1. Cam
CHAPTER 1
CAM
“THE ART OF STARTING OVER” - DEMI LOVATO
Five Years Later
“ E lliott, why didn’t you tell me that when they call it the Sunshine State, it’s actually just a nice way of saying it’s the armpit of hell?” I ask, fanning my face so my makeup doesn’t melt completely off prior to my lunch date arriving, the one that is currently ten minutes late. I shift my cell from one ear to the other.
My brother lets out a throaty laugh, full of delight at my misery. “I think I did. Do you not remember me asking why the hell you would choose Florida for this grandiose rendezvous disguised as a career opportunity?”
“You act like I ever listen. It’s your job to make me when it counts this much,” I whine. Elliott is my big brother. Forcing me to obey his commands is in his job description, right next to noogies and throwing me under the bus to Patricia, otherwise known as our mother.
“Right, like I could ever command Madame Feminist Extraordinaire to do a thing. I gotta run into this meeting, and I shouldn’t have to tell you, but it’s not a good look to be on the phone when a date arrives. I’ll see you later at the Crab Shack, and I better not get food poisoning there.” He hangs up without giving me a second to reply to his quip.
As I wait for what is sure to be another dud of a date, condensation glides slowly down my glass, mesmerizing me and robbing me of my focus. Each drop represents the hellish Tampa heat, like the damp drops of sweat that roll down my back on a short jaunt to my car or into my apartment. I’m not lying when I say I missed the memo on exactly how hot it gets in Florida before I started this grand adventure. The beads run as if they’re being chased down the smooth blue glass and can’t escape fast enough. I’m envious of their swift and seemingly effortless movement. I’m desperate for an escape. Maybe it’s a side effect of the new life I’m building, or maybe it’s the decidedly self-absorbed man approaching. Either way, I’d like something—anything—to be as simple as running away was supposed to be.
This particular man, Andrew, is surprisingly gorgeous; his profile picture didn’t do him a bit of justice. Dark hair flops delicately over his forehead, perfectly tanned forearms peek out from the rolled-up sleeves of his tasteful seafoam-green button-down shirt. And don’t get me started on those brown eyes. Perfect chocolate drops that should have me melting, and yet—they aren’t at all.
Seriously, I can tell from the swagger of his approach that my lady parts are obligated to be shouting from the rooftops. Instead, I’m calculating how soon a person can leave a date without being considered rude. Dating is not my thing. Can’t we go back to the days of instantly falling in love over a shared affinity for the same apple at the grocery store? I want the kind of love that’s unconditional, someone who wholly accepts me for who I am, flaws and all. It’s just not that simple for me; clearly, nothing is. Case in point, the man of so many women’s dreams has just sat down across from me, and I feel virtually nothing. Ugh! Why do I feel nothing?
“Cam, right? It’s great to meet you in person.” Andrew grabs my lukewarm glass of water and takes a long chug. It wasn’t icy cold like I prefer, but dude, get your own.
“Uh, yep. That’s me. Andrew, I assume?” I reply, my face flushing further from my general awkwardness.
“You got it, babe. I gotta say, I’m relieved. You at least look like your profile picture. So many catfishers these days...Don’t women know men aren’t going to fall for them on the internet and then just overlook their flaws when they see them in person?” Arrogance radiates off of him in waves. I should’ve seen it coming with the far too many bro pics and shirtless photos on his profile. But this, this is another level. As someone who struggles with her body image, I’m annoyed.
“Well, maybe they aren’t intentionally misleading you. Maybe there were other photos or signs, and doesn’t it matter more what’s on the inside of a person than the outside?” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, not in a way that indicates guilt, more like I struck a nerve. Good. If he’s looking for someone who won’t call him on his bullshit, it’s not me.
In deference to changing the subject, I say, “Anywho...tell me what you like to do for fun.”
“Okay, yeah. Fun. Well, I fish. Let me tell you about my latest catch . . .” He launches into a story, and I zone out.
