If I'm Being Honest(22)

He’s given me every reason to leave him be. To take the hint.

I went into this project with one intention, though. If I give up, I won’t deserve his forgiveness and I won’t deserve Andrew.

Which is why I won’t give up.



* * *





When I get home, I wipe my running shoes off in front of the door. NAMASTE IN BED reads the doormat. I roll my eyes every time I read the idiotic inscription. Today, I pointedly rub off a clump of dirt on “bed.”

I’m in a terrible mood, thanks to Brendan. Even placing second in today’s cross-country race couldn’t keep my head from returning to BB’s harsh rejection. It’s rare when running doesn’t distract me from whatever’s bothering me. I like the clear and definite objective of a race. You put in the time and the effort, and then you win. In today’s three-mile course in Runyon Canyon I beat my personal record and finished in under eighteen minutes, though to be fair, I was expecting to hit a new personal record. We train every weekday from three to four thirty, and every day this week I kept my paces exactly to schedule. Today was the beginning of the competitive season, and I want to cut down my time in every one of our weekly races.

I unlock and kick open the front door, then pull off my shoes to examine the pain in my big toe. It’s bleeding once again, I discover, right through my sock. I have to grab a Band-Aid—

“Cameron! Hi!”

I abruptly drop my bloody foot, glance up, and realize I’m not the only person in my living room. Deb, Andrew’s mom, watches me from the couch. Here I was, performing triage on my toe, which could’ve booked a guest role on Grey’s Anatomy. I flush what is probably not my prettiest shade of pink.

It’s Monday night. Of course it’s Monday night.

Mom’s stirring something on the stove, and Andrew’s lingering by the counter. Normally he’d have a textbook open, but today I notice his keys in his hand.

I can’t believe I forgot he was coming over. I’ve been so focused on impressing Andrew, I managed to forget about . . . Andrew. I would’ve remembered if I hadn’t had half a billion plans in my head about Paige, Brendan, everything.

“Andrew,” my mom says, “you really can’t stay for dinner?”

I glance up, hoping to meet his eyes. He won’t look in my direction. “I’d like to, but I have practice.”

I know for a fact he doesn’t have practice. Not this late.

He’s never not stayed to work on homework or go for a run with me on a Monday night. I guess it’s not enough for him to avoid me in the Beaumont courtyard or the halls. Now he’s avoiding me in the one place we were really friends. Of today’s two unmistakable rejections, this one hurts worse.

He walks out, passing me without a glance, and I wince when the door closes. Instead of fixating on Andrew, however, I look at my mother, who shouldn’t have had time to prepare the meatloaf sitting on the counter.

“I thought today was your first day, Mom,” I say evenly. I know she knows what I’m hinting at, because her eyes flicker before she gives me the world’s phoniest smile.

“Why don’t you shower? Dinner’s almost ready.” I hear the strain in her singsong voice.

I walk to the stove, where I can mutter to her without Deb overhearing. I know she’s trying to hide behind her guest, and I’m not about to be distracted by her cheerful act. “I thought you weren’t off until seven,” I say, letting an edge into my tone.

“Today was only a training day. I got off early.” She looks away and watches the gravy boil. I know she’s lying. The slippers next to the couch, the dishes in the sink, the plate covered in crumbs, and a half-empty coffee mug. Typical.

Frustration forces its way into my throat like bile.

“Fine,” I say with a hard stare. “I have to make one phone call, then I’ll be right out.” I catch Mom’s grimace. She understands it was a threat.

I leave the room before she has a chance to reply.



* * *





When I step out of the shower ten minutes later, she’s waiting in my room. I recognize the combination of dread and defiance in her eyes. She’s leaning on the corner of my desk, fiddling nervously with my pen, even though I’ve told her a million times not to move things in my room. I honestly don’t know if she’s messing with me or if she just doesn’t remember.

“You don’t have to call your father before dinner, you know,” she whispers bitterly. “I don’t need him yelling at me while I’m having a nice evening with friends.”

“You didn’t go into work today, Mom. Don’t bother lying.” I drop my running clothes in the hamper.

“He already knows, Cameron. You can bet the company called him,” she fires back. She puts the pen down on my homework pile instead of in the Venice Boardwalk mug, where I know she found it. I cross the room to the desk and very deliberately replace the pen in the mug.

“Why didn’t you go?” I say, gentler. I’m upset, but I know there’s a point where resentment and accusation no longer work on my mother. “We needed this job. How are we going to pay the bills?”

“We’ll be fine,” Mom replies, brashly confident. “I got a loan from my sister.” Her head jerks up quickly, like the loan wasn’t something she meant to tell me. I’m impressed Mom wore Aunt Jane down, honestly. My mom’s only sister lives in Connecticut with her lawyer husband and openly disdains her family. I can only imagine Aunt Jane wrote her a check to hold her off for the next decade. “But don’t tell your father,” Mom rushes to say. “It’s better if he thinks we’re a little harder pressed for money.”