Just For You (22 page)

Macy didn't so much as bat an eyelash. "I doubt it's entirely the heat that's messing with your abilities to categorize."

Imogen stood dumbfounded. She had to consciously force herself to keep her lips shut.

"We're so busy today, you know."

The tip of Imogen's mouth rose up in a tiny smirk. There was absolutely no one else in the shop, save the two of them.

"You're still a tiger, Macy. You'll do fine without me."

"I fully expect you to come back tomorrow with your head in one piece."

Imogen waved. The bell above the door jingled as she walked out, and, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her pullover sweater, Imogen retreated to the comfort of her home, where she could cry in peace.

* * * *

Cameron was banging the back of his head against the headboard of his bed, hoping like hell that maybe if he did it enough his head would split open, his brains would fall out, and he would be free from hearing his mother's voice drone on in his ear.

Every few seconds he would roll his eyes and sigh.

His mother could not stop talking about Imogen, and oh, how he wished she would. She couldn't go one sentence without mentioning her name, or asking Cameron if he would be taking her to Alex's art show, or if they had any plans to visit again.

"Mom, I'm really sorry to disappoint you," he growled. An entire hour of this definitely got his panties in a bunch, and he was sick of trying to pretend like things were all butterflies and rainbows. "The two of us got back and have been way too busy at work to even talk, let alone see each other. I wouldn't sit there and wait for another visit, if I were you."

"There you go again, Cameron," Sylvia sighed. He could hear the clinking of glass in the background; she was polishing the china, for some stupid reason. "You always act as if you never have the time for anybody."

"I don't."

"Was everything you said to Bobby and Sarah, and especially to Alex, a lie?"

"Of course not. Jesus Christ, you think I'd actually---"

But Sylvia wasn't listening to him. She spoke over him. "You know they want to spend time with you. Alex looks up to you, Cameron, and the girls want to get to know their uncle a little more."

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle fingers, speaking back to her through teeth clenched so hard it made his jaw throb. "I'm not going to break any of my promises. I need to go."

Cameron didn't wait to hear what else she had to say before he disconnected the line. One swift move and he had the phone cord unplugged from the wall, and, touching all his bases, he made sure to switch off his cell phone, too. That would give him a couple hours' peace and quiet. The only way she could bother him now would be to come knocking on his door. Even then it would be a long trip for her to make.

He stood up from the bed, pulling the sheets taut where they'd been messed up as he sat. It was time for a beer.

As Cameron shuffled into the kitchen on bare feet, he couldn't help but notice feeling unsettled. The phone conversation he'd just had with his mother didn't exactly relax him. Looking back on it now he didn't even know why he answered the phone after looking at the caller ID. Sometimes, he told himself, opening the fridge door, people did stupid things.

But that wasn't what made him uneasy. It seemed to him that the duration of the phone call was dedicated to making Cameron feel like crap. Whether Sylvia was doing it to him on purpose, he couldn't be sure (but then again, Cameron always had a feeling that Sylvia knew exactly what she was doing). Begrudgingly Cameron realized it was necessary to give his mother a small benefit of the doubt; she had absolutely no idea what went on between he and Imogen, and why they were no longer on speaking terms. Hell, she had no idea they even stopped associating with one another, but he wasn't about to tell her that. Sylvia was only talking about Imogen because she liked her. There was no way for her to know that the boundaries of their "friendship" (he winced at the word) were stretched too far. Now they were broken and torn. Now it was irreparable.

Accusations, though. That was a war tactic of Sylvia's. Cameron lifted the frosty bottle to his lips and took a swig of chilled beer. He realized that the uneasy feeling settling in his stomach was his resentment toward his mother for thinking that he would break the promises he made. Especially the promises he'd made to Alex. Cameron wouldn't even dream of hurting his brother, or choosing anyone else over him. His nostrils flared as he took another drink, shoving a hand in his pocket.

Sure, he wasn't always around. In the past he had been known to make excuses in order to get out of attending different functions, forcing his family to get inventive with their own lies as to why Cameron wasn't there. They would talk about him lovingly, creating for him a life much more exciting than the one he lived. Before long they realized that they were doing his dirty work, and put an end to it. They stopped mentioning him altogether.

All of Cameron's own excuses ceased once the invitations stopped coming.

That was different, though, he scowled. Before he never really wanted to be involved. Sometimes his family was too embarrassing for him to deal with; he thought it better to be distanced so that he could keep an identity that was all his own, one which was not tied definitively to his family's- if someone thought his mother was crazy, at least they wouldn't think to themselves, "like mother, like son." It was his own twisted form of self-protection. He never got too close or too involved because it was easier to cut and run. Cameron did the same thing in relationships, never letting his family get involved in his personal life, or his personal life with his family; he never completely committed emotionally to anything or anyone because if he did it would mean there would be more trees for him to chop down when he was ready to leave the forest.

