16. Sixteen
Sixteen
“Bye, y’all, have fun today.” I wave at the boys in the back seat of Lyra’s sedan as she backs out of the driveway. “And be good!”
Their shrieks and window slams in the back seat make her wince as she lifts her fingers off the steering wheel in a half wave. A smile tugs at my lips despite the dull hangover-induced headache that’s throbbing at my temples. Between Irma’s lack of regard for my ego, Reed’s visit down memory lane, and Camp . . . Camp.
I rub my temples. A morning away from the hell of car line and Ms. Mitchell’s withering glare is a gift.
I need a minute.
A deep breath.
A shower.
After the way Camp looked at me and touched me and licked me, probably a cold one.
I left the bar right after him, but he was already asleep on the floor when I got home because I sat in the driveway and stared at the house in the dark. Confused.
Nothing made sense.
After years of being together, the way Camp looked at me, the things he said, were uncharted territory. Heat that cooled long ago. Or so I thought.
And worse, I don’t even know what’s genuine. What’s how he feels versus what’s pretend. What’s what he really wants versus him lashing out because it’s Reed.
Thor’s paws click against the wood floor on my heels, the sound broken up like morse code as he communicates with short taps and long whines. In the middle of the kitchen, on his haunches, he stares at me with his head tilted and drool dripping to the ground and bouncing up like disgusting slobbery yo-yos. I play a game where I pretend to make him wait for Camp to feed him, but when his whimpering reaches a crescendo, I swear under my breath, and relent, scooping food into his bowl. He inhales it like a canine vacuum cleaner and, despite how annoyed I am, I chuckle . Stupid dog.
I move on autopilot into my morning chores—folding towels from the dryer, picking up toy cars and Lyra’s hair clips from the coffee table—and I hear the pipes in the old walls creak with Camp’s post-run shower.
Taking a sip of my coffee—half milk, half coffee, one small squeeze of honey—something in the quiet air feels different. Delicate almost.
Setting my coffee down, I pick up my camera. Through the viewfinder, the frame is filled with jagged snake plants, worn jute rugs, Thor in all his sprawled-out glory, and picture books on every flat surface. But it’s the light that makes it magic. The way it paints over all our stuff and makes it look like something valuable. Like it’s coated in magic. Like the dust particles catching the light are really flecks of sparkly gems in the midst of a treasure trove of us.
As annoyed as I’ve been by this house—how we came to be in this house—in this moment I can’t imagine living anywhere else.
I only take one photo before abandoning the camera for the stack of folded towels and head to the master bathroom. The door is cracked, a steamy haze lingering in the threshold.
“Fuck,” I hear Camp say, voice low as I push the bathroom door open with my toe.
Eyebrows pinched, I open my mouth, but as the scene in front of me registers, I snap it closed.
Through the fogged-up glass wall of the shower, Camp stands, the familiar lines of his back toward me. His narrow waist. Toned ass and legs. Droplets of water dripping down him like rivers in a canyon. One palm is pressed against the opposite wall—fingers splayed against the white subway tiles—his head is bowed, forehead nearly touching the wall.
I take a quiet step closer; his eyes are closed.
“Now,” he grits out, half groan, half grunt.
What the . . . ?
That’s when I see it: his other hand.
The one wrapped around himself.
Moving.
Back and forth.
Fast.
I shouldn’t, but I take another step forward, watching my husband, jaw set, shoulders wracked with tension, stroking himself.
He moves faster, muscles popping along his arms.
When his eyes open, I’m caught. Watching him. Unable to stop watching him.
But he doesn’t stop either. And he doesn’t take his eyes off me.
Not when I suck in a sharp breath.
Not when I drop the stack of towels I forgot I was holding onto the floor.
Not for the six more strokes it takes for him to finish.
Which he does.
Which I watch.
Entirely.
Our eyes stay hooked—heated and silent—until the garbage truck on the street makes its token beep beep beep and Thor lets out a deep bark at the sound.
Then I’m gone, stumbling out of the bathroom trying to process what I just witnessed, sprinting to my coffee like it will erase my thoughts and my memory like some kind of magical potion. I drink it in gulps, burning my tongue and singeing my throat. When I refill it, I chug it black, not even caring that the bitter flavor is scorching my tongue.
It does nothing to dampen the shock of seeing Camp when he walks out of the bedroom. His hair is still wet, and his skin is rosy from the shower or his hand or both.
“Hi,” I say, awkward, grabbing a spray bottle of cleaner and misting the already-clean counter in a layer of moisture before scrubbing it with a rag; it’s my only idea to escape the situation other than shoving my head into the garbage disposal.
“Hey,” he says, pouring himself a cup of coffee, letting the silence hang a torturous beat. “Are you mad?” he asks, leaning next to me, watching as I scrub the clean counter.
“Mad?” I ask, flicking my eyes to his for a fraction of a second. “No. Why would I be? You have needs, I know that. I don’t care. I don’t think it’s any of my business.” Maybe it’s the chugged caffeine hitting me all at once, but my mouth won’t stop talking. Some sort of hidden talent for theatrics peeps through, because my voice fluctuates between extremely high-pitched and very deep. “If anything, you should be mad at me for intruding. You know, going all Peeping Tom on you or something. Like, hello, June! Take a social cue! Ha!” Camp’s eyes widen. “Closed bathroom means do not enter.” I laugh now, a scratchy, hacking sound. “I guess I just didn’t know you did that. Not that it’s my business. I’d never seen it before. With you. Or any man. So-so-so-so it was unexpected. But, of course, the frequency isn’t my business. Unless you wanted to talk about it. How often, I mean. You do that. You know. In the shower. Alone. How often you . . . umm . . . you know, in the shower.”
Finally, my voice box runs out of batteries, and I fill a glass with water and drink the entire thing before spraying another layer of cleaner on the counter. Camp sears the side of my face with his dark-eyed stare but stays quiet.
When I finish re-wiping the now cleanest kitchen in the Western Hemisphere, I let out a long exhale and fully face him. “I’ll knock next time.”
He smirks, taking a final sip of coffee—with an annoying slurp—and sets his empty mug in the sink. “We’re married, do whatever you want.”
Then, he leans in, straight toward my face, lips toward my lips.
He’s going to kiss me .
I hold my breath, my palms wrap around the edge of the counter, and my back bends slightly. He follows suit, but instead of stopping his mouth at mine, his face slips around the side of my jaw, stilling when he’s next to my ear. His breath, hot on my skin, his mustache, close enough to scrape against me, scratches chills that ripple across the entire right side of my body.
“And I do that every time I want somethin’ I can’t have.”
I nod. Dumb, stunned, and . . . hot?
Then, like the emotional terrorist he is, he’s gone. Grabbing his keys, petting the dog with a cool, “See ya later, Dogg-o,” Camp Cannon strolls out of the house.
When I hear the truck start in the driveway, I have one thought: I hate that man.