Chapter 8
NADINE
Spot-on.
Valerie did exude that mean-girl kind of vibe, and Camden was certainly a Joey Donner. Made me want to draw a penis on his cheek.
But then I walked into his apartment the next day to find a brand-new teakettle on his stove along with a giant box of different teas, all of them in cute, colorful tins.
I’d been so gobsmacked by the gift that I stayed silent when he walked into the room in only a pair of mesh shorts, his mile-long torso and arms on display. He grinned, each of his straight pearly whites glinting like a toothpaste commercial, at my slack-jawed surprise.
“Yeah, I know.” He gestured to himself, as if my being in his half-naked presence was the reason for my sudden speechlessness. When, really, it was his thoughtfulness.
But I wasn’t about to tell him that and changed the subject. “How was your sleepover?”
He tugged his Under Armor compression shirt on. “You interested in my sex life, River?”
I paused, my hand hovering over the teas, wondering if he’d suddenly lost a few brain cells since yesterday.
“Rivera,” I corrected, though it came out more like a question.
Then I explained, “I’m only interested in so far as I need to know what to tell Paisley when she will inevitably bring it up to me. ”
He waved away my reasoning. “She’s not going to bring anything up. Valerie came over to eat dinner and then left.”
I tried very hard to keep my features blank. Because I didn’t care about that tidbit of information. Especially when he said, “I wasn’t comfortable having her sleep over with Paisley here.”
I wasn’t glad because I was jealous of Valerie.
I was glad because Camden was being a responsible adult with a young, impressionable girl in his house.
And maybe he wasn’t a total Joey Donner. Only, like, 92%.
Because the following day, I arrived at Camden Long’s usually spotless lair to find the kitchen littered with reusable shopping bags, an open package of double stuffed Oreos next to a variety pack of snack-sized chip bags.
Paisley sat on top of the counter, her legs swinging as she ate her way through a Lunchable.
“Camden took me to the grocery store. Let me get whatever I wanted,” she signed, and I opened the refrigerator to find the shelves full of food.
Fruits, yogurt, string cheese, milk, and three different kinds of juices.
Then I threw open the other hidden door next to it, revealing the freezer full of pizza rolls, Texas Toast, and multiple gallons of ice cream.
And that Joey Donner percentage dropped even more. Especially when he appeared dressed for another workout, hurriedly holding out his fist to his sister for a bump then ruffled her hair, earning a thoroughly happy grin and playful swat. He passed me by with a jut of his chin. “See you, Riv.”
Now, the prick left me his credit card and explicit instructions to take Paisley out to buy the essentials. “Whatever she needs to be comfortable.”
It’s the first day of training camp, so we have hours to test drive his Amex. Being Erik Rivera’s sister, I’m used to the luxuries that come with a professional athlete’s lifestyle, and it’s nice.
I have no compunctions about accepting any gifts my brother or Camden wants to offer.
They have literal millions to spare, and I live on a teacher’s salary.
So, like any well-intentioned person with an unlimited budget and a goal to make a teenage girl happy, we start online shopping.
We spend the morning next to each other, sharing links and screens, photos of inspiration boards for what will become her bedroom, with a vintage-looking lamp, twinkly lights, and new bedsheets and comforter.
We buy a pink and gold rug, bookshelf, and multiple artificial succulents.
After, we head to a salon so she can have her hair and nails done and then enjoy a late lunch, where we chat over fancy mocktails and salads that have no business being twenty dollars. It’s while we’re eating our caramel cheesecake dessert that I sign, “Is there anything else you want to do today?”
She shrugs. “What else is there?”
“We could walk around and explore.” When she wrinkles her nose, I laugh. “It is pretty hot out. We could keep shopping.”
She thinks for a few moments, swallowing the last of her dessert, then signs, “I don’t really need anything else.”
“But there is something you want?”
She slants her gaze toward the window, the sunshine streaming in hitting the new purple highlights in her hair. She was worried Camden would be mad, but I told her I’d take care of him. If she wanted purple highlights, she was getting purple highlights.
After all she’s been through, there is nothing short of permanent body modification that I wouldn’t agree to and defend.
“The penthouse is kind of lonely,” she signs after a while, and I wag my head side to side. I could understand that.
