Chapter Seven Cammie #3
I wasn’t trying to squeeze an apology out of him, not knowingly, anyway. But it feels pretty damn good to hear. I try to let the words sink in, to quiet the part of me that believes the worst about myself. At least West doesn’t believe that.
His words also remind me that I’m the one who struck first.
“I appreciate that,” I begin. “And I’m sorry, too. What I said at dinner was petty, and didn’t need to be thrown in your face in front of people we’d just met, who will likely now avoid us both like the plague.”
West gives a sad half smile at my joke, then watches me another moment, face hopeful, or maybe even expectant. He must not have missed the fact that I didn’t address whether I meant what I said. Whether I believe he’s a guy looking for a friends-with-benefits arrangement.
But I don’t acknowledge it, because I don’t know what I believe anymore. Instead, I return to my previous question.
“Okay, so really—what were you up to in here?”
He lets his head recline against the back of the chair and his eyes fall closed before he rubs them wearily.
Without opening them, he says, “Well, I don’t know exactly how long you were lurking behind me, but first, I was working on a programming problem.
Casually, just for fun, not hacking into any systems or otherwise up to shady activities.
It’s what I’m studying, computer science, but it’s also a subject where you can teach yourself a lot, if you’re interested in it. Which, uh, I am. Then…”
West hesitates, blinking his eyes open but keeping them trained on the ceiling.
“I was accepted to this research program for the upcoming school year at a university outside Berlin. My spot is reserved but I…I’m still deciding whether I’ll actually go.
I was just checking on the deadline for withdrawing without losing my deposit. ”
My brows shoot up, not knowing how to respond. A congratulations on his acceptance? An expression of sympathy or something, since he’s maybe turning it down? I decide to keep tiptoeing around the subject, see if I can suss out more information.
“So you did need that copy of The Communist Manifesto that’s still in my backpack upstairs. You’re welcome for hauling it all the way home after you ditched me yesterday, by the way.”
He gives me a flat look, one brow twitching up as if to say, You really want to go there?
I don’t, actually, so I steer us back on topic. “That sounds like it’d be a cool opportunity, though. What’s keeping you from going?”
One of his shoulders lifts in a shrug. “In a practical sense, nothing. My parents are supportive, it’d be good for my résumé, won’t delay graduation or anything.
It’s…well, it’s me holding me back, more than anything.
I’m not sure if I can handle a year in a foreign country alone.
I worry if I try something that huge and out of my element, jump straight into the deep end, my anxiety will get real bad, real fast, knocking me right back to where I was before we moved home to stay. ”
There’s a tightness pulling at my chest, coupled with that sinking feeling in my gut that comes on when I realize I might’ve horribly misjudged a situation.
Right before he moved home to Indiana was…
I remember West struggling with some stuff toward the end of our friendship.
His parents’ marriage was on shaky ground, the decision to stop moving the family around so much part of a plan to salvage things.
His normal state of cautious worrywart seemed heightened, bit by bit, as we got older, but I’d mainly chalked it up to his family life stressing him out.
It didn’t change our dynamic, and I was too wrapped up in my growing feelings for him to pay mind to much else.
Did my Crush Goggles put a rosy filter over a time that, for West, was actually pretty dark?
“West,” I venture slowly into what feels like stormy seas. “What do you mean, ‘where you were’ back then?”
His gaze, which had gone unfocused, snaps to mine once more. For a second, his expression is blank before he appears to remember himself, remember ourselves and the shaky ground on which we stand, and it clouds over.
“Cam, once again, what are you doing here?” He sounds tired, dejected maybe, more than angry.
“What are we doing here? You can’t shut me down when I want to talk about our past, tell me you haven’t missed our friendship and don’t want it back, then seek me out the next day and expect me to tell you shit only my therapist knows. I can’t do this whiplash.”
And I can’t even argue with that. He’s right—I’m the human version of that cursed shower upstairs, with my hot-and-cold routine.
I know I’m allowed to have a lot of mixed feelings as I figure out how I want to deal with West and all our history.
But it isn’t fair to expect him to always be here, ready to accept however I feel like treating him at any given hour of the day.
I get to my feet unsteadily. He leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees, head hanging so his eyes don’t track my exit from the room.
Just when I make it to the door, I manage to offer to his back, for what little it might be worth, “I’m sorry.”