Cameron
FAST FOOD WRAPPERS AND empty beer cans lie discarded all around the living room; somewhere in the corner, a half-eaten burger is smashed into the carpet.
Mom had another one of her parties last night—one I barely slept through, waking every hour—and now it’s up to me to clean. If I don’t, the food will mold, and the wallpaper will eventually reek of booze and cigarette smoke.
I can hear her in the shower now, loudly singing some old country song as she lazily goes through her morning routine. All the while, I’m out here, picking up her mess.
But in the end, silently cleaning up after her is far better than her slapping me into submission, where I’d be doing it anyway.
This has become a decision that is very easy for me to make.
As I throw more empty cans into the trash bag I’m lugging around, the door to the bathroom opens, and Mom walks out wrapped in a towel with her hair loose and dripping over her shoulders.
“Cameron,” she calls, entering the living room.
“Morning, Mom. I’m just cleaning up.”
It seems that ducking my head, taking care of anything she might consider an inconvenience, and giving her cash as frequently as I can is the safest route to go. In fact, she hasn’t hit me in days.
“Good,” she says, picking up a discarded shirt and sniffing it, only to scrunch her nose in distaste. “How much cash do you have on you?”
So, I’ve created a system.
Each paycheck, I take out about two hundred dollars in twenties from the bank and stash them in my room. It’s enough that every time she asks for a handout, I can give her a bill or two and carry on without a fuss.
It truthfully only leaves me with just enough money to pay bills and buy groceries—sometimes a shirt or two—but at least she’s appeased.
“I have forty bucks in my room. Want me to grab it?” I ask.
Mom makes a hum of affirmation, eyeing me impatiently. I drop the trash bag and rush to my bedroom, shutting the door as I rummage through my sock drawer for the spare bills.
By the time I return to her, placing the twenties in her outstretched palm, she’s dressed.
“This is good enough for now,” she says haughtily, shoving the cash into her back pocket. “I’m off. Finish cleaning, will you?”
And with that, she slams the front door shut behind herself.
I’m alone. I’m safe.
But this morning was an easy morning. No drunk anger, no James, no hiding. Just me lowering myself for her needs and slaving away, just as I always have.
Finishing the remainder of the cleaning, I pack my bologna sandwich and head to work, the roar of my Mustang burning hot and prideful in my gut.
I did this. I fixed it.
If only I could fix everything else. My life, my relationship with my mother…. Atticus.
Thinking of him makes me think of Cassie, and the urge to call her up and apologize for my attitude yesterday is strong. She may be my accomplice in this fucked up situation we concocted, but she’s still my best friend.
She didn’t know that I was falling in love with him. She didn’t know what he meant to me and why I reacted the way I did. As far as Cassie is concerned, I shit-talked the guy she liked and pissed him off so badly that she lost her chance, and I lost my friend.
But I didn’t lose my friend. I lost my safe space, my dictator, my hope.
And it makes me sick. It makes me vicious. Cassie is just unfortunate enough to land on the receiving end of my vile outbursts more often than not, and for that, I truly do feel guilty.
As I pull into the parking lot in front of Orford Auto Repair and head inside, I feel a bit lighter.
Being here and doing the work I do gives me a sense of purpose. Of satisfaction. In the past few years, I’ve learned a lot of interesting things, like how to work on an engine and how to change brake pads.
It makes me feel confident—for the first time in my life, something other than rigorous workouts is making me feel fulfilled.
“Hey, Cam,” Uncle Danny greets me from where he’s standing by the rolling garage door.
It’s pulled open, leaving space for cars to pull up for servicing. Several other mechanics are already here, including Henry—Grace’s ex-boyfriend and an all-around decent guy.
He gives me a small wave as Uncle Danny pats my back.
“Morning,” I reply, taking in the work around me. “What’s on the schedule for the day?”
“Well, right now we have a lady with a flat tire, and in an hour we’ve got more body work for Mr. Jenkins. Oh, and after three we’ve got an oil change.”
I nod along to Uncle Danny’s spiel. It all seems basic enough, and I’ll probably get off early enough for a long workout tonight, rather than a thirty.
“Sounds good.”
“Alright then,” my uncle says. “Let’s get started.”
