Chapter Eight. Equilibrium
Chapter Eight
EQUILIbrIUM
The next day, Cam was up at the crack of dawn for an early walk to the family-owned market on Burton Street.
She was determined to make her dad’s “lazy” chilaquiles rojos, going without meat for easy preparation.
While the small shop did have the chiles she needed—guajillo and árbol—they didn’t have her choice of cheese, forcing her to substitute with a container of feta.
By the time she was back at the apartment unpacking groceries, Danny appeared in the kitchen, dressed in his running gear. He wore a long-sleeved Adams College Mustangs shirt and a black ballcap, locking down his thick dark hair. He leaned against the cabinets, Reggie hopping excitedly at his feet.
Scratching Reggie’s neck, he said, “You didn’t need to get food.”
“I wanted to.” After locating a cutting board and a knife, she opened a pack of corn tortillas. “I’m making chilaquiles.”
While Danny acknowledged that with a nod, he said nothing, still scratching Reggie. Since their conversation yesterday, he’d been less talkative than usual—her fault, after reopening an old wound. But she needed to know the truth, and now, she could make it up to him.
Be the friend he deserved.
“So,” she continued, cutting the tortillas into triangles, “what’s the plan today?”
“I thought we’d finish training you.” He dropped to the floor to fully embrace Reggie, smooth cheek to furry one. “If you’re feeling ready, you can start tomorrow. If not, you can keep shadowing.”
“I’d like to start tomorrow but today’s your day off. Don’t waste it training me.”
“It’s not a waste.” He groaned, shifting on the floor as Reggie thoroughly licked his face. “If you don’t wanna go to Beau’s, we can review the menu since you said you were having trouble. How does that sound?”
“Perfect.” With the tortillas cut, she focused on her collection of produce. Garlic, jalapeno, tomato, onion, avocado, cilantro, and lime neatly lined the counter. “Thank you, Danny.”
“I also thought we’d hit the beach.”
Cam grinned down at him, pleased with the thought. She pictured walking barefoot in the sand or reading a good book in the sunshine.
“Maybe grab some ice cream,” he continued. “Or even fresh fudge from Ballyhass.”
“Everything you’re saying sounds amazing.”
“But—”
“—but what?”
“But only if you write.”
She stopped chopping the onion, knife frozen against the cutting board. “Only if I write?”
“You said you wanted a writer’s retreat,” he explained. “That means you gotta put pen to paper.”
She bit her lip, willing her eyes not to water from the pungent onion. “And what will you do while I write?”
“I’ll entertain myself. I’ll play with Reg, go for a swim, whatever.”
“Fine.” Returning to her chopping, she added, “You should go on your run. Otherwise, I’ll eat these by myself.”
“Now that would be devastating.” He jumped to his feet and slipped into his running shoes. “Extra cheese for me!”
As soon as he and Reggie were out the door, she focused on making the salsa roja.
While the tomatoes and chiles cooked, she searched for a blender.
The one she found, buried deep in a cabinet, looked older than her and Danny.
If she had to guess, it came with the apartment, and despite his morning runs, Danny wasn’t the smoothie type like she and Morgan were.
Once the tomatoes were softened and the chiles were hydrated, she blended them into a smooth mixture. Then, not wanting to fry in someone else’s kitchen, she opted to bake the tortilla triangles. With the chips in the oven and the salsa simmering on the stove, her thoughts scattered.
Seeing Danny in the familiar dark blue of their alma mater sent her back to their university years. John Adams College was in Ivybridge, Massachusetts, a quaint town equidistant from Springfield and Worcester, but close enough to commute to Boston for internships at the big companies.
While the campus was a gorgeous mix of old, red brick, and sprawling green, its beauty couldn’t hide the school’s problematic history.
But those who cared about change fought hard, including incredible cultural organizations like the Black Student Association, for which Cory served as treasurer, and Amigos, the Latine heritage club Cam was a member of.
Sophomore year, a cooperative effort between BSA, Amigos, and a slew of other student groups successfully fought to rename three campus buildings, all of them lasting legacies of deplorable men.
All her friends fought with her on the front lines.
Cory played politician, organizing interviews with The Boston Globe and calling the school’s biggest donors for support.
Drew joined bullhorn-led chants in front of the president’s office.
