Remarkably Bright Creatures(89)

Something clinks, and Cameron looks up to see a girl come through a doorway behind the bar. She has short, bright green hair that reminds Cameron of flattened grass. She balances a stack of highball glasses in each hand, and her eyebrows register the tiniest moment of surprise before she begins to unload the glassware into some unseen shelf down in the well. “We open at eight,” she says, without looking up.

“I have a meeting.” Cameron clears his throat. “With Mr. Brinks.”

The grass-haired girl looks up. The expression on her face is painfully blank, as if Cameron were the least interesting thing she’s ever encountered.

“I’m serious,” he says. “Michelle set it up.” He hopes it’s okay to call Michelle by her first name.

The girl shrugs. “Okay,” she says, ducking away. “I’ll let him know.”

SIMON BRINKS.

Cameron has repeated the name in his head so many times these last two months, has studied so many photos of the coiffed man blown up huge on his billboards, that when this disheveled dude emerges from behind the bar with a tired smile, he almost doesn’t believe it could be him.

“Hi,” Cameron says, his voice suddenly shaky and nervous. “I’m—”

“I know who you are, Cameron.” Behind the bar, Simon’s smile broadens.

“You do?” Cameron’s heart hammers, but is it from nerves, or rage? Somehow the idea of socking or extorting this guy seems preposterous.

“Why do you think I suggested this venue?” Simon Brinks waves a hand around the tiny room. “As I’m sure you’ve discovered, I have lots of offices and properties, but this place was originally for Daphne. It’s the perfect spot for us to meet.”

Cameron’s pulse is pounding now. For Daphne? Is Brinks about to fess up to a lifetime of deadbeat parenthood, just like that?

Simon smiles. “You met Natalie.” He tips his head toward the doorway behind the bar, through which the grass-haired girl had disappeared. “She knows the whole story.”

“The whole story.” Cameron can barely force the words out.

“Well, sure. She’s my daughter.”

Daughter. His head whirls. A father and . . . a sister? Before he can stop himself, his eyes dart to the doorway behind the bar again. Could that girl with the strange hair really be his half sister?

Simon clasps his hands and leans on the bar. “You have your mother’s eyes, you know.”

“My mother.” Cameron swallows hard.

“Daphne always had those incredible eyes.”

Cameron sucks in an embarrassingly sharp breath. She did have pretty eyes, didn’t she? He wonders whether he’s inventing this or if he actually remembers.

“Anyway,” Brinks says, with a slight shrug that seems to knock the conversation in a more casual direction. “Can I pour you a drink?”

“A drink?”

“I make a mean old-fashioned.”

“Uh, a beer is fine. Whatever you have,” Cameron blurts. His ears burn. Why does he care? Is impressing one’s father a hardwired predisposition?

Without a word, Brinks reaches down into a below-counter refrigerator and rises again with two longnecks clutched between his fingers. The bottles hiss as he pops the caps. “Cheers,” he says, lofting one.

“Cheers,” Cameron echoes. How bizarre will this story be later? When he tells it to Avery and Elizabeth, in turn?

“So, you have questions about your mother, naturally,” Brinks says, after a long pull on his beer.

Cameron pulls himself up by the shoulders. No more chickenshit. His voice is even when he says, “I have questions about you.”

“Oh?” Simon cocks his head. “Okay, well. Everyone thinks I’m some sort of enigma, but for you, I’m an open book.” He smiles. “So, shoot.”

“Why did you . . .” Cameron swallows, then regroups before trying again. “I mean . . . how could you . . .” A sob messes up his throat. Why didn’t he make a secondary plan for when the words wouldn’t come?

“How could I what?” Simon Brinks scrapes his chin. “Let her go? Well, I cared about her.”

Cameron’s face hardens, and his voice is pure acid when he spits out, “But you never cared about me.”

“You? Of course I care about you. You’re her son. But what could I do, once she was—”

“I’m your son, too!” Cameron’s voice cracks.

Simon Brinks takes a step backward, recovers. “I’m sorry, Cameron. You’re not,” he says softly.

“I’m your son,” Cameron repeats.

Brinks shakes his head. “That’s never how it was with me and Daphne.”

“But it must have been.” To Cameron’s horror, his chin starts to tremble. He knew this might happen, right? The whole thing being a dead end. He prepared himself for this, or tried to. So why is he about to lose his shit right now?

“Like I said, I’m not surprised you’re here, Cameron, but—”

“Why did you give her your class ring?” Cameron fishes it from his pocket and drops it onto the bar. Simon picks it up and a faint smile comes over his face as he examines it. When he turns it over and looks at the underside, the smile fades.

“This isn’t mine,” he says quietly.