Glancing at the clock hanging haphazardly on the back wall of Antonio’s, I can’t help but notice the irony in the cozy, calming atmosphere blended with the war waging in my stomach. It’s perfect here. Italian cold cuts a plenty, prim red-and-white checkered tablecloths, carefully curated family photos that honor tradition, love, and life. A warm breeze floats in (finally) from the open-air patio that sits perched against the white sand beach. I am a few good gusts away from resembling a human as opposed to the glazed donut I could currently be confused for. Please bring on the salty air , I plead internally.
The only thing out of place in the entire restaurant is my date. Andrew changed the subject slightly at some point while I’ve been mid-daydream, and he’s now droning on about how to select the right bait for backwater fishing. Fishing is clearly a hobby of his, and not at all one of mine.
“Which do you think would be better, if given the choice?” he asks, bringing me begrudgingly back into the conversation. I’m not typically this unengaged on a date, but he lost me at “catfishing.”
“Umm, sorry, can you ask me that again? I thought I recognized someone back there...” I say, pointing lamely at the back of the restaurant, where only an elderly couple and a waiter are occupying the space. Smooth, Cam.
I should’ve been listening more intently, but he just goes on and on. I mean, I grew up in a landlocked state. How should I know anything about fishing in the Intracoastal versus open ocean? Not that he would know where I grew up , I chastise myself.
“I asked if you think ocean fishing or backwater fishing is better, and which you would choose if you could.”
“Oh, right...I’m sorry. I guess I would say ocean because I could maybe see some dolphins,” I reply, putting all my effort into the answer. I’m trying here, give a girl a break.
He swiftly pulls his finger guns from their proverbial holsters, waving his pointers in my face as if to tell me I’m either onto something or completely hopeless when it comes to oceanic knowledge. The look on his face suggests the latter.
“Well actually, that’s where you’re wrong. You would be more likely to see sharks and dolphins in the Intracoastal Waterway. They frequent those for easy access to fish, kind of like it’s the fast food restaurant of the sea,” he rebukes, proceeding to mansplain the methodologies of porpoise and shark species as I go back to checking the clock.
He’s a typical guy. Attractive (obviously), seemingly well-adjusted, and yes, clearly a grade A expert on fishing—which is great, just not for me. It’s not that I have a vendetta against fishermen, there are likely a vast number of them who are perfectly suited for me. Just, not this one. He’s asked exactly zero questions about me. Zilch, nil, none. Maybe he’s nervous, but is it too much to ask for a little interest to be paid to your date?
I can’t do this. I may be a lot of things, but fake isn’t one of them. I thought I was ready to explore my options, and this guy was the best one, but at this point I’m looking forward more to waltzing out of here than to eating the basil pesto caprese sandwich I ordered. To be clear, very few things come between me and fresh mozzarella. I should’ve never come here, I realize. But since I did, an exit strategy is of the utmost importance.
“Listen, Andrew . . .” I say, cautiously interrupting him.
“It’s Andy, that’s what all the ladies call me,” he quickly corrects me, winking as the words drip off his tongue. Eww.
“Umm...okay. This isn’t working for me. I don’t want to waste your time, and I’m sorry but I’m gonna go,” I say, filtering all the determination and poise into my voice that I can muster while hoisting my purse on my shoulder and pointing with my thumb toward the door.
“Really? I thought I felt a real connection here.” He seems genuinely befuddled as he swishes his hand back and forth between us.
“Look, it’s not you, it’s me. I’m just not as ready as I thought I was. Thanks for lunch,” I reply, guiltily offering him a demure smile as I toss a few bills on the table to cover my meal. There is approximately zero chance of me sticking him with the bill. My incessant need to be liked, that all-too-familiar achy feeling in my chest, would never allow it. I intended on paying my way prior to even coming here, and I’m most certainly not going to be another “lady” he tacks onto his list of “all the ladies” to top it off.
“You know, just a friendly tip...if you aren’t ready, then you shouldn’t lead people on,” he snarls out, disdain markedly etched on his face. Oh, the gall I have to turn down the self-proclaimed lady killer— how dare I .
“Excuse me?” Every ounce of guilt I had seeps out of my body in one swoop, and I’m left simply astonished at the bold statement coming out of Mr. Dreamboat’s mouth. Why did he have to be so hot?
