Cameron
Ever since Dad died when I was barely five years old, she’s been on an endless bender. How we managed to survive until I grew old enough to support us, I’m unsure. But her misery and anger over losing her soulmate seem to have crushed her.
It has turned her into a violent, tormented thing.
But she’s still my mother, the only immediate family I have left.
Last night, she was up late, partying with a few of her drinking buddies. Luckily, she did it at their place this time, not subjecting me to cleaning the mess they leave behind. But it also means she should be passed out either across town or in her room, out of sight.
With that offering me some relief, I slide on my running shorts and my hoodie, running a hand through my hair as I slip on my sneakers and head out of my room.
Our house is small: two bedrooms, one bath, and filled with crumbling furniture. I don’t think we’ve bought anything new since Dad passed, and most of it was built by him anyway.
I fill my water bottle in the kitchen, doing my best to keep my movements small just in case she is in her room. If I wake her now, it’ll be hell to pay.
But as I walk into the living room, I realize my caution was in vain. Mom is walking through the front door, her blonde hair matted and her face a canvas of tired, time-worn lines.
I freeze, hoping she’ll miss me standing here. Or that she’ll be sober and happy for once.
But I’m all out of luck, it seems, because her dull gray eyes find me immediately.
“Cam,” she greets, her voice full of tension and resentment, her body sagging with exhaustion.
Just looking at her, I can tell she used to be beautiful. Yet, somewhere between the devastation of my father’s accident and learning to live without him, she lost her glow.
Now, all she is is misery and a hot temper.
“Morning,” I mutter, my gaze dropping to the stained carpet of our living room.
“And where are you going?” she asks.
“On a run. I have work at nine.”
“With Uncle Danny?” Her tone is dripping with disdain.
When Dad died and his brother didn’t immediately offer to take us in, Mom decided she hated Uncle Danny. The issue with that is that he has three kids of his own and a sick wife.
How could he possibly take on any more? And being Dad’s brother doesn’t immediately require him to give up his own comfort for ours.
But Mom doesn’t understand this. She refuses to. She’s too blinded by her own anger, her own sadness.
I don’t believe my mom ever wanted to be a mother; she just really loved my dad, and when he said he wanted her to keep their unborn baby, she agreed. Now she’s stuck with me, and he’s gone, and she hates that.
“Yes,” I confirm, lifting my eyes to meet hers.
Mom stares at me in distaste, her lips curled into a snarl, but she doesn’t comment on my new job. Most likely because it’ll give her more income. Mom doesn’t bother to work, not since the day I turned sixteen and could do it for her.
“I need some money,” she spits out, holding her palm up for me to place cash in.
“I’m just now starting this gig; I don’t have any—”
“And you don’t have anything from your last paycheck at the diner?” she interjects. “That’s hard to believe, Cameron.”
In truth, I do. But it’s just enough for gas and groceries this week. I can’t spare any cash for her to waste on booze if we want to eat or if I want to keep my job at my uncle’s.
“No, sorry. But I’ll let you know as soon as I get my first paycheck,” I tell her.
It’s the wrong answer. I can never seem to figure out the right one, another reason why being the dictator of my own life is frustrating and overwhelming. I never make the right choice; I never take the correct path.
I should not be trusted to take responsibility alone.
Mom crosses the living room with a quickness that should not belong to a hungover woman, her hand coming down hard on my cheek.
“Don’t lie, son. I’m your mother.” She’s shaking with rage, glaring at me as I hold my stinging face. “You look just like him. When I see you, all I can see is what I lost.”
Mom says this a lot. She never fails to tell me exactly why she despises me. And the truth is, I don’t think I look much like my dad.
He was a handsome man with his dark hair and kind brown eyes, something I’ve seen in the few photos Mom still has stashed in the boxes she has stacked in the hall closet.
I was given her genes, with my blond hair and gray eyes, my small nose, and soft skin. The only reason I have the build I do is through sheer willpower.
“Sorry,” I whisper, my eyes trained on her red heels.
“If I had insisted on the abortion, would he still be here?” she wonders aloud for the millionth time. “If I had taken any other path, would he not have gotten in the car that morning?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, because the question is never a rhetorical one.
“You may look like him, Cameron, but you are nothing like him otherwise,” Mom continues, stepping into my space. “Grow up. Grow a pair. You’re pathetic.”
And with that last jab, she turns on her heel and heads toward her bedroom. I don’t move until the door slams shut, but then I’m running from the house.
