The Real(54)

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Cameron said as I sat at my mother’s kitchen table, looking at him on my screen.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said as I stood to make my way upstairs to my old bedroom for some privacy. I’d asked Cameron to come with me to Naperville, but he wanted to be with his dad despite how heavy it felt in the house without his mother there.

I wasn’t one to neglect family and friends due to a new boyfriend. It was one of my new life rules, no matter how perfect said boyfriend was. When you accidentally date a sociopath, you learn your lesson about things like that. Luke was constantly making me break plans with Bree and my family to manipulate my time, manipulate me.

No matter how happy I was being a part of a we with Cameron, I made time for Bree and my parents, even if the relationship was by far the healthiest of my adult life.

But I had to admit, the man smiling at me on the screen made it extremely hard to be without him. I’d grown used to waking up roasting with his arm thrown over me.

Spending Saturdays watching him battle Max on the court before we used up the rest of the day roaming the city or Wicker Park. When weather permitted, we ran every morning, and when it didn’t, we made up for it in my bedroom. I was up to three miles per day and it was beginning to show. I was in the best shape of my life.

Cameron was most definitely a good-time guy. There was rarely a dull moment. Even quiet nights at home, which we mostly spent with Mrs. Zingaro, were blissful.

I closed my door and plopped myself on my old bed.

“How is it going over there?” I asked.

“Awkward and fucking lonely. I hate this. I don’t know what to do. It’s like he stopped living when my mother did. We already had a damned communication problem.”

“All you can do is try to talk to him,” I offered. “You know Mrs. Zingaro was the same with me for a little while. She was kind of stand-offish when we first met. I know it’s not the same thing, but you can’t get to know him if all you are is polite. It might have backfired for me a little, but I can’t say she isn’t worth it. Talk to him, really try to talk to him.”

“I’ll try,” he said softly.

“Talk about your mom. He might be hesitant at first, and maybe that’s his way, but it couldn’t hurt.”

“I will.”

“Promise?” I asked. It was the only one I’d ever asked for. I hated the guilt and the pain that covered his features, so I was selfish with my request, but I saw it more often than I wanted to. Even though they weren’t close as father and son, I knew Cameron longed for it.

I saw his hesitance and apologized. “I’m sorry, it’s not my place to ask for that.”

“I promise,” Cameron said. “And it is your place. You can ask me for anything, Abbie. I mean that.”

My heart galloped. It was so obvious we were more than coffee. I was having a horrible time not verbalizing how I felt every time I looked at him. We were still new, and patience had gone a long way for us. I was fine with waiting.

“So, what’s on the menu at the Bledsoe house?”

“I’m going to burn a turkey,” he said with a grin.

“Sounds delicious.”

“And you?”

“I doubt we’ll eat until later. Oliver won’t show up until he feels like it, so we have to wait for his highness to arrive.”

“His highness is here, punk,” Oliver spouted as he walked into my bedroom. “Who are you talking to?”

I gave Cameron wide eyes. “Busted,” he said from the screen.

“None of your business,” I said as my brother plopped onto my bed beside me.

Cameron looked at Oliver and gave him the man nod. “Hey, man.”

Oliver looked at me. “Who’s this?”

“This is my boyfriend, Cameron.”

“Same one?” I was going to kill him.

“Bledsoe, nice to meet you,” Cameron added.

“I haven’t heard anything about you,” Oliver said, barely glancing at the screen.

“Abbie likes to keep me a secret,” Cameron retorted without missing a beat. “But I think I’m her only boyfriend. I think it’s safe to say one and the same.”

“You are,” I chimed in, pledging my allegiance.

“You don’t say,” Oliver said, leaning back on my pillow before tossing a piece of croissant in his mouth.

My brother and I looked a lot alike, except he had my father’s curly blond hair, which he cropped off shorter and shorter as he got older. We had the same mouth and eyes.

“Cameron, this is my brother, Dr. Dick.”

Oliver rolled his eyes before he pressed my head down with his palm, making it look like we were playing an abusive version of Duck, Duck, Goose. I slapped at his wrist as he lifted the tip of my nose, giving me a pig face, before he palmed it, twisting my features in a free for all. I struggled with Oliver as Cameron’s laughter rang out of my phone.

“Damn you, act your age, idiot,” I fumed as I dropped the phone and landed two solid punches to Oliver’s arm. He “oofed” with a chuckle.

Retrieving my phone, I pointed at the door then righted myself and the phone so I could see Cameron as my face flamed.

Oliver walked out of the room with a “Later, Cameron.”