It was a problem he'd had even as a child. His father psychoanalyzed him one or two times too many. His father tried to fix him. The only difference was, Cameron learned to be perfectly content with what his father saw as a flaw.

But now, after that weekend with them, Cameron was torn. Imogen made him realize that he could have things a lot worse; he knew this was true, because if he hadn't had that epiphany there was no way he would have assured them he'd become more involved. Now that he made that promise, Cameron intended to stick to his word. It bothered him that his mother had such little faith in him.

Then again, his mind jeered, maybe she had a right to be apprehensive. Cameron wasn't exactly known for his availability.

He frowned, setting the half-consumed beer bottle on the table. The glass of the bottle on the ceramic counter tile made a hard noise when he set it down. Cameron leaned over the counter with a sigh, resting his weight on his elbows and letting his head fall into his open palms. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands and told himself that he'd keep his word. It would be a chance to prove everyone wrong, and there was nothing better about proving someone wrong than the look on their face when he did something they expected him not to do.

Like the karaoke bar…

He shot up, his back going straight and rigid. He stopped and pushed the thought back to the blackest recesses of his mind.

Still, the memory of Imogen's face was clear in his mind. It blinded him. It had been weeks since she'd come to his apartment, since he greeted her like some love-sick puppy dog before getting his heart stomped on. He shivered at the recollection of the feeling. He was disgusted for how sappy he acted toward her that afternoon. It was pathetic.

And she left that damned journal on his counter. In the static silence of his apartment his grumbling echoed off the walls.

He wished she would have just taken it, gotten it out of his sight. The last thing he needed around here was a memento of her presence. He made his way to the study. When he found the journal still lying on the counter that night, he couldn't help but grab the thing and throw it against the bookshelf. It was lying on the ground now, just as he left it: covers spread, pages bent where they lay on the floor. It was looming there like a nightmare incarnate.

Cameron debated with himself. His fingers itched to pick the book up and throw it out the window, where he would never have to set eyes on it again.

The better half of him, though, stood rooted in place. Really, he didn't have the heart. His jaw ticked when he set his teeth together, deciding to merely shut the study door and avoid it as much as possible until he could think of something better to do with the book.

As he stomped down the hallway he ignored the voice that, against his better judgment, wished Imogen would knock on the door that very moment; he doubly ignored the voice that teased him with the reminder that he liked having the memory of Imogen in his house.

Chapter Twelve

I Could Not Cry, I Don't Know Why

It started out like a normal day. According to Cameron, it was nothing out of the ordinary, slightly boring, but otherwise none too taxing. He went through work with a fog over his mind. During his lunch break he sat and tried to remember exactly what it was that he had been doing all morning but he seemed to have no recollection of it. His body was running on auto-pilot, moving and speaking and, in general, functioning on its own.

Being numb to anything and everything was his only defense mechanism. It worked for him in the past, it would work for him now.

One month had passed. That was all he'd allow himself to think about.

He was sitting on his back patio, watching the neighbors- a family of five trying to make enough space out of a two bedroom apartment- as they went about their own business. Mr. Delaney was cooking hamburgers on the grill and Cameron could smell them from where he sat, a refreshing breeze blowing in his hair. It was the exact moment his stomach rumbled that the phone rang.

This time he wasn't particularly annoyed by the shrill ringing since he was about to get up and go into the kitchen anyway. As he came around the counter he picked it up from the charger and glanced at the caller ID.

His mother. Who else would it be?

Biting his lip and opening the fridge door at the same time, he pressed
Talk
.

"Hello?"

"Cameron? Cameron?"

The voice of his brother Bobby speaking, instead of his mother, threw him off guard. The panic in his voice sent a cold chill down Cameron's entire body.

"Bobby, I'm here. What the fuck is going on?" Cameron shifted his weight to his left leg, one arm draped over the top of the refrigerator door he hadn't bothered to shut. The cool air blew onto his legs. Everything else save for the sound of Bobby's panting on the other end was forgotten.

The seconds ticked away audibly as Bobby tried to find the right words.

"Bobby, spit it out, damn it," Cameron growled, slamming the door. The refrigerator swayed ever so slightly.

"Get down here as fast as you can. It's Alex, he got into a wreck."

Cameron slammed his hand down onto the counter. He felt his knees go weak. His vision blurred, sweat broke out on his forehead, and there was a hot, white light. His throat was tight and he had to swallow three times before he could get a sound out. "What? What? Bobby, Alex… Is he okay?"