Just For You (21 page)

"I figured you have more use of it than I do. My part's done; I've read through it and I've written in it. Technically I know I have to pass it on to someone who knows nothing about it but something tells me you're the one person in the world to whom this is most special." As he spoke, Imogen took the journal from his hands and Cameron leaned his weight against the counter, watching her.

Tears filled her eyes as she looked down at it, tracing the patterns in the leatherbound front cover with her fingers. It was heavier somehow, like it was full of knowledge she never had before.

"Thank you," she whispered. A tear fell down upon the cover, hot and burning.

"What's the matter?" Cameron used his thumb to bring her chin up so that they could be face-to-face. His eyes, full of worry, searched hers, frantically begging her to explain.

She waved her hand in front of her face, blinking away the tears. "It's nothing. I'm sorry, Cameron." She choked on his name.

He took a step back, but his hand stayed planted on her arm.

"I… I…"

"What is going on, Imogen?" There was a tenderness in his words that was never there before, heavy with concern for her.

Wiping the back of her hand across her nose, Imogen sniffled. "I came here today to… God, I can't even say it." She said the last sentence more to herself than to him.

"What?"

There was no better way to do it, she decided. She was just going to have to say the words, quickly but comprehensively. Rip his heart from him just like a band-aid.

"What happened between you and I…" A moment's hesitation would be the ruin of her. She pushed everything to the back of her mind and rushed the rest of the words out. "It was a mistake, Cameron. I don't know how it happened but it wasn't what I thought would come out of that weekend."

There it was. Cameron's eyes were glazed over at first, but then her words burrowed themselves deep into his brain matter until they were the only things which repeated in his mind.

So she regretted it. It was a night he couldn't get out of his mind and she was coming here to tell him that she wished it never happened.

He had been right about her the entire time. Imogen was bad news. The nerve of her, coming to him under the guise of something good for him. All this preaching she did to him about letting people in, all the guilt she made him feel for the way he treated her so badly when in fact he was right to try and push her away, every minute they spent together was now just a joke he was supposed to look back on.

He hated her.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled.

She was looking at him, waiting for the flood but hoping for some mercy. Well, he wasn't that type of guy. She would be getting no sympathy from him. After all, she had given none to him.

Cameron's nostrils flared and he pointed toward the door behind her. "Get out."

His voice was low with fury and Imogen realized just then that fire wasn't the only thing with the power to burn.

"Cameron," she pleaded. She spoke his name like a prayer.

This time he screamed. "Get out!"

He needed to get away from her. He couldn't even look at her face anymore. Cameron didn't bother to watch her walk away from him; he did it first.

Imogen watched his retreating form, becoming darker and smaller with every step further away from her he took. The tears filled her eyes again, this time spilling over her cheeks in a silent flood as she held back her sobs.

She had no delusions that breaking things off with Cameron would be easy, but as she felt for the first time what it was like to have someone turn his back on her, she wondered to herself how she ever could have hoped for understanding.

Pain for pain, that was the deal she made.

Imogen turned, placed the journal back on the countertop, and left.

Interlude

The days alone were long. The nights alone were even longer.

Chapter Eleven

Nighttime Descends on Me

It had been weeks. Cameron didn't enjoy the fact that, no matter how he tried, he couldn't stop his mind from wandering back to Imogen. He wondered where she was and what she might be doing. Most importantly, he often found himself questioning- and hoping, for that matter- whether or not she was thinking about him, too.

He was still enraged, of course. He was still confused. He couldn't understand why, if she thought sleeping with him was such a mistake, she even allowed it in the first place. Surely he wouldn't have forced her to do anything had she expressed her concern. Night after night he would lie awake, going over every detail, no matter how minute or seemingly negligible, and try to pin the exact moment where maybe Imogen did give him some sort of clue that she wasn't ready for what happened afterward, thinking he must have missed it. It must have been there. Still, he couldn't remember anything. There was no look, no noise, no move, no word that would have told him she didn't want him.

The look in her eyes when he skimmed his fingertips over the curves of her body (so womanly and soft, rising and falling like a mountain range fashioned from cream, he remembered, grimacing) was full of nothing but desire. Her mouth was hungry for his that night (her tongue sweeping across his bottom lip like he was an ice cream and she was eager to taste. Another grimace), and her body yearned for his (pushing into him with force which took him aback, he shivered).

Of course she wanted him, it was just that she only wanted him for that moment. Imogen had no plans for anything else.

