Chapter Five Cammie
Chapter Five
Cammie
Even in my sleep, I can’t escape Weston Jacobs.
The first night after a long travel day, no matter the change in distance or time zones, I am reliably dead to the world. Thoroughly zonked, from the moment my head hits the pillow until a persistent alarm or brave human revives me the next day.
By the time I fled the Welcome (to Hell) Dinner, I was craving that sweet hibernation.
I almost wished West’s verbal knockout punch had been literal—that I could’ve taken the L and skipped straight to being unconscious.
But no, I had to spend another half hour actually thinking thoughts and feeling feelings and hiding it all under a polite, composed mask before I was finally alone in my room, regrettable outfit off, pajamas on, lights out.
I told myself I didn’t care that West looked so betrayed by what I told that Lila girl.
I’d only said it because of all his little jabs at me and my overalls, each snarky comment like a tug on one of my braids, making me want to swat back.
If our words were our weapons, I’d thought mine were a Swiss Army knife, but West had answered with explosives.
Then, instead of enjoying a peaceful, restorative slumber, I proceeded to relive the awful night for nine hours straight.
That’s how long it felt, anyway, with the weird time distortion that happens in dreamland.
I woke up with splayed limbs tangled in my duvet, and similarly tangled memories of the real versus dream versions of last night.
It didn’t help that Dream Cammie made some disturbing creative choices.
Like devoting a lot of attention to Dream West’s effortlessly shiny hair, which fell in a kind of tidy mess I didn’t know could be so appealing.
And his strong jawline, shaded with a light stubble that hadn’t been there earlier in the day, and definitely wasn’t a thing the one time my lips had touched his.
And his forearms, revealed by the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt.
I rub my eyes aggressively, like that’ll wipe those all-too-real images from where they’re printed on my brain in what I fear is permanent ink.
I, for one, could have gone my whole life without seeing West Jacobs in a button-down with the sleeves rolled up.
I didn’t need to know that he’s acquired objectively hot forearms in our years apart.
It would’ve been my preference for him to spend the whole summer inside a hazmat suit with a kick me sign taped to the back.
Something that wouldn’t allow me any glimpse of his present-day body, so I could imagine he’s become completely unappealing.
Like he no longer bathes, because he thinks hygiene is a myth created by Big Soap.
Or he got a giant chest tattoo of the word FREEDOM and only dresses in revealing muscle tanks that show it off.
But no. He’s grown into the kind of handsome where a neon sign could hang over his head, flashing the words this guy will ruin your life, and it wouldn’t stop most people from letting him.
As the fog of jet-lagged sleep begins to clear, I find that despite Dream Cammie’s weakness for the enemy’s pretty face, my resolve to steer clear of him is strengthened.
I will not let West sap an ounce more of the energy I can put to better use, won’t even give him the time of day.
Maybe in return, he won’t haunt me at night.
I commence what I’m considering the real first day of this summer adventure with a pep in my step and, even better, a clear-cut plan. It’s time to hit the ground running on my Dad Quest.
Somewhere in the info Mom dumped on me yesterday, there was mention of a daily breakfast spread available in the dining room, so that becomes my first stop.
A few of my fellow late risers mill about by the food stations or sit alfresco enjoying tiny cups of espresso, but I don’t grab a plate to join them.
I have a train to catch and a story to spin before I get there, so I make a beeline for the pastry tray and wrap up a few options in a paper napkin.
I stuff the bundle into the small day pack on my back while an additional cornetto goes to my mouth, my teeth clamping it in place while my hands are busy resituating my bag and pushing open one of the doors to outside.
I step into the sunshine at the same time that I take my first bite into featherlight layers of buttery goodness, and the combination might be the strongest hit of serotonin I’ve had all year.
This has to bode well for the journey ahead of me.
Double-checking my phone, I don’t find any updates from Mom since the one she sent before I woke, describing her plans to take Ilaria and her crew on a walk-through of Villa di Bronzo.
She wasn’t sure if they’d be filming today or just generating ideas, but she invited me to join them if and when I wanted.
