I’m getting from people passing by. I do a lot of things that earn me these expressions—granted, usually it’s a stunt or a dare I’ve taken on, like the time Theo said he’d give me twenty for climbing up and riding the Paul Revere horse statue by the Old North Church. I got an extra twenty for shouting “Ya!” while smacking its bronze ass.
