Chapter Thirteen Cammie #3
I sigh and face forward again. “I had somewhat of a wake-up call recently, and it’s made me reconsider things.
I applied to a field school that I thought would be a dream come true.
It’s pretty exclusive, so I probably should have known better, but I was so sure I’d get accepted.
I mean, I’ve only been hearing how smart and special and interesting I am since birth.
” My laugh is mirthless. “But I didn’t even make the waitlist.”
“Cam…” West starts, and the pity in his voice makes me want to “hop off” this bus while it speeds down the highway.
“It’s okay. I’m okay, because it’s the reason I’m even here now, for one thing.
But I also think I needed that—I’ve coasted long enough on my mom’s name, on the Bambina stuff, and I know you said you didn’t mean the no-personality thing, but you weren’t totally off-base, either.
I think I made the love of archaeology so much of who I am that it became this…
crutch? I haven’t really done much for myself before, haven’t had to figure out what I could be good at or passionate about.
Trying to find my dad, it’s partially to understand more about who I am and where I come from, partially in the hope of forming a relationship with my other parent.
But it’s also, I guess…to prove to myself that I can do it. ”
West is silent, presumably processing everything I’ve confessed. Maybe struggling to form a response that’s not “About time you got hit with the humility stick! Welcome to the real world, Bambina di Nepo!”
But of course, the words he eventually finds are the opposite of harsh.
“Cammie, you know that one rejection from one program doesn’t have to change the whole course of your life, right?
Whatever you’ve convinced yourself lately, you are qualified and capable and brilliant and passionate.
So what if you knew what you loved from the jump? Some people just luck out early.”
My lips twist and I look out toward the bay as we ride higher up a hillside.
A large part of me wants to take his words as truth, but my cynical side still resists, tells me I just want to keep coasting through on credit I didn’t earn.
More powerful than either of the warring emotions, however, is an exhaustion that’s quickly pulling me under, between the busy day behind us and the important night to come.
I don’t want to talk about my personal crises anymore.
“You might be right,” I concede, mostly to bring things to a quicker close. “But if you don’t mind, can we just…chill for a while?” The question fades into a yawn, and West eyes me with a knowing smile, one that tells me we’re hitting pause on this conversation rather than stopping it entirely.
“I wouldn’t mind kicking back and enjoying the ride until pizza time,” he agrees.
“You can take a nap, if you want—I downloaded a podcast I haven’t had the chance to listen to yet.
It’s an interview with one of those researchers working on the Herculaneum scrolls, like we saw at the museum in Na—Okay, covering your yawn with your hand doesn’t make it less offensive.
” West gives me a flat look, and I hold my free hand up with apology as another yawn hits.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” I say in drawn-out yawn-speak.
“Yeah, yeah. Pretend indifference all you want, but I know you know that project is cool as hell.”
I snicker while he leans over to get his headphones out of his backpack and pops one in the ear not facing me.
As he queues up his entertainment, I angle myself a little closer to him until my head can rest against his shoulder.
I feel him pause for only half a second before he shifts lower in his seat, giving me easier shoulder-resting access.
“Hey, should we move downstairs, or under the shade in the back?” he suggests gently. “Your face is getting a little pink.”
With my eyes already closed, my consciousness quickly slipping, I roll my head from side to side. “I’ll be fine, Mom.”
He lets out a weary sigh and I grin to myself. I assume the issue’s been dropped, that he’s only getting more comfortable as he does some more adjusting of his position with minimal jostling of my head.
But then the world on the other side of my eyelids gets dark. Opening them doesn’t help, either. “What the—” I start to sit up, to pull at whatever kidnapper-style burlap sack has been tugged over my head, when a hand presses me back to West’s shoulder.
“My rain jacket. Allegedly the material is SPF 70, but even if that’s an overestimation, it’s gotta be better than your ‘fuck it, that’s what aloe is for’ method of sun protection.”
My laugh echoes under my pseudo-blanket.
“Uh-huh, sure. If you don’t want to see my hideous face anymore, Weston, just say so,” I tease.
His answering laugh is incredulous. “Believe me,” he mutters, “when I say that I can’t imagine ever getting tired of your face.”
And even though he still manages to make the words sound grumpy, the effect on me is a full-body-on-fire, heart-racing feeling, and it has nothing to do with the sunburn.
The fire fades into a less intense, lingering warmth that settles in my chest. This complete comfort in being safe and cared for is something I doubt I’d ever tire of, either.
I tuck my smile against the clean scent of his cotton T-shirt sleeve, drifting off to sleep while sinking deeper into the familiar feeling of falling hard for West Jacobs.