Chapter Two West
Chapter Two
West
Cammie Lovett looks like shit.
I probably shouldn’t acknowledge it out loud, definitely not before some kind of greeting, a how-you-doing, or long-time-no-see, and yet—
“You look like shit.”
Her mouth, which has been gaping with obvious shock since we first locked eyes, immediately twists into a pout.
The berry red of her lips matches the flushed spots on each cheek, the only color on her otherwise ghostly white face.
She’s an angry spirit, my Ghost of Best Friends Past. One who could clearly use a nap, judging by the dark circles under her eyes, and a long sit in the villa’s AC. A hairbrush wouldn’t hurt, either.
“You,” Cammie practically spits at me, “look like a real nightmare I’ve had. Am I asleep right now?”
The barb doesn’t totally bounce off, but I roll my eyes to hide it. “No, but good to see you, too.” I take a step back into the foyer. “You coming in?”
Cammie’s sneakers don’t budge, but her arms cross over her chest and one hip cocks to the side. “Seriously, Weston. What the hell are you doing here?”
So that’s how she wants to play this. Full-naming me and everything. I cross my arms to match hers and widen my stance, tip my chin up, and let my lips pull into a smirk. She already thinks I’m a dick; might as well look the part. “Really, Camilla? What do you think I’m doing here?”
Her blue eyes dart wildly around my face, then lower, over my faded green T-shirt, dark jeans, sock-covered feet.
I resist the instinct to straighten my spine.
I do not need to impress this girl, and it doesn’t even seem like she’s really seeing me.
Her gaze is distant, as if she’s putting together the puzzle pieces in her mind, working out the same conclusion that I did when Dad and I arrived at Villa Russo yesterday and I found out Dr. Alex was here, too.
“Dr. Danny is not part of the documentary,” she declares, like she can speak it into reality.
“Afraid so,” I answer with a coolness that belies how extremely not cool all of this feels. “In case you forgot, he was also part of the dig twenty years ago.”
“Okay, but…but why are you here?” One of her hands goes into the red tumbleweed of her hair. It might never get back out. “You’re an adult who should, like, have your own life by now. You don’t have to let your dads drag you back and forth across the world.”
I refrain from flinching, but only barely. “I could say the same for you,” I say, tossing a tired hand in her direction. “Yet here we both are.”
“This is…Why didn’t she—” With a growl that raises the hair on my arms, Cammie charges forward, shoulder-checking me so hard on her way past that I stumble backward.
The rest of whatever sentence she was trying to form becomes unintelligible as she mutters under her breath, but just before she turns the corner, I can pick out a clear “no, nope, not happening.”
I shouldn’t have opened the door. I’d been walking to the communal kitchen to scrounge up a snack when I heard a car pulling away. I thought it might be a field school student arriving, figured I’d try to be helpful.
See if I ever try that again.
I turn from where I just watched the ginger tornado disappear down the hall, ready to close the door, but notice that her backpack and suitcase are still lying there, abandoned and baking in the Italian summer sun.
It would serve her right if I just left them.
Let her computer fry or her toiletries melt all over her clothes.
She’d sure as shit do that if the roles were reversed.
But something in me—probably that pesky voice of reason—tells me not to give the girl any legitimate grounds to be in a permanent bad mood.
At least for as long as we’re trapped under the same tiled roof.
So I drag the bags up the last stair and inside the foyer, leaving them in a heap beside a decorative vase.
When I finally make it to the kitchen, I’m disappointed to find that my hunger is gone. In its place is a growing lump of anxiety. Seeing Cammie again brings back to mind the stuff she said that day three years ago. Harsh words that still run through my head some nights when I can’t sleep.
As I turn on a heel and set off in the same direction she went, I wonder how—despite all my efforts to get a good handle on my mental health, to live a steady, predictable life—I’ve found myself back here, speed-walking toward chaos in human form.
I should have known better than to voluntarily return to my father’s world for the summer, especially to the site that made him famous.
Of course no one would make a documentary about Villa di Bronzo without Dr. Alex Lovett, the archaeologist credited with the villa’s initial discovery and Dad’s close friend and former colleague.
And the Cammie I used to know—better than I’ve ever known another person—wouldn’t have passed up the chance to spend this summer in this place for anything.
Judging by the trowel that protrudes from her backpack’s outer pocket, at least some parts of my former friend remain unchanged since we went no-contact.
She still wants this world as much as she ever has, the one where her mom and my dad have built long and successful careers, learning all they can about people of the past by digging up the pieces they left behind.
The world where they raised two wild kids, giving us the run of a different dig site with each new excavation they worked on, a different temporary home, but always the same best friend to explore it with.
Up until three summers ago, when one reckless kiss ruined everything.
Trying to push the memory from my mind, I stop at a side door.
I could either turn and continue down an interior hallway that leads to the villa’s library, or I could exit to a covered walkway that borders a terrazzo, then winds through some gardens, and eventually connects to one of the guesthouses.
Muffled voices through the glass—ones that sound a lot like Cammie and Dr. Alex—make the decision for me, and I step out into the midday heat.
I make a file folder in my head, typing the label Present Cammie. If I dig deep into the recesses of my mental recycling bin, I could pull out the Past Cammie folder, shake the dust and cobwebs off it. Click and drag the relevant info from the old to the new:
Cammie still wants to be an archaeologist, a.k.a. Dr. Lovett 2.0.
Cammie also wants nothing to do with me.
While I’ve had no way to keep up since we blocked each other on all social media three years ago, I assume that by now, a year into college and seemingly about to start her first field school as a student, she’s right on track to make number one happen; number two could be more difficult to pull off, but I’m willing to help her try.
My mental state would certainly be better for it.
Dad promised a low-stress summer. It’s only our second in this post-custody-agreement stage, when I’ve aged out of the court-mandated schedule, but I still have to live with someone during every school break.
Adulthood means the decision of when to spend time with each of my fathers is up to me.
A decision that is not at all emotionally fraught and hasn’t been the topic of at least a dozen therapy sessions since their divorce.
Neither Dad nor Pops gave a formal pitch; there were no slide decks prepared or formal speeches outlining their most compelling arguments for why I should spend the break with each of them.
But I sensed the seeds being planted, less-than-subtle hints dropped over the entire spring semester any time I spoke to one of them.
With every phone call, every casual inquiry about “where my head was” on the subject, every allusion to something we could do together “if I was around” after the school year, it was clear what they wanted.
What wasn’t clear to me was what I wanted.
I dragged my feet for months, weighing the pros and cons of being home with Pops versus traveling with Dad.
In the end, it felt like fate stepped in when Pops learned he had to teach summer school, majorly limiting the time he’d have to spend with me.
Now I’m wondering if what I thought was a gift from the universe was actually a prank.
Perhaps a curse. It’s clear I upset a higher power somewhere, and in return, they’ve summoned the only person in the world who sincerely hates me and delivered her to my literal doorstep.
Dad insisted last night that he didn’t know Cammie would be here any earlier than I did, that he also only found out when we met up with Dr. Alex yesterday.
But those two are so in each other’s business, I find it hard to believe they didn’t discuss plans to both bring their kids to this summer-long walk down memory lane.
I happen to know that back in the day, they coordinated when to give the sex talk to Cammie and me—separately, thank god—and workshopped it with each other to prepare.
This feels similarly coordinated, an intentional withholding of key information that could’ve kept one or both of their offspring from getting on a flight to Italy.
Would I have backed out, had I known about the Lovett of it all? I don’t know, but I probably would have packed more anxiety meds.