Love Songs & Other Lies(71)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THEN





VIRGINIA


It all starts with an internet search. One I’ve thought about doing ever since I met Sienna. I couldn’t then, though. Deep down, I knew if we were going to work, Cam needed to tell me. Now it’s too late. He’s gone, and it’s over, and I’m sitting in front of my laptop in my dark room, feeling like I’m breaking a rule.

When I hit the SEARCH button, I feel like my heart is going to break through my chest. I sort through page after page, clicking on links to real estate agents, teachers, and doctors. By page eight, I’m thinking about giving up. Maybe it’s better that I don’t know anyway. I have nothing else to go on because I don’t even know what city he lived in. Again, I’m caught off guard by the realization of how little I actually knew about him. Funny, it’s hard to track someone down based on stories about their childhood pets, or their favorite candy. But I know his sister’s name.

All of my searches come back full of strangers. I strip off my jeans, about to give up and go to bed, when I see the sweatshirt lying on my bed. Cam’s sweatshirt. I’ve been sleeping in it every night, as the smell of Cam slowly seeps out of it. I run my fingers over the rough “St. John’s Prep” embroidery, before hitting SEARCH again.

There’s an image of Cam in a soccer uniform in an article from middle school; Cam’s hair is short and darker and his face is fuller. I pick him out in another photo, onstage at a school contest of some sort. It’s an online school newsletter. This one is from high school, two years ago. He doesn’t look much different, but his clothes look nothing like the Cam I know. He’s in an old concert tee and tattered jeans, a giant, almost unfamiliar smile on his face.

I click on the article results and it’s finally in front of me—what I’ve been waiting for, hoping for, and also dreading. Tears well in my eyes as I skim the headlines, “Overnight Fire Claims Two,” “Two Escape Deadly House Fire,” “Two Dead and Two Injured in House Fire.” The articles feature a photo of a large home, engulfed in flames, or charred and roofless. One simply includes two headshots—Cam’s parents—and my breath catches in my throat at the words “two dead.”

Cameron Fuller, 17, was home with a friend when a fire broke out in his family’s three-story home in a rural area along the river. The two teenagers jumped from a third story window to escape the blaze. Rescue crews on site were told the house was empty, but later found that the owners of the home, Trevor Fuller, 49, and Margaret Fuller, 45, were also victims of the fire, which claimed the lives of both. An investigation is under way. Both minors were taken to Municipal Hospital for treatment. Injuries are said to be extensive but both are expected to recover.

Seeing the wreckage of Cam’s past doesn’t make me feel the way I thought it would. I wanted an excuse. Something I could tell myself, to explain away why he left. Instead, the new knowledge shifts everything inside of me. It hurts more, knowing that this is what he couldn’t tell me; what he didn’t want to share. A secret this big can’t be hidden forever; it has an expiration date. I can’t help but wonder what Cam had thought ours was. High school? College?

The newspaper articles are wrong. One of them will never recover.

*

I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, picking at the chipped glitter polish on my toes, when I hear my bedroom door squeak open.

“Vee?” Logan’s voice creeps into the room cautiously, and then he does.

Ignoring my visitor, I continue to focus on my dilapidated toenails. Is it normal that my second toe is so much longer than my big toe? Maybe it’s some sort of genetic defect. Is this why my balance is such shit? I pull on my toe, comparing my long, skinny toe to the short, fat one.

Logan takes a slow step toward my bed. “You didn’t answer any of my calls. And you missed practice again last night.”

I gouge my thumbnail into a clump of glittery polish.

“He’s not answering his cell.” He doesn’t have to tell me who.

I can’t believe how badly he wants to be done with me.

Logan shoves his hands into his pockets. “Have you heard anything?”

I shake my head.

“Figured.” I think he mutters “asshole” under his breath, and I can’t help but agree. “We’re going to put up posters, see who we can find. We’ve got that big Winterfest gig coming up.” He’s been edging toward my bed one slow step at a time, until he’s standing with his knees against my mattress. “I heard Nonni’s doing a lot better. Your mom said she’ll be back at Lake Terrace in a few weeks? That’s awesome.” Logan is obviously nervous and rambling and I know I should talk, to put him out of his misery, but I can’t make myself do it. I don’t want to talk to him. Not about Nonni or college or Cam—not about anything.

“Your mom’s worried.” The bed sags under him as he sits on the edge. “She said you’ve been holed up in here since … everything went down.” More painful silence as I continue to pick at my toes, and Logan swipes my hand away, keeping it in his. “Come on, Vee. Talk to me.”

Staring at Logan—his concern-filled eyes and his drawn brows—I can’t help but feel like the world’s biggest jerk. I’ve pushed our friendship aside for months. There have been so many secrets; lies even. He hasn’t deserved any of it. And now, after keeping it from him for so long, I feel like I’m finally cracked open, ready to be poured out. Things are changing. Everything ends. People leave, life marches on. With or without me. With or without any of us.