“You shouldn’t agree to a date if you aren’t looking for something. It’s fucked up to lead people on.” His lips quirk slightly up into a smirk as he says it. Oh, come on, Andy.
Plastering a pinched smile on my face, I spit back, “Thanks for the feedback. Here’s a tip for you. Maybe don’t only talk about yourself on dates.” I turn to leave but stop short. “Oh, and Andrew—don’t ask a woman to call you Andy just because all the other ladies do.”
It’s too much of a reply, I know, but really, can you blame me? I hustle off toward the door leaving him with his mouth agape and gulping air, looking eerily similar to one of the ten thousand fish he just described in excruciating detail. Somewhere in this world there is a beautiful, fish-obsessed individual for Andy, but it’s not me.
The dream is always the same and today’s no different. It’s what I like to call the “Cameron Wright special” because like me, it’s good on the surface but a complete mess underneath. Dim lighting, silky soft sheets, the scent of warm cedar filtering through the room. My senses are heightened; I can feel, taste, and smell everything all at once. His breath swirls warm and hot on my neck as he presses kisses into the tender spot of skin just below my ear. My whole body sings with awareness as he presses his hips forward, rubbing precariously close to the small aching bud between my legs. Softly, he growls in that mind-bending husky voice, “I’m leaving, Cam. It’s over.”
Gahhh! I startle awake from the dream—or should I say, nightmare—gulping for air. I’m covered in sweat with my arm placed perfectly between my thighs and my face jammed into my pillow. My whole body is an irritating mix of turned on and frustrated. Goddamn you, Will Davenport!
Fucking Will, the one who got away. The one I naively planned my life around as a dumbass eighteen-year-old. I’m totally over him, yet every time I get brave and go on a less-than-stellar date, I wake up like this. It’s maddening. And to make matters worse, the dreams are getting more vivid as time goes on. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I be like every other self-respecting woman in her twenties?
Collecting myself, I glance at my trusty clock radio perched at the edge of my nightstand. Shit! I have thirty minutes to pull myself together and get to the bar to meet my brother. I hadn’t planned on taking a long nap, and I certainly hadn’t accounted for what can only be described as a wet dream.
You are finally really losing it, Cam.
Bristling at myself, I throw on a pair of denim cutoffs and a black Rosie the Riveter T-shirt. After running a brush through my hair and grabbing my purse, I rush to my car. It’s not a long drive but I’ve been looking forward to seeing my brother, and as my mother would say, if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late.
My mother again—she’s always in my head like this. Reminding me constantly of all her “rules” and laying on some good old-fashioned guilt without ever having to say a word. It’s a good thing I remembered to gas up old Betty, my trusty green sedan. I can’t imagine the guilt Patricia would cast upon me if she knew it went below a quarter tank. Betty’s about five years past her prime, but I’m admittedly not the best at letting go of things—see the five-year-long crush on my high school boyfriend I’m definitely not still carrying around for reference.
I’m meeting my brother at the Crab Shack—a small seafood place known for all manner of delights, but for me it’s the worn and weathered atmosphere, the locals, and let’s be honest, the drinks that are most compelling.
Obviously, I need one right now.
Most people pass this place by thinking it’s too dingy or it’s a bad bout of stomach issues waiting to happen. For me, though, I like that it’s got character. Tiny scraps of history ripe for the picking, like the paunchy old man at the end of the bar with leathery skin and a scraggly silver beard, the crooked but well-used dartboard, or the bartender who looks just slightly worse off than I am. There’s a story here, a past I imagine that’s not much different than my own. One of longing, or of love that’s bore more pain than pure joy.
Having made it to the Crab Shack with nine minutes to spare, I plop down on a red faux-leather barstool that’s seen better days. It’s well-loved, and even shows signs of a few new tears forming, but it seems familiar and that provides me a slight bit of comfort. Almost as if this chair has helped people solve the world’s problems longer than I’ve been alive. I find myself wondering if this chair has any valuable insight for a mess like me.
This is where I’m at mentally, latching onto things as minuscule as a chair that’s had every butt in town plopped on to it at one time or another. I don’t have time to dwell on my clearly suboptimal mental status though. Elliott will be here any minute, and I need to fix my face before enduring another one of my big brother’s lectures.
