“Can I ask you something?” Camden asks, looking at me from over the top of his coffee mug.
I narrow my eyes on him. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy to ask before doing anything. Just ask whatever you want to ask.”
We’ve been sipping on coffee and snacking on scones while we took in the landscape. It was long enough for both of us to need a refill of the coffee I’d packed in a thermos for us. I’m shocked that we’ve made it this far without clawing each other’s eyes out or at least seriously insulting each other. We’ve only shared small jabs, but for the most part, conversation between us has been easy.
I hate to admit it, but he’s an interesting man. He knows a lot about the world, and I’ve enjoyed hearing about what he’s done in life. I haven’t seen much outside of Sutten and Chicago. His stories make me want to take the time one day to see what all the world has to offer.
Camden clears his throat, bringing me back to the fact he wanted to ask me something. He seems nervous about it, which in return makes me nervous for whatever’s about to come from his mouth. If I know anything about him, it’s that he doesn’t seem like the type of man to get nervous. He traces a line of thread of the quilt my mom hand-stitched when I was a teenager.
“Why did everyone in town keep asking how your family’s doing?”
My eyes go wide as they find his. I’d been staring at the way his long fingers stroked the delicate threading of the quilt that I hadn’t been paying attention to his expression. I try not to look at it, in fear I’ll stare too long. It’s hard to look away with features as chiseled and striking as his.
“It’s a small town. People just want to know how everyone’s doing.”
The straight line of his lips tells me he doesn’t believe me. He watches me, heat prickling my skin with the path his eyes trace. “It seemed like more than that.”
Because it is way more than that. When my mom died, it didn’t just hit our family hard; it was something that rattled our entire town. She was the light of this town. Friends with everybody. My mom welcomed everyone she met into her life with open arms, and I don’t think I was the only one who kind of imagined her in our lives forever.
“Why do you say that?” My question is meant to stall, and the way he stares me down tells me he knows that. Stupid Camden Hunter. I hate how good he is at reading people, even though I imagine that a huge part of his job is being able to easily read people so he can sell to them—profit off them.
“Because there was pity when they looked at you,” he answers softly. His words don’t hurt because they’re true. It’s one of the hardest parts of grieving. You can think you’ve healed as much as you can from a sudden death, but the people around you never treat you the same. The pity in their eyes doesn’t go away with time, and it almost makes you feel guilty for doing the only thing you can do after losing somebody—go on with your life.
I let out a shaky breath. Am I about to tell him about my mom dying? If I do tell him, how much do I tell?
Do I tell him that I feel guilty Cade was the one who found her? That sometimes I wish it was me who found her because I feel like I could handle the pain better than my brother?
Do I admit that I waited outside the local movie theater the next day because my mom and I had made plans to see the newest rom-com together that afternoon? I hadn’t processed that we’d actually lost her, even though Dad had already asked me to begin arranging the funeral and to let everyone know she’d passed because he hadn’t faced our new reality yet. I sat on the curb in the theater’s parking lot for over an hour weeping because she never showed up.
Do I tell him that I still listen to the old voicemails she left me to pretend she’s still here?
Do I admit that sometimes I feel really fucking angry at her for dying? And hate myself for feeling that way because I know in my bones she never would’ve left us on purpose.
There are so many things I could say that could answer his question. I open my mouth to tell him, but no words come. Words fail me.
I didn’t know I was crying until Camden reaches across the quilt, wiping his thumb at my tearstained cheeks.
“You don’t have to…” There’s a softness to his voice, his words trailing off.
I nod, letting out a shaky breath. I have to tell him. We’ve made it this far. My tears make it obvious that there’s more to what he already knows. I might as well tell him the rest.
“A few months ago,” I begin, trying to swallow the lump in my throat that makes my words come out shaky, “my mom passed away all of a sudden. She had a heart attack in the middle of the night.”
Camden’s body freezes, the rough, calloused pad of his thumb still on my cheekbone. He’s silent, and I don’t hold it against him. At least he doesn’t apologize. That’s what I hated most when talking to people after my mom died. I didn’t need their apologies. I just needed my mom back.
“We all thought she was healthy. It shattered our world. My dad had been with her his entire life, and Cade was a total Momma’s boy. She was their world, and our family was a mess after.”
“And you?”
He lets his thumb stroke along my cheek again, even though I’m confident more tears haven’t fallen. “Wasn’t she your world, too? How did you handle it?”
I pause. His words take me by surprise. “I don’t know if anyone really asked about me specifically. It was always ‘how’s your brother doing…how’s your father doing…how’s your family doing…’”
“I want to know how you’re doing.”
His eyes are so blue up close. A kind of blue I haven’t seen before. It’s crystal clear, the pigment so icy that his eyes almost seem gray.
