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F. So appropriate.F all of this.
I breathe in deep and knead my hands together.
“Do you want me to stay? I understand if you’ve changed your mind. I don’t mind going. I can wait in the car.” Brooklyn’s hand covers my fidgeting fingers and I freeze then swivel my head to look her in the eyes.
“I’m pretty sure if you wait in the car I’m going to chicken out,” I say, gritting my teeth and forming a strained but honest smile.
Brooklyn’s shoulders shake with a silent laugh.
“Well, I was pretty much chickening out, which is why I suggested it,” she says.
The option of leaving is stripped away in an instant when my mother’s door swings open and the three of us are standing face-to-face-to-face. It helps that my mom’s expression is about as panicked as I feel. Her workout bag slung over her shoulder, she’s dressed in yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt that hangs off of one shoulder. I bet she checks that peephole every time she leaves this place from now on lest I surprise her like this again.
“Cam!” Her smile never fully realizes, probably because her mouth is still wide open in shock.
“We were in the neighborhood,” I joke. Brooklyn elbows my side.
“Oh, well . . . I was heading out.” She looks over my shoulder, probably wishing she had a friend she could say was waiting on her. I step into her line of sight, my lungs tight with embarrassment at how pathetic my relationship with my mother is. She’s actively looking for an escape, and Brooklyn is seeing it.
“It’s really nice to meet you, Mrs. . . .Hass?” Brooklyn stumbles on that part, and I realize I probably should have schooled her a little on our way here.
“Powell,” I fill in. “My mom’s last name is Powell.”
This insight, of course, isn’t much better. My mom’s eyes widen with a warning to me that I’m sharing too much.
“It’s fine, Mom. She knows about my grandparents. Brooklyn is my girlfriend.” I’m shoveling the information at her now, burying her in it. Her expression morphs from that typical motherly excitement of a girlfriend to fear of letting someone see behind our big-ass curtain of deception.
“Mind if we come in?” I invite us knowing that my mother won’t. It’s weird because I sort of have a bedroom here. I hardly every sleep in it. Even over the summer, I never spend time in this place with my mom. Sometimes I kick it for a few weeks with Theo or one of the other guys from Welles. Last summer, I went to work at a camp. Eight weeks with ten-year-olds in the pines was a cake walk compared to spending the summer here.
“I’d offer you a drink, but I really only have water and soda,” my mom says as I lead Brooklyn by her through the doorway.
“It’s fine,” I say, showing Morgan to the living area. She takes a seat in one of the chairs and I sit on the arm of the large leather couch. “We’ll only be a minute or two.”
It’s hard to hide my ire. It colors my tone to the point that even I hear how ticked off I am. My mom shuts the door behind her by leaning back into it. She leaves her bag and keys by the table just to the right and shuffles forward, stopping just short of being in the same room as us. Always on the border, one foot out and ready to go.
“Are you in trouble?” My mom’s eyes hover between me and Brooklyn, and Brooklyn must get the gist of what my mom is insinuating about the same time I do.
“Oh, no! No, nothing like that. Nope. We are all good and definitely not . . .” Brooklyn’s entire neck and face are bright pink.
“No, ma. I didn’t knock her up,” I step in. Brooklyn’s head falls forward and she catches her mortified face in her palms. I shrug because that kind of talk is easy for me. My mom has not exactly been shy over the years about lecturing me on safe sex. Wouldn’t want me to have to grow up fast like she did. Hard not to take her lectures with a bit of a resentful sentiment.
My mom’s color comes back to her cheeks, so clearly she’s relieved by my answer. She still nervously picks at the collar of her sweatshirt, though, as if she’s waiting for me to wheel out a dozen grandbabies that I’ve kept hidden from her.
“If you’re worried about my face, don’t,” I say, knocking off the next logical leap I can think of her making. I still look a bit roughed up. My lips are almost back to normal, but the bruises under my eyes have turned into faint blue lines. It looks like I drew them there with a smudge from a Crayola marker.
“I assume that is from one of your stunts?” My mom doesn’t get up to inspect my day-old injuries any closer. I don’t think she has as much as given me a bandage once in my life. My big set of stitches, the scars now buried in my eyebrow, were courtesy of Grandma Caroline and a trip to the ER. She caught me trying to fuse my wounded brow together with packing tape after a bike fall. It was my first attempt to jump from the smaller cliff by the water onto the trail. I can make that jump in my sleep now, for what it’s worth.
“It was a tough game yesterday. We won, though. Don’t worry . . . you didn’t miss anything.” My snarky tone earns me a slight scowl from my mother. She’s never seen me play. I doubt she’ll show up for senior day at the end of the season.
Rather than prolong this guessing game where my mom wonders why I’m here, I decide to get to the point. I’m mostly full of doubt that my mom will do anything with the intel I have, but at least the burden will be on her too. Somehow, that makes it better.
“Brooklyn’s dad is Walden Bennett. I’m sure you’re familiar?” Of course, my mom is familiar. She had a conversation with Hal about him a day or two earlier. She leans into the wall as the realization that I’ve come here with a clue settles in. What she doesn’t know is that it’s more than clues I bring. I have answers that beg harder questions. No better time than the present to rip off those uncomfortable Band-Aids.
“Yeah, Hal texted me. Thanks for giving him my number, by the way. You two probably talked about this, but to make sure you’re up to speed, he thought I might be able to talk to Walden’s daughter since we were in the same class. The irony that she happens to be my girlfriend!” I punch out a laugh, part heartsick but mostly pissed.
“Cam, I didn’t know,” my mom starts. She glances to Brooklyn, probably wishing she could have met her under different circumstances. My mom, while not close to my grandparents, is a lot like them when it comes to wanting to garner friendships with important people. Walden Bennett is quite the shiny bauble.
“Yeah, I guess we don’t really talk and share things about our lives, do we?” Brooklyn clears her throat at my side, so I stop myself from traveling around the bitter road with my mom in front of her.