I’m excited to see him, it’s the first time any family has visited me since the big move. Not that this technically counts as a “visit” since he’s just in town for work and making time to meet me for a drink. I should be thankful that he even made any time, but it stings that my family, including Elliott, isn’t embracing this adventure more and encouraging my independence.
Taking a slow, deep breath, sucking in the mildew and yesterday’s-beer-scented air, I quickly brush my hands over my hair to smooth it and collect myself. The humidity here is insufferable, which means no amount of time spent flat ironing or curling can keep this mane tamed.
A small jingle chimes as the door swings open, alerting me to the newly arrived guest. There’s an audible gasp from the women in the bar followed by a bellowing of oohs and aahs, and I know Elliott is here without even looking.
He has this face, not so different from mine but less soft and more chiseled. A small dimple in his chin that I’ve heard all manner of, frankly, disturbing comments about. He isn’t exactly tall, but not short either; he’s average, I suppose. What he lacks in overwhelming height, though, he makes up for in physique. He works out and eats a ridiculous food regimen to stay in shape.
I wish I had his willpower, I do. But I also just enjoy life. Maybe if I was a little more realistic or determined, I could lose those fifteen pounds once and for all. I’m not a huge woman, but I’m curvy, and being on the shorter side doesn’t help. Hell, I look at a donut and it practically staples itself to my ass.
Elliott sweeps up beside me, effortlessly sliding onto a stool, completely unfazed by the attention he garners everywhere he goes. I swear, it’s like he doesn’t even notice how he devastates women just by existing and tossing them a smirk once in a while.
“Cam, you could have warned me not to come overdressed. I didn’t realize I was meeting you at a literal shack.”
I gape at him. “I like it, it’s cozy.” He literally scoffs at me. The audacity of this man.
My brother, older than me by a few years, is not uptight or snobby, but he does appreciate the finer things in life and has worked hard to be able to afford them. Me, on the other hand, I’ll just be over here slumming it in the Crab Shacks of the world, and frankly, I’m okay with that.
I’ve accepted that while my job is pretty exciting and has potential, it’s not something I’m going to make a fortune doing, at least not anytime soon. Most of my money goes to my ridiculous rent. Lo, my roommate, can be a bit of a penny-pincher, so I’m not getting any freebies from her.
Elliott orders a Landshark, politely telling the bartender to keep the lime while simultaneously whispering to me about how he doesn’t know what’s been lurking around the cut fruit in this “shack.” I ignore him and explain the menu, pointing out what I’ve been told is good, attempting to settle his nerves a bit. He levels me with a look and says, “Okay...seriously, Cam, how are you? You look great, the tan you’re rocking is doing things for your face.”
A snort sneaks out of me almost immediately; my brother has a way with words, ladies. In all seriousness, though, he kind of does, but we’ve never been all that good at compliments. I think it comes with the territory of being a Wright. You’re expected to have a friendly-yet-stiff upper lip, a thick skin if you will.
“I’m good, great actually. Salon life is interesting but in the best way,” I assure him.
“How’s working for America’s top stylist? Dreamy and delightful, or is he secretly a diva who claimed you for his peasant girl?” He mocks me by dramatically tossing his hand to his forehead—sarcasm is clearly one of his strong suits.
“Not at all. Daveed is good—he’s like the parent I always wanted and never had. He loves us and takes pride in feeding me copious amounts of sweet potato fries. What’s not to love?” Taking a glug of the cool, crisp tiki-inspired blueberry drink I ordered, I toss him a megawatt smile.
“Tsk-tsk, what would Patricia say?” He feigns disbelief, but I can tell he’s joking.
“Honestly, I don’t care. Should I keep a quarter next to me at each meal to help my waistline? Yes. Am I going to? No. I am burning calories just walking to my car in this sweatbox.” It niggles at my brain, the fact that I’ve gained weight, because deep down I do care. I always wanted to be thin, modelesque if you will. But I’m not, and the reminder of my mother’s insane method of shaming me doesn’t serve me. It’s hard enough to stop my brain from overthinking about each crumb I consume, I don’t need any other reminders of my imperfections.
