Chapter Sixteen West
Chapter Sixteen
West
There are many differences in the day after what Cammie dubbed our “first kiss, round two” versus round one. Like:
Both of us are three years older.
I manage my anxiety by going to therapy, taking meds, and other ongoing self-care strategies, instead of pretending I’m fine and white-knuckling my way through everyday life.
I am not on the verge of several major life changes that make me confused about what kind of relationship I want with Cammie and am subsequently way less likely to say or do anything so out of line that we don’t speak for three years.
There is also one major similarity:
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
Waking up this morning, I’m half convinced the last twenty-four hours were a dream. There’s no way that I, West Jacobs, have been so lucky as to win Cammie Lovett’s affections for the second time in this one short life.
The first time, in all the years I’ve had to analyze it from every possible angle, could have been written off as a product of na?veté or convenience.
We were pretty much each other’s entire social circle for most of our childhood.
Stick us together on one cool international dig site after another, add a healthy share of teenage hormones, and puppy love was nearly guaranteed to result.
This time around, I know the last thing she wanted was to like me, let alone more. And still, in a hostile environment of our own making, feelings took root and grew. So they have to be real, and lasting, and not just because we were forced into close proximity for the summer.
Right?
My confidence in that fact is dropping the longer I go without any sign of Cammie.
As is my certainty that we ended last night in a good place.
After the fireworks—literal and in my mind—wound down, Cam and I were the kind of disgustingly affectionate couple I usually steer clear of if I see them in public.
Holding hands on the train ride and on the subsequent walk from the station to Villa Russo, exchanging giddy smiles over nothing and everything, stealing a kiss every few minutes like we were trying to meet a quota.
At the door to her room, I’d slowly leaned in for a good-night peck, and she responded by gripping the fabric of my T-shirt in her fist and pulling me closer until she was pressed between me and the door, and I forgot where we were, what day it was, my own name.
Nothing existed anymore but Cammie, her smile, and the way she makes my heart feel like it could beat straight out of my chest.
We finally managed to separate ourselves and retreat to our own rooms, only to meet again at the sinks, where we brushed our teeth side by side, and then I learned that Cammie’s toothpaste has a slightly sweeter mint flavor than my own.
When I told her this, she replied teasingly, “Maybe it’s just me.”
Maybe I’d already been thinking the same.
This morning, I’ve heard nothing but silence from her side of the wall.
She wasn’t at breakfast when I went, which gave me plenty of time to sip my coffee and overanalyze every word that left a certain redhead’s mouth yesterday.
All the ones I remember, at least, from when I wasn’t distracted by staring at said mouth or thinking about kissing it.
I’m busy staring at my phone as I start back toward my room, my message thread with Cammie sitting open with a blinking cursor as I try to figure out what to say.
It needs to give the appropriate vibe of “just FYI, I’m still into you, twelve hours and a full night of sleep later, but in a chill, low-pressure way. ”
But without saying exactly those words, thereby sounding like a chatbot’s best effort at mimicking human flirtation.
I’ve just started typing something pathetic like “good morning” when a text pops up.
Cammie: are you wearing those glasses again to seduce me?
I choke out a laugh as I stop in my tracks and look around the corridor from the dining room to the residence hall, my heart doing a backflip when I find Cammie leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. I probably just missed her when I walked past, ironically preoccupied with finding her.
She smirks up at me as I approach, sliding my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants and forgetting about my phone as I tuck it away.
“I’m actually wearing them because I’ve forgotten too much lately, and I’m trying to stop my nightly headaches,” I answer, feeling my lips pull up uncontrollably at the sight of her with a messy riot of curls wrangled into a ponytail, a T-shirt printed with the poster for the movie Holes over cutoff jean shorts, and her dust-covered walking sandals.
Dazedly, I ask her freckled legs, “Why, are they working?”
Her chuckle draws my attention up to her knowing grin. “I can’t speak for the headaches, but they’re very much working for me.”
I swallow even though my mouth feels dry.
Is the villa’s AC malfunctioning, or is it just me?