More than anything else, he was upset with himself. While he didn't regret what happened- at least, he hadn't regretted a thing until she told him it was a mistake, he was disappointed that he even allowed himself to fall for her. Maybe it was because it had been so long since he'd been in a relationship. He never thought of himself as lonely, but up until Imogen waltzed into his life, he had a blinder over his eyes. She took the mask off his face and showed him the world.

But just like that, she was gone, too.

It really was a problem for him, he had to admit. Cameron could never seem to get anyone to stay around him for very long.

Eating dinner by himself, the television turned to a sports channel that he wasn't watching, Cameron felt his stomach suddenly twist itself into a tight knot. With pasta salad hanging half-way from his mouth, all these thoughts playing out in his head for the bazillionth time, he realized something. He'd figured it out. Now that it was there in front of him he couldn't believe he'd missed it before.

Perhaps, he realized, Imogen was finally tired out. Cameron's goal to chase her away with his mean comments and the impatience he always showed to her with his eye-rolling and mocking of her beliefs had worked at last. The cruel irony of it was, her plan worked, too: she got him to open up to her, to share himself with her in more ways than one, to finally not accept that his life was routine and boring and would or should always be that way. She breathed a new sort of life into him that he had to thank her for, even if she left his life as quick as she entered it. Still, he had to remember, she was only human, and a human can only take so much negativity.

She left, he realized, because she was scared of becoming like him. The only thing was, Cameron thought to himself, throwing his bowl of pasta salad in the sink without even bothering to dispose of the uneaten noodles and meat, Imogen left him before she could see how much good she'd done for him.

On the other hand, she ran away when she said she wouldn't.

He settled against the counter now, arms folded across his chest, his eyes dark and brooding, not seeing the portion of floor they settled on. His top lip curled ever so slightly and a feeling of disgust washed over him. Visibly, Cameron shuddered.

A few more minutes' thought and he came to his conclusion: Imogen was a coward; she couldn't handle what she dished out. Cameron opened up to her, stepped outside of his comfort zone. He threw his shield and weapons to the ground and allowed himself to be taken over by that romantic wave, and how had he been repaid? By shallow mocking. Cameron showed Imogen just how much he cared; she merely imitated caring about him.

Yes, she was the coward, not he. That was the end of it.

* * * *

Good God, she was an idiot. Imogen scowled as she rearranged books on the shelves at work. That was the third time in one hour that she'd put books in the wrong genre sections.

She ran a hand across her forehead, wiping away the small beads of perspiration which were building up there.

"Everything all right?" Macy, the elderly woman who owned the shop, asked from the desk as she typed. "You're looking a bit troubled."

Imogen smiled before blowing her bangs from her eyes as she carefully climbed down the ladder. "I'm fine," she said unconvincingly, tugging at the hem of her shirt. "Just having a bit of an off day, is all."

Macy pursed her lips and lifted her chin to look down at a name on a card which she held in her hand. The slow clicking of computer keys soon followed as she copied the name into the computer database. "Seems to me you've got something on your mind. You've been mumbling to yourself all day, dear." She looked up at Imogen, her gray eyes clear and all-knowing.

Imogen felt herself tremble. There was no hiding a thing from Macy. Age had made the woman almost omniscient. She swallowed hard and turned to grab more books. Doing work meant she didn't have to speak as much.

"I just had a…" Imogen trailed off, trying to think of the right word. "Well, I guess you could call it a fight, with a friend. Simple misunderstanding, though. We just both need some space from each other. In a few days," she shrugged, climbing back up the ladder, "everything will be back to normal again." Her voice was too high and too full of forced cheer to trick anyone.

She said the words aloud to make herself believe them but it wasn't working. Imogen had been in her fair share of disputes, and while she suffered total agony in the 'cooling-off-period,' things were always patched neatly up. This time, though, she wasn't so sure how patched up, if at all, things would be.

She was a big enough person to realize that she screwed up, and big time. She wanted to go back and explain to him that she never intended to hurt him; people said things like that all the time but deep down in her heart, Imogen meant it. Night after night she would lie awake at night and rehearse, dream about, what their conversation would be like if Cameron would just let her in one last time.

Of course she knew she didn't deserve a second chance. But if she had two minutes she knew she would tell him she was sorry, truly, deeply sorry. She would tell him that sometimes she got scared, too.

Imogen sighed, blinking away the hot tears forming in her eyes despite her efforts not to cry.

Hypocrite.

The word resounded over and over in her head. She sighed and balanced the books on the edge of the top shelf. "Macy," she said. "I feel terrible asking, but I think I need to take the rest of the day off. I'm sorry. It's just too hot in here."