There’s a lot I’m keeping from her, and likely more to come in the weeks ahead.
I’m lucky she’ll be so busy with the documentary, plus doing some guest lectures for the field school, but even the most hectic workday would not keep Dr. Alexandra Lovett from going into full mom-panic mode if she lost track of me in a foreign country.
To keep us all off a first-name basis with the polizia, I’ll have to deploy some strategic white lies.
I don’t feel great about this, don’t love taking advantage of the trust she’s always given me. But when compared with the huge secret she’s been keeping from me for nineteen years and counting, well, I tell myself I’m allowed a little withholding of my own.
I’m so focused on finalizing a cover story that can satisfy Mom with as few lies as possible that I don’t really register where I’m going until my boots hit the first stair.
The switch to metal rather than dirt under my sneakers stops me in my tracks, and I look down at the cloud of dust settling around my feet.
This is my first time setting foot in Villa di Bronzo when I’m actually old enough to understand the significance.
Memories flash before my eyes, younger versions of me on other dig sites or lying in my bed at night, dreaming of the day I’d make it here.
I always thought it would feel like coming home—like as the Bambina di Bronzo, I’m a part of this place and it’s a part of me, that my return might be akin to a long-lost puzzle piece completing the picture.
The reality is more complicated. At the bottom of this staircase, installed by the first crews to work on excavations here twenty years ago, is the main entrance to the sprawling site.
The closest section is the most thoroughly excavated, rooms and hallways and courtyards all aboveground and open to viewing by select visitors.
Not much active excavation takes place on this end nowadays, Mom has said when showing me pictures, but conservators are always working on better preserving these areas from exposure to the elements.
The farther back I look, the less there is to see at the surface, the trenches and tunnels and pits forming a haphazard grid where excavations are active.
A part of me wants to head straight there, take the trowel I packed out of habit, and get down in the dirt to see what discoveries are still hidden within.
But a bigger part of me says I need to wake up and smell the espresso.
The part that could recite the IIAS rejection email from memory and still feels the slash it made through my self-worth.
West’s words last night were only salt to that wound, driving home the reality that without my mom’s achievements and badass career, I’m no one special.
That I happened to be born at Villa di Bronzo, through random chance and a dash of Mom’s stubbornness, doesn’t make me anything but a quirky blip in the site’s long history.
It’s time to figure out what more my life can be.
As I resume my descent of the stairs, I can just barely spot the familiar reddish hair of my target amid a small group gathered in one of the rooms farthest from the villa’s entrance.
I don’t let myself look around too much as I wind through the maze of rooms in that direction.
I can’t let a cool fresco or mosaic floor distract me from my mission.
I’m close enough to hear Mom’s voice when a distraction I didn’t anticipate cuts off my path.
“Ah, Camilla, fantastico,” Ilaria cries as she pulls me in for a hug and one of the double-cheek kiss greetings that folks here are fond of.
Mom explained this last night, after I was visibly startled by the one-two punch of air smooches from a colleague she’d just introduced.
The couple of instances that followed, I tried to reciprocate in kind, but I always seem to kiss the air too late after the other person’s pulled away.
This time is no different, but the friendly woman doesn’t seem to notice or care as she looks to the crew member at her side, a camera perched on his shoulder.
My smile drops. “La Bambina di Bronzo returning home for the first time—oh, we must take some shots of her taking it all in, sì? The light in the portico is stunning at this time of day, or maybe the room with the Athena fresco…”
I’m about to attempt an inconspicuous escape, pressing myself against the wall and slide-stepping out of sight, when my mother appears on Ilaria’s other side. The words Bambina di Bronzo have a way of summoning her.
“There you are,” she says with a smile and a quick side hug for me. “I’m glad you got to catch up on some sleep. Were you still able to find food?”
I nod. “I made it before the buffet closed. Good cornettos.”
So good that I nabbed two more for the road.
“Oh, perfect. And it sounds like you’re here right on time for your film debut—did I hear that correctly?”
She directs the last words toward Ilaria, who finishes up a rapid exchange in Italian with her camera guy before facing Mom and me with her wide smile.