“Good. You shouldn’t care what anyone thinks. But as a man who loves women, I have to say, in a very non-creepy brother way, that you are gorgeous. I hope you don’t ever believe for a second otherwise.” He shifts his eyes to a passing bartender, ever the flirt on the prowl.
“Thanks, El. Now eyes over here.” I snap my fingers, recapturing his attention. “Tell me about your work, am I going to see you more often?”
“Maybe. Depends if I can close this deal first. If I do, there will be lots of routine visits. Better tell that roommate of yours to make room for the big bro.” Winking at me, he sips down the last of his beer, standing to seek out a bartender for another.
“What’s happening to your face?” Elliott breaks into my thoughts when he returns, fresh drink in hand. “Please do not tell me it has something to do with William Davenport again.”
I feign shock and horror, probably overselling it. I suppose I shouldn’t mention the very inappropriate dream I had no less than thirty minutes ago. “No...I was just thinking of how much I miss you and how nice it is to just grab a beer and breathe in the familiar. Why would you even think it would have anything to do with he-who-shall-not-be-named?”
“Cam, you know you can always come home, right? There are great salons downtown, and you wouldn’t even have to be a shampoo girl.” His beer is tilted toward me as if I should cheers him and finally give up the act I’m putting on for the family. Conveniently he doesn’t address the comment about Will. I’m not sure if anyone in my immediate circle believes I ever got over him.
“I’m not a shampoo girl, even though that’s what Mom probably tells everyone,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m in training, I’m learning from the best of the best, and I need this time to find myself after dropping out of college and running straight into cosmetology school. Everything is a blur at this point.”
“No, you need this time to find someone new. He’s moved on, it’s been five years. Cam, he isn’t coming back and even if he did, you’re not at home. So what, he’s supposed to magically know you moved to Florida and come find you?” There it is, we’ve come full circle on my suspicion. Elliott shakes his head as if he’s the one exasperated by this conversation.
Nothing infuriates me more than my family, especially Elliott, insisting that I’m still hung up on Will. Did it suck when he dumped me and ditched our well-laid-out plans? Yeah, I’ve got the scars to prove it. Do I have sex dreams about the dude after every date I go on? Also yeah. But I really am over him. If he walked in the door right now, I would not give him a minute of my time because I’ve walked that road before. I’m older and wiser now.
“Elliott, I promise, I’m moving on...I even downloaded a dating app. I’m getting out there, I had a date earlier today actually.” I know I sound desperate, and maybe I am, but I really don’t want to discuss this with him, or anyone else for that matter.
“Whatever you say, we all just worry about you. There is literally no way you could have met your soulmate in high school. Honestly, the girls I dated in high school...hard pass.”
I should be offended by the utter disgust blossoming on his face—instead, I cackle, thinking about the girls he dated back then. The way he had his pick of the “best” ones was obscene. They were all beautiful and had absolutely nothing between their ears.
He’s had a couple of girlfriends over the years that have been okay, but the current one...well, let’s just say I’ve never really liked her. She’s nice enough, but she doesn’t seem to be all that into him, which frankly, how dare she. He’s a catch compared to the available market I’ve seen. Thankfully, Elliott drops the hard-ass questioning routine, and we settle back into catching up on life.
He tells me why he’s in town and says that if he can finally close this deal with Tampa General, he might be considered for a senior development rep position at work. I’m so proud of him. I don’t know how a small-town Iowa farm boy turned into a hotshot sales rep who exudes swagger, but he did. I’d be lying if I denied the twinge of jealousy I feel, but he also gives me a shred of hope for myself.
After all, if he can ditch the shit kickers and Levi’s, maybe I can transform myself a little too. Maybe living a stone’s throw from the beach will help me pass on the fries, opt for a salad, take up running...Who am I kidding? I may be able to change some, but not that much. Honestly, even if I do make some drastic life changes, even more dramatic than moving thousands of miles from home, no one will take me seriously. No one ever has.
Exhibit A: My mother thinks I’m a glorified shampoo girl and doesn’t understand why I needed space to spread my wings. When I explained moving for this opportunity, she told me all the space I needed could be found in the field out back.