Cammie reaches out and gives my chest a pat, right around where my heart is beating double time.
“Okay, guess it’s a little early to start objectifying you.
I was about to walk down to Villa di Bronzo, make an appearance with Mom, earn myself more time to get up to off-site shenanigans. Want to come with?”
I’m already feeling relief, seeing her and how normally she’s acting about us. I know if I go off and do my own thing, I’ll only end up spiraling about where we stand. It’s an easy invitation to accept.
We agree to meet on the terrazzo, and then I hurry upstairs to change. As I look for something lighter than fleece sweatpants to wear, none of my clothes feel right. Who packed all this shit? Have I always dressed this badly? Was anyone ever gonna tell me?
A quiet voice in my head says that my closet only looks like it was filled by someone who hates me because I’m on edge about other stuff.
I’m beginning to spiral about messing things up with Cammie before they can go anywhere again, and I’m fixating on things that don’t matter, convincing myself they’re more dire than they are.
I try to believe that, finally tugging on a pair of khaki shorts and a plain blue T-shirt and telling myself that neither item will repel Cam as much as making her wait another ten-plus minutes for me to choose a different outfit.
I’m finger-combing my hair, about to start toward the terrazzo, when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
On-screen is a new text from Max, reminding me that the deadline to submit our roommate request is coming up. He’s been more patient than I deserve, and I owe him an answer. One I still don’t have, but I at least text him back with words this time, promising to give him a definite yes or no soon.
The reminder doesn’t help my unease as I return to Cammie, now sitting at one of the outdoor bistro tables with an odd expression on her face.
“Hey?” I say it like a question, and in answer, she gives two pointed but subtle nods—first toward the chair beside her, then to indicate something behind her.
I sit in the chair, then try to appear casual as I scan the terrazzo beyond Cammie’s shoulder.
A few tables away, Johnny/Gianmarco Russo sits with a younger man I don’t recognize, both of them alternating between peering at the screen of a tablet and then at the assortment of loose papers and folders around it.
Cammie’s fingers fly across her phone screen and a moment later, my phone buzzes.
Cammie: they’re talking about the anniversary party
Cammie: and I’m nosy
I suppress my smile as I meet her eyes again, mischief sparkling in them. I’m more interested in studying their particular shade of blue and all the little streaks and flecks of other shades within than in details of this party, but I try to listen in anyway.
“No, no, this is not correct,” Johnny says, barely concealing some mix of panic and frustration. “Who designed this banner? No, Dr. Lovett’s name is not to be included.”
Cammie straightens in her seat, widening her eyes at me.
“Ah, va bene,” the other guy says hesitantly. “Although we were under the impression that this was a celebration of the anniversary of Dr. Lovett’s discovery and therefore—”
“It’s the anniversary of the discovery of Villa di Bronzo,” Russo cuts in sharply.
“The celebration is not in honor of any singular person, but of the incredible gift that the villa has been to us all. The focus should remain on Villa di Bronzo, and on the Villa Russo Research Residency Program, sì? Allora, about the ice sculpture…”
Cammie scoffs as she gets to her feet, chair scraping across the stones. I catch Russo’s gaze darting her way and surprise flickers there before it narrows into something more displeased. But she doesn’t spare him a glance as she heads toward Villa di Bronzo, and I hurry to follow.
“Is his ego seriously so fragile that he can’t get over my mom’s rejection twenty years later?” Cam rants while we start down the dirt path side by side. “I’m embarrassed for him. I’m tempted to bring some spray paint and graffiti her name on that goofy banner anyway.”
I make what I think are the right noises in support, but I’m having trouble staying present.
My head is spinning off into Worst-Case Scenarioville, imagining a series of catastrophes in which I decide to go to Germany and my anxiety goes through the roof once I’m there, resulting in me ruining this relationship by being the world’s worst long-distance boyfriend and generally an anxious mess, and she’ll never take me back because “fool me twice” and all that, and I have to crawl on home to Pops’s dingy, unfinished basement, single and unwell, my lesson learned in what happens when I try to have it all.