The best thing about mechanic work is that it doesn’t involve decision-making. There are only a few ways to correctly fix up a car, and I’ve been taught every single one. It’s mind-numbing work—work that makes sense and follows a very consistent pattern.
This eliminates anxiety and panic, two things I’ve been filled with since I lost the one person who helped get me out of my head. And the two things I was plagued with before him.
Sometimes I wish he had never shown me how good life can be when paired with someone who wants to handle your entire existence for you. And other times I’m so grateful to have experienced it that I can’t even breathe.
If I hadn’t said such hurtful, vile things—if I had been worth more—would I still have that safety net? Would I be held up in Chastain Castle, warm and sated?
There’s no use pondering, but I do it anyway.
I pine, long, and daydream. Every day, all day.
“3 o’clock is here!” Henry shouts on his way to a late lunch, and I wipe my hands on a dirty rag as an old truck pulls into the dock.
One that I recognize for some reason. I’m doing my hardest to sort out this recollection as Julian hops out of the driver’s seat.
As he sees me, a grin overtakes his features, and he heads straight for me.
“I knew you worked here!” Julian says gleefully. “I wasn’t sure you’d be in today.”
I’m frozen, stock still. We haven’t spoken since that night; I haven’t even opened the last few messages he sent Cassie and me.
“Uh, yeah,” I respond slowly, taking in his blue jeans and his gray sweater. His black hair is windblown.
Looking at him, all I can see is how he looked pressed against Atlas, devouring his mouth. A confusing mixture of lust and misery courses through me at the thought.
This is the man I manipulated into friendship, if only to have a chance at redeeming myself to Atticus. This is the man who gets to see Atticus, day in and day out.
To be fair, when I first invited Julian to Checkers, it truly was out of kindness.
But once the secret was out that he was working at Chastain Castle, and Cassie coined our plan, all of my good intentions faded.
I shifted into the darker version of myself, the one who doesn’t hesitate to use others as a stepping stone.
“She just needs an oil change,” Julian tells me, nodding toward his truck. “Mind if I hang with you while you work?”
“Um.” I turn, eyeing where Uncle Danny has disappeared back into the office. “Sure.”
It’s the least I can do. Julian really is a nice guy, someone who clearly went through something on his trek to winning Atlas over—considering the scar that now runs over his eye and toward his nose. The scar he said a rabid dog gave him, but is so obviously not from that kind of accident.
I really should be nicer to him.
Julian pulls his truck into the dock, and I grab the jack and begin working on his oil change.
“You’ve really blossomed here, huh?” he asks me, sitting on the spare parts table behind me.
“I wouldn’t say blossomed,” I mutter, walking a few feet away to grab the needed oil.
“I would.” He laughs. “You look great, man. Really.”
“Thanks. You do… uh, you do too.”
I don’t turn to read his expression, only stick to my job nervously. I can hear the steady thump of his legs swinging as I look under his truck.
“Listen,” Julian begins, tone awkward and unsure. “I wanted to ask you, because it’s been on my mind since the last time we saw each other, but uh, how do you know Atticus?”
I damn near slam my head against the frame of his trunk, my eyes widening.
“W-what do you mean?” I rush out.
“Well… I’ve just never seen him so startled as when he saw you and Cas. What happened between you guys?”
Fuck, I really am an open book. Even Julian could see my longing, my misery.
“Not much,” I reply shortly. “Just… we just used to be friends, is all.”
The word friends tastes sour on my tongue. Especially as memories of his hands on my body resurface. Of his gentle guiding and that beautiful day when he blew me in the living room of that little house after I gifted him a snow globe I found in the junkyard.
“Oh. Okay. Why didn’t you guys mention it when we first met?” Julian asks.
“It just didn’t feel important, I guess,” I lie.
I lie, and lie, and lie.
“Makes sense,” he offers, giving me an undue reprieve.
I take it anyway.
I work in silence for a while, doing my best not to move jerkily or draw attention to myself. God forbid I make it even more obvious that I’m devastated over Atticus and what happened between us.
“Oh!” Julian calls out after some time has passed. “Atlas’s twenty-first birthday is coming up. We’re having a party for him on Saturday. Wanna come?”
I damn near stop breathing. This guy won’t stop dropping bombs on me, and I can’t take it emotionally.
“To… to Chastain Castle?” I ask him, pausing my movements as I stop pouring in oil.