Grabbing her keys from the hook along the way, I get into her beat-up Toyota and drive. I just drive, no destination in sight.
I need to get far away from here, from her.
I intended to run for about an hour, then head back to the house to change and get ready for work, but it seems I’ll be working in track shorts today.
If I loved her any less, if I had any amount of confidence in my own abilities to survive alone, I would just leave. I’m not a minor anymore; I don’t have to stay.
But I can’t. I’m terrified of being alone, even if the only other option is her.
So I drive until I feel safe enough to stop, until my brain quiets just a little.
I’m panting, though I haven’t begun running yet. But having the car means I don’t need to head back into town for a while, and I eye the forest next to me.
I can run here, hidden between the trees. Maybe I can find a secluded place to cry in, to let my walls drop.
Sure, I could call Cassie and cry to her. But I hate doing that; I rarely show her this side of myself, even as she knows my home situation. It’s embarrassing; it’s too real once I share it with someone else.
This pain I carry is so severe, so thick that I could drown in it if I linger for too long.
So I run. I park the Toyota on the side of the dirt road and dart between the trees until all I can smell is dirt and pine and peace.
Now I can panic; I can fall apart. A few tears fall down my cheeks as I pump my arms harder, faster; my feet pound into the fallen leaves below me as I blindly head further into the forest.
I’m not even sure where I am; there is so much greenery and abandoned land around Port Orford that I truly could be anywhere. I just know that the road I took here will lead me back into town, toward the auto shop.
Once my lungs burn and my legs feel sore, I pause, leaning against a tree to take in steady, large breaths.
The cloudy sky dims the forest, the wind cutting into my hoodie. I can smell the ocean, so I must be close to the water somehow.
Just a bit longer. I’ll run for a while and then—
“Fancy seeing you here,” a voice calls out, and I freeze, recognizing it immediately.
Slowly, I raise my eyes, spotting Atticus standing a few feet to my left, leaning his shoulder against a tree.
“W-what?” I gasp out, my hands shaking where they rest on my thighs, my back hunched over.
“Are you lost, sweetheart?” he asks, his tone dripping with either condescension or placation. I can’t tell.
“N-no! I was just… I was on a run. Why are you here?” I watch him carefully, taking in his black joggers and his tight blue t-shirt. He looks extremely put together for a guy wandering the wilderness.
“Me? This is my property, technically.”
“What?” I croak, my eyes darting around the trees.
He owns the forest? Honestly, I wouldn’t doubt it.
“You’re very close to Chastain Castle,” Atticus tells me. “You weren’t aware?”
“No,” I whisper. “I was just running.”
“What are you running from?”
I startle, my back straightening, my breath leaving me in heavy pants.
“What does that mean? I wasn’t running from something, just running. For exercise.” My eyes narrow slightly, offended by his observation.
Mostly because he’s right, and a little because I’m tired of him reading so damn easily.
“Is that why you’re crying? Because of exercise?” Atticus begins to walk toward me, and I press myself against the large tree I was using as a crutch only moments ago.
He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of me, lips quirked, watching me like a lion that has finally trapped its first meal of the winter.
“I’m not crying,” I insist.
In a flash, Atticus lifts a hand to wipe at my cheeks, collecting the few tears that have fallen. He rubs his fingertips together, humming softly. “I believe otherwise, Cameron.”
I shiver, once again thrown off balance by how confidently he speaks my name. Like he owns it.
“I was just… It’s not like that.” I’m floundering once more, always a mess in his presence.
What fucked up irony that, of course, I’d end up near Chastain Castle, unable to hide.
“You’re not going to tell me?” Atticus pries.
Suddenly, I’m angry. I don’t normally get angry, but after the morning I had and the way I feel far too exposed, I can’t help it. I want him to fuck off, to touch me, to disappear.
“I don’t have to explain shit to you,” I spit out, my hands clenching at my sides. “I’m just on a run.”
Annnnd, I’m explaining myself anyway. Pathetic.
Something dark flashes in Atticus’s eyes, and the same hand that just tenderly wiped my tears whips out, clutching my chin and pressing my head softly against the tree trunk behind me.
“Do not lie to me,” he demands.
“Don’t lie, son. I’m your mother,” Mom’s voice rings in my ears, making me tremble.
My eyes begin to water once more.
Atticus’s expression does not change, but his grip on my chin loosens just slightly, and he tilts his head a bit to the left. Assessing.
“What has happened to you?” he murmurs, leaning in closer.