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Class starts in thirty minutes, which doesn’t necessarily mean Cameron Hass is awake. But I doubt it’s Theo blowing that scent out into the courtyard. I wait for one of the McKinley boys to let me in on their way out then make my way to the far stairwell and up to Cameron’s room.
Now that I’m standing outside his door with a blueberry muffin I bought at the mobile café near the library, I feel juvenile. I want him to know how much telling me about his dad meant to me. More than that, I want him to know he can trust me, that he can tell me more . . . if he wants to.
Faced with either turning around and eating the damn muffin myself or knocking on his door, I form a fist and rap three times. I take a step back and hold the muffin box in both palms out in front of me like an offering. Cameron coughs on the other side of the door and I catch the sound of a fan being blasted on high. I suck in my lips to stifle my laugh but can’t help but let it out when he opens the door and sees me, suddenly relaxing.
“Shit, I thought you were—” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, still shaken, and probably a little irritated that I’m laughing at him.
“Headmaster? No. I am the muffin man, however.” I look down at the box and his eyes follow.
“Sweet Jesus, please say that’s for me.” He takes it from my grasp, assuming it is. I follow him into his room, which is littered with clothing and shoes and practice jerseys.
He’s sitting on his bed wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and the famous Grinch boxer shorts. With his long legs folded up like a kid in circle time, he pops the lid on the muffin box and pulls a bite off with his fingers, shoveling it in his mouth.
“Oh, my God, this is amazing,” he hums as he chews.
I laugh, enjoying seeing him so damn delighted over something so simple. I kick a cleat out of my way and toss a sweatshirt onto his bed from his desk chair so I can sit.
“Sorry it’s messy. I wasn’t expecting company,” he mumbles, going in for another fistful. Crumbs fall down his chin and into his lap, and he brushes them away . . .onto his bed.
“No wonder nobody notices your weed. How could they smell anything over . . . this!” I wave both hands around the room.
“Hey, most of that is Theo,” he says. I inventory both sides of the room and they seem about even to me.
“Sure,” I say.
He coughs out a short laugh, more crumbs tumbling from his lips.
“How are you this morning? The . . . everything?” I point to my face and circle it.
Cameron discards the now empty muffin box to the side and kicks his legs out so they hang off his bed. He looks better than he did last night, but the bruising on his face is obvious.
“Everything’s sore, but I’ve had worse,” he says.
He stands and I avert my eyes, not wanting to catch anythingextrain his boxers. I can’t help but mentally unravel his answer to make it fit. How has he had worse? Did his father hit him?
“I thought you don’t fall,” I say, using his own assertion against him.
“Ha, yeah. I mean, I guess Idofall, but only when I’m expecting it. I was really into skateboarding for a while, and then I tried some of those BMX parks, flipping tricks and stuff.” He glances at me and twirls a finger with one hand and tugs at his boxer short band with the other.
“Oh, uhm. Okay,” I say, sweat instantly beading on my neck. I spin in his desk chair and put all of my attention on the doodles on his notebook. One of them looks like the game of hangman, and the answer is filled in as DUMBASS.
Why do I have a crush on this guy again?
The sound of zipping pants is followed up by the clanking of a belt buckle.
“Okay, all clear,” Cameron announces.
Still, I turn cautiously.
“What, you think I’d trick you so I can flash you like some creep, Brooky?” He smirks and slips his arms into a white button-down.
I glare at him with tight lips.
“Why Brooky?”
He laughs as his hands work through the buttons, shutting down my view of his near perfect chest. He took a good beating from Cole, but looking at his ab muscles, the way they flex with every tiny movement he makes, I can’t fathom how Cole walked away at all.
“Habit, I guess. I liked that it bothered you, but now I can’t stop. I hope that’s okay.” He picks up a tie from the top of his dresser, the knot already made. I smile because that’s kind of smart. All Welles ties look the same. Why start over every day?