“Yeah. It should be fun! It’ll be the first time he’s ever invited people over.”
“I… I don’t think so, Julian. Sorry.”
The idea of turning back up there after Atticus made it so clear he wants nothing to do with me makes me sick. He’d be pissed, or I’d end up in another fight with him that I certainly can’t win and would only damage our non-existent relationship even further.
“That’s a shame,” Julian murmurs. “I’m going to text the group chat and invite everyone else too, so hopefully you’ll—”
“I’ll go,” I interrupt.
If and when he texts that group chat, Cas will see it. She will definitely show up. And the idea of her seeing Atticus while I’m not around, potentially earning his forgiveness, makes something ugly and envious spread through my chest.
Even if he hates me for it, I won’t let Cas see him alone. I just can’t.
“Good to hear,” Julian tells me, and there’s something knowing and sympathetic in his voice that makes me want to vomit.
I pull out his dipstick and show him his new, full, clean oil.
“All done,” I say, returning it to the tank and shutting his hood. “You’re good to go.”
“Thanks, man.” Julian hops down from the table, jiggling his keys. “And hey, I’m happy you’re coming. I’ve, uh, missed everyone. With Susie and Landon a state away, you guys are the closest friends I’ve got.”
Guilt and shame fill my body as I stare into his kind brown eyes, my hands trembling at my sides.
“Yeah,” is all I can manage.
Julian heads toward the driver’s side of his truck before he stops, speaking to me without ever turning around.
“You guys aren’t ignoring me because of Atty, right?
I know that Cassie and I had some brief flirting going on, and I know it was probably a shock to catch me with another man, but I…
I never intended to hurt anyone. I wasn’t trying to use her. ”
The irony of his statement, the cruel reality of it, is sickening. I don’t know how to explain to him that it wasn’t his doing that ruined our friendship, but rather that we were using him.
“No,” I try to assure him. “We’ve just been… busy.”
“Right,” he murmurs, shoulders sagging. “Hopefully everyone can get a little unbusy then.”
With that, he gets into his truck, gives me a small wave, and drives away.
I collapse into bed after my second shower of the day, my legs aching from the intense workout I completed about an hour ago.
It feels nice to hurt, to ache, somewhere other than my heart.
Before I left work, Uncle Danny stopped me and asked how Mom is doing, so of course I had to lie. I had to tell him that she’s fine, just being her normal self.
I didn’t mention that she’s still a lazy drunk. I didn’t share that she takes a good chunk of the paychecks he hands me or that she still brings around that fuckwad who put his hands on me.
But Uncle Danny bought it—or at least I think he did—and I scurried off to the gym.
Now, as I lay on my full-sized mattress in the dark, I kind of regret that lie. Maybe I should tell him. Not that he’d help me; I’m a grown adult now, and he has responsibilities of his own. But it might be nice to have someone to talk to about it. Someone who personally knows Mom…
But then I remember how pathetic it makes me to still be here, picking up after her, and I decide against it once more.
Lying is the answer as of now.
I can hear Mom in the living room. The loud music and constant chatter are clear indicators of another party; an indicator I don’t need since they’d already begun by the time I returned from the gym.
In the morning I’ll have another mess to clean, and she’ll swipe more cash from me. It’s like clockwork.
I feel worn down. I feel hopeless. It doesn’t matter how much fulfillment my job gives me when going home torments me all the same. My life is a never-ending series of misery and regret, and there’s not much I can do to stop it.
Well, not much outside of abandoning my mother and moving towns. So I’ll live in this bubble of hurt until she passes or until I’m saved by someone more capable than me. Not that I’m truly expecting that to happen.
The room around me is stifling tonight—it’s been getting hotter and hotter the more spring arrives. I guess I was too tired to notice it last year.
I toss and turn, throwing my comforter off of my heated skin.
I want to sleep, but I can’t seem to slip off. I feel… well, I feel as if someone is watching me.
The hair on my arms is raising, and I keep searching around my empty bedroom in hopes that I’ll catch the culprit. But I’m just Cameron, and I’m not interesting enough for someone to break in, let alone watch me lie in bed.
But even with that in mind, I peek at each shadow, searching for something. Anything. Anyone.
Nothing. I’m alone, just as always.
It is only me and the silhouette that sways outside my window.