Morgan helped secure hundreds of student and alumni signatures for their petition.
And Danny gathered classmates to hold sit-ins for hours, blocking every space in the administration’s private parking lot—a silly yet strategic tactic.
Those undergraduate moments reiterated their unofficial roles in their friend group.
Cory was the leader, the person always six steps ahead.
Drew was the hype man, the energetic cheerleader.
Morgan was the communication queen, the one guaranteed to be the decisive voice in a group of people-pleasers.
And Danny was the relaxed rebel, the first to order a round of drinks and to coax a smile out of sadness.
Cam was lucky to have found such passionate, supportive friends, and she truly believed they were her soulmates.
And while their love wasn’t romantic, she still experienced the heartbreak from their separation.
The devastating, throat-tightening, stomach-curling sadness that endured because of her split with Cory.
They didn’t reunite as a full five for an entire year after graduation.
Her relationship with Drew—and Cory’s relationship with Morgan—took a hit, their respective best friends forced to pick sides, with easygoing Danny caught in the middle.
There was a newfound awkwardness, a lingering tension, a shadowy saboteur following every move they made.
She missed her friends.
She missed college.
She missed … before.
Was this resigned sadness becoming a permanent fixture in her life?
Would she forever be saddled with grief for moments past?
She was nose-diving into nostalgia. Aching for the time in her life when the world was a place to explore.
When dreams were destinations, not fantasies.
When it felt like the best was ahead of her, not behind her.
And as she had for the last nine months at a dangerous frequency, Cam fell right back into the past. She thought about the gorgeous apartment in Dupont Circle she and Morgan had shared.
The two-bedroom unit had refinished hardwood floors and incredible natural light, and it was a short walk to the Red Line.
It was an expensive apartment, but the money was worth the memories.
Every morning, she and Morgan made smoothies while getting ready to the playlist of the day.
After work, they’d meet up for drinks, or cook a shared meal while watching reality TV.
Fridays were always special, spent either barhopping at local spots or vegging on the sofa with pizza and ’90s rom-coms.
But then Morgan left, and everything collapsed at once. Her overspending caught up with her, her credit score plummeted, and four maxed-out credit cards and six-figure student loan debt loomed over her head. By autumn, she was sleeping in a college student’s bed, feeling alone and unfulfilled.
And in DC, everyone was looking for fulfillment, for purpose. Everyone had a ladder they were climbing. Politics, business, medicine, journalism. Everyone was driven, and smart, and usually, money and connections were thrown into the mix, too.
She didn’t have connections. She didn’t have money. And going on twenty-six, she wasn’t sure she had drive, either.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Cam blinked back tears.
The smell of cooking salsa reminded her of home, and she tried her hardest to keep the tears at bay as she made two eggs and heated up a can of refried beans.
But as she coated the freshly baked chips with the salsa roja, she broke, sobbing beside the stovetop.
By the time two plates were prepared, she was trying to catch her breath. As the door opened, she hunched over the counter to hide her face. When things went wrong, she used to push through the pain. Now, all she felt strong enough to do was lick her wounds.
Reggie bolted to the kitchen, jumping at the countertop in a failed attempt to access the food. But she heard Danny gently shoo him, and then there was a warm hand on the small of her back.
“Hey,” he whispered, leaning over her. “What’s wrong?”
She turned, burying her face in his shoulder. His neck had a thin layer of sweat on it, and the fragrant mix of woodsy deodorant and him was oddly calming. “I don’t know.” Those three words had become her default. “I … started thinking about how much has changed. It made me really fucking sad.”
“It’s okay to be sad.” His cheek brushed against her hair, and she melted, softening further into his hold. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
She closed her eyes, considering his question. Instead of answering directly, she said, “Your blender is old.”
“I have a blender?”
His genuine surprise charmed the smile right out of her, cracking the film of dried tears on her cheeks. “Morgan had a Vitamix,” she explained. “It was fancy. Something a chef would use. It could make hot soup.”
“Yeah? I might have to look into that.”
“We made smoothies with it every morning. Acai bowls, fresh tomato soup with basil…” She couldn’t believe she was fixating on the stupid overpriced appliance. She couldn’t believe how many memories were attached to it. “She sold it when she left for Copenhagen.”
“I can buy one,” he said, like it was nothing.