It’s not that she doesn’t love and support me, it’s just that this isn’t what people from my hometown do. Good girls find nice country boys, get married, pop out a half dozen babies, and get on with life. Me chasing this “glamorous” lifestyle is foreign to everyone I know; they don’t get it, or at least don’t want to.
The sullen bartender (Sally, according to her name tag) approaches, tossing a beer-tinged towel down in front of us and placing her hands on her hips before asking, “You two want some food or what?”
I glance at Elliott for reassurance, before expeditiously saying, “We’ll have the peel-and-eat shrimp, please. And I’ll have another.” Sally doesn’t smile or nod, she simply grabs a couple of liquor bottles, pours them into a shaker, and goes to town. With a pointed look at Elliott, she places the drink down in front of me a little too hard before spinning around to hang our order ticket in the kitchen window. Pangs of empathy settle in. I want to tell her I understand. He was being impatient earlier and sought out a new drink from the younger, cuter bartender. It sucks to be the one overlooked. Instead, I shift my focus back to Elliott.
“Sooo...how are things with Michelle?” I ask with probably, no definitely, far too much disdain.
“She’s great, working a lot and getting ready for that trip to Europe.” Elliott has a smile plastered on his face, but as his sister and certified knower of all his moods, I can tell he’s forcing it.
“The backpacking one? With the friend from college who’s supposedly a best friend but you haven’t met them in three years of dating?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Yep, Samantha, who I’m going to meet. And you know what, I know you don’t like her but I’m happy, Cam.” The fire-filled reply indicates I struck a nerve.
I roll my eyes at his coy way of hiding what I can only assume is trouble. “Mmmkay, if you say so.”
“Again, I came here on recon for Mom. I’m supposed to be finding out if you’re okay. Did you say you’ve been on a dating app?”
I groan. Discussing who I’m swiping left or right on with my big brother doesn’t scream fun for either of us, and to be totally frank, the options themselves aren’t very appealing either.
Option 1: Dude with a big fish he caught.
Option 2: Military bro who thinks he’s God’s gift to women and the country.
Sally returns to deliver a steaming pile of shrimp tossed in Old Bay and dripping with butter. The interruption thankfully gives me a minute to think about how and what I even want to share. Based on my lunch date today, it’s a no to all fishermen for me, and I’m not anti-military, but I just don’t get the appeal after Will ditched me for his dream of becoming the next Rambo.
“Yep, I’m getting out there. So far it’s mostly been gross dick pics from the bros of Tampa and people who are so totally in denial about general aging and how different they look than when they were twenty, but I’m trying,” I say with a half-hearted smile as I lift a buttery crustacean to my lips.
“Don’t you have friends at the salon who could set you up?” Elliott asks hopefully, while wiping his hands on a napkin like a civilized individual.
“Hmm maybe, but if I even hinted that it was fair game, Daveed would force me into shampooing every man that comes through the place. I can see it now... You said you wanted to give them a head rub, Cam ,” I deadpan.
I love my brother, but he has no clue the lengths that a hair god like Daveed would go to so he can say he set me up. He takes meddling seriously, which I guess helps when you’re a hairstylist (translation: a therapist who makes people look pretty).
We finish our second drinks and the shrimp in amenable silence. I can tell my brother is getting anxious to leave. I knew it wasn’t going to be a long visit but that sharp pang of sadness still creeps in. After paying our tab and heading out, we make our way to our cars. Elliott hugs me tightly, and it hurts to let go. Seeing him is comforting—he’s my best friend, partner in crime, and confidant in battling our parents. I also know there’s more going on with him than he’s letting on, but if he won’t open up about it, my hands are tied. Reluctantly, I watch him leave, not knowing when I’ll see him again.
I shuffle slowly to my car and duck in. Head against the steering wheel and eyes squeezed tightly shut to keep the waterworks at bay, I make a deal with myself right then and there: I’m going to embrace a whole new Cam. I may not be able to fix my brother’s love life, but I damn sure can fix mine. I’m getting myself a new wardrobe, I’m getting in shape, and I’m getting back on the prowl. If I have it my way, Will is never going to be the leading man in one of my sex dreams again.