It’s cold. Not in the physical sense, but in the emotional one. It’s like Camden moved in and hasn’t touched anything since. Everything in his life is meant to show his status, but nothing of his actual heart.
“I think he’s lonely,” Paisley goes on. “He would never admit it, but I don’t think he ever really enjoyed being away from home all this time.
” She blows out an audible breath, laughing slightly as she meets my eyes again.
“I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe he really is an asshole and likes his weird, sterile house. ”
“Maybe,” I agree with a smile. “Or maybe you’re right, and he’s covered up all the holes in his life from missing out on important stuff by cultivating this…person he’s become. You know him better than I do.”
I hate to think she’s onto something and her brother isn’t actually so bad with all that smarmy charm and inflated confidence, but Paisley seems to agree with me, nodding to herself.
She studies her manicured nails, an opalescent mermaid color, then she lifts her focus and her hands to sign.
“He didn’t always care so much about what people thought about him.
He didn’t care about clothes and cars and impressing people. ”
“What did he care about?”
“Making me laugh,” she signs, and my heart plummets to the floor. “I remember him making funny faces. He would put me on his shoulders. Give me piggyback rides.”
“Sounds like a good brother,” I sign, which is just as well because I don’t think I’d be able to talk with how my throat feels swollen.
I imagine a teenage Camden, playing with his toddler sister, tossing her in the air, letting her tackle him, carrying her around.
Paisley flips her phone over, scrolling on it for a few seconds before showing me her screen, a photo of Camden in his college football uniform, sweaty and dirty, smiling wide and holding Paisley in one arm, his helmet dangling from his other hand.
“Cute,” I sign, and she smiles, admiring it for a while, then clicks on another picture.
This one of the whole Long family, sitting on a bench at what appears to be an outdoor picnic or party.
In it, Paisley is probably two or three, standing on her brother’s thighs, her hands midair like she’s about to clap.
Camden’s attention is on her, smiling. A woman, who I assume is their mother, has her mouth open, laughing, head tilted back, while the man who looks like Camden but older has his head buried in the side of his wife’s neck, as if tickling her, the reason for her laughter.
I’d already tried to ease into a conversation about grief and reminding Paisley that she can talk to me about anything, but seeing this picture and the glassiness in her eyes cuts me to ribbons.
I don’t know what else to do besides slide out of my seat and hug her.
“I am so sorry,” I say out loud, even though she can’t hear me, but I keep saying it.
“You are loved,” I tell her, squeezing her tight. “You are so loved.”
I know nothing will be able to comfort Paisley like having her parents back, though maybe being reminded of their love for her will help. I sit back down again and sign, “How about we print out those pictures and buy some frames? Keep them around where you can see.”
She nods and tells me, “I have more pictures. I downloaded them all to my phone from Dad’s after…”
“We’ll do it today,” I say and sign, determined not only to make Paisley as comfortable as possible but happy too.
There are times when I find her staring off into space, and I assume she’s thinking about her mother and father.
I’m sure it’ll be a long time before the weight of the loss lessons, but having physical reminders of them might help.
“What else? What else will make you feel better?”
“I asked Camden for a dog, but he said no.”
I tip my head to the side. “A dog might be difficult to keep in an apartment, no matter how big it is, but… How about something smaller?”
Hours later, I’m lost in a spicy Jurassic Park fanfiction, when a monster suddenly appears.
“Nadine!”
“What the hell?” I startle as the sliding door flings open, a deep voice rumbling my name. I rip my sunglasses off my head to find all six feet and five inches of Camden Long looming over me.
“Me what the hell? You what the hell. Why are there two animals and a shit-ton of hay in my living room?”
I pull myself up from the lounger where I’d been relaxing outside while Paisley got to know her new pets. “Is shit-ton the measurement you used on the farm in Iowa?”
“Nadine,” he warns, like a boiling pot of water. “What is in my living room?”
“Your sister said it felt lonely living here, and who am I to disagree with her? So we went over to the animal shelter and spotted those cutie pies.”
He props his hands on his hips, glaring. “What are they?”
“Guinea pigs. Jelly and Bean.”
“Ridiculous fucking names.” He heaves a sigh, running his fingers through his hair so it stands on end. “You had to get two?”
I lift my hands because of course. “They’re a bonded pair.”