He looks at where his hand still rests on my cheek. I don’t think deeply into why I miss his touch the moment he pulls it away like my skin had burned him.
“You don’t have to answer that,” he insists. His eyes search my face. I want to know what he’s looking for, what he’s thinking. I’m grateful that he might be the first person to know about my mom and not look at me with pity.
I try to hold back a weak laugh when I realize the first person to really ask me how I’m doing without pitying me happens to be a man that I swore I hated—and one I’d bet money hates me.
I’m well aware how truly pathetic that is.
“If I tell you, are you going to make fun of me later for it?”
He rears back as if I hit him. Of all the insults I’ve thrown at him, why does he seem most affected by this one?
“I must really have been an asshole to you if you think I’d ever make fun of you for how you’re dealing with the loss of your mother.”
I shrug because I don’t know what else to do. We don’t have the best track record together, but I really don’t think he’d ever use it against me. I just don’t like having him know intimate things about me.
“Tell me about her.”
I stare at him for a moment, wondering if although he doesn’t show it, he feels sorry for me. That could be the only explanation for why he’s asking about my mom. It’d make sense why he’s acting like he actually gives a damn about me.
“You really want to know?” I shift on the quilt, my knee bumping against his. He doesn’t move at all, even though with my new position, our knees barely touch.
“Yeah.” He sounds confident but maybe even a little sad. Taking a deep breath, he looks up from his lap, and I find vulnerability in his icy-blue eyes. “I want to know more about her.”
“Okay…” I begin, hesitant to tell him much about me. I feel like stuff between us should stay surface level. But I like that he knows nothing about her. I like that I can be the one to tell him how amazing my mother was. Everyone in the town knew her and loved her. I’m excited to be able to talk about my mom and the mark she left on my life without having someone look back at me that pitied me or felt like they lost her, too.
“It’s cliché, and I know every kid says this about their mom, but she truly was the best mom ever. She was born to be a mom.”
“I wouldn’t.” The words are said under his breath. Once his eyes go wide, I wonder if he meant to say that out loud at all.
“You wouldn’t what?”
He runs a finger along my mother’s stitching on the quilt. I’m wondering if it’s something he does when he’s nervous. I’ve noticed he’s also always stuffing his hands in his pockets once his hands get fidgety. He keeps looking down but clears his throat to speak. “I would never say my mom is the best mom ever. She was not born to be a mother. And she made sure every day of my life I knew that.”
I blink, staring at him through a whole new lens. I must admit, the moment he moved into the gallery next door, I googled him. Anyone would’ve done it. I wanted to know why they sold the business to him and not me. A quick Google search of him brought up a ton of information.
His parents were Russell and Emilia Hunter, both very famous artists who fell in love while on a summer getaway to Venice. Their romance was huge in the art world. They were each other’s muses in all aspects. From what I read, they had a tumultuous relationship. There were pictures of them with other people throughout the first few years of dating, but they always seemed to make it back to one another.
There was only one photo of his mom pregnant on the internet. Her husband had an exhibit dedicated to his art, and she shocked everyone by showing up ready to pop. They seemed to do a lot with Camden as a baby all the way up to his teenage years. There were countless photos of them as a family. Photos made them out to be a picture-perfect family. With what Camden had just said, I’m wondering if that’s really the case.
“Don’t feel bad for me, shortcake. Parents fuck up their kids all the time.” He playfully bumps his leg against mine. “Now, tell me what having a mother that loves you feels like.”
I don’t talk at first because I’m lost in what he’s told me, in what I’ve seen about him and his family on the internet. Everything in me wants to pry further about his life, to figure out why he is the way he is.
“If you aren’t ready to talk about her, you don’t have to,” he offers, his tone gentle.
I shake my head at him. “It isn’t that. I just was caught up in hearing about your childhood.”
He peels a piece off his scone, popping it into his mouth. “There’s a reason I’m a dick. Fucked up childhood. Parents who didn’t love me but pretended to when cameras were around. No one in my house to show me love.”
“You deserved better,” I whisper softly.
“Tell me what I missed out on. Tell me about your mom, shortcake.”
“She was my favorite person in the world. My best friend, my mom, my everything. She volunteered in my classroom every year in elementary school. She was the one who taught me to bake, the one who helped me get ready for my first date and held me the first time I had my heart broken. She loved to drink tea and sit on the front porch, and she was always begging for me to make her fresh biscuits to leave with her during the week. Her favorite thing to do was make me laugh during church and would then pretend to scold me when I did. My mom was the life of every party, and people just flocked around her to be in her presence.”
Camden watches me carefully, hanging on every single one of my words. He seems to be genuinely interested in everything I say, which takes me by surprise. I didn’t expect him to care at all.
Things would be a lot simpler if he didn’t seem to care at all.