“A bonded pair?”
“Can’t take one without the other, or they’ll be sad. Guinea pigs are social creatures.”
He rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. After a beat and a breath, he flops his arms at his sides and narrows his gaze at me. “Do you know how much money you spent today?”
“Probably…” I roll my eyes up to the orange sky, doing the mental math. “A few thousand.”
“Five thousand six hundred and eight-three dollars.”
I smile. “I was close.”
He frowns. “You spent five grand on guinea pigs?”
“Plus a shit-ton of hay.”
He closes his eyes, shaking his head. “You’re not cute.”
Almost like he’s convincing himself.
“Paisley picked out all new things for her bedroom, and I took her to a salon for her nails and hair, so make sure to compliment her on it, and then we had a super fancy and overly expensive lunch. It was delicious,” I tell him, earning an arched brow.
“Don’t worry.” I pat his stomach. “I’m sure you have suits that cost double what we bought today. ”
He doesn’t argue because he can’t.
Only follows me back inside, where I stop to hug Paisley.
She thanks me with Jelly in her arm, and I drag my fingertip over his head a few times before I hear a strangled sound behind me.
I glance over my shoulder in time to see Camden set down the new frame, filled with a family photo from draft day.
Paisley wearing a too-big Founders cap, her arm around Camden’s neck with their parents on either side, their mother with happy tears on her cheeks.
I turn, feeling a stab of sympathy under my ribs. “Paisley has a bunch of pictures on her phone, and I thought it would be nice to have them printed. For the both of you.”
He nods, pivoting away from me as he clears his throat, and I doubt he’d want me to bring any more attention to his obvious emotional response, so I pass him on my way to the kitchen, where I grab my purse from the corner of the counter, next to the tins of tea. The ones I’ve been using every day.
By the time I loop it over my shoulder, Camden’s next to me, lightly touching my elbow. “Thank you.”
I dip my focus to where his long, thick fingers touch my skin and drag my eyes up his muscled forearm, to the bulk of his biceps under his T-shirt. He doesn’t have any tattoos. Nothing to take away from the veins and blooming bruise on the inside of his arm.
I skim my index finger along it. He probably wouldn’t even know what it’s from if I asked. Bruises and injuries all come with the job.
Lifting my focus higher, I trace his Adam’s apple with my gaze, the five-o’clock shadow on his jaw to his mouth, parted and wet from a slide of his tongue over his lips. Even higher are his eyes, the color of Earl Grey tea, waking me up like a hot cup usually does in the morning.
He lowers his hand from my elbow at the same time I let my finger slip from the mark on his arm, and we both spin away. As if spending one more second this close would end in violence or fireworks.
He walks me to the door in silence, leaning on the jamb once it’s open, but I don’t take the two steps into the hall. Instead, I hesitate.
My body won’t move.
Not with my heart in my throat and my pulse in my ears.
It’s disorienting, letting go of the resentment I’ve held all these years. Keeping my nails dug into the anger was the only way to shield myself from the hurt.
I’d spent my whole life being unremarkable, the forgettable middle child of the Rivera children, feeling like a disappointment to my overachieving parents.
I’ve become an expert at pretending it doesn’t bother me to be just a teacher when I am surrounded by professional athletes, doctors, and scholarship recipients.
I know I am important. What I do is, arguably, one of the most important jobs for our society, and yet my list of accomplishments falls short. The constant need to impress people is difficult to shake. I cannot outrun my insecurities, outsmart the voices in the back of my head.
Camden Long is the physical manifestation of everything I am afraid of.
To be judged and found wanting.
Except with the way he stares down at me now, I can’t remember much. I don’t know anything besides the warm liquid pooling in my belly and seeping into my limbs, the magnetic pull keeping me anchored in place. Anchored to him.
When I try to bring all the memories of my relationship with him forward in my mind, I can’t.
They’re buried in a fog where I can’t recall them correctly.
And when I finally grasp hold of flashes, those sharp words and even sharper smiles feel dull.
The sting of pain replaced by the sting of pleasure and the need for more.
I can’t understand it, and the longer I stay here, the more confused I become. With a stiff shake of my head, I finally step into the hall, leaving him with a last piece of advice. “She only wants you to see her. That’s all. See her and love her.”