If I'm Being Honest(86)

I hug my mom until I feel new again.





Forty-One



THE NEXT DAY, I MAKE A NEW amends list.

The first item is an email to Chelsea, my father’s assistant. I write her apologizing for being rude on the phone. One thing I know her day didn’t need was a second Bright yelling at her.

Then I write Bethany Bishop a letter. I apologize for the horrible things I said to her on the winter formal yacht. And I apologize for every biting comment, every cruel remark I’ve said in passing. When I’m done, I look up her address in the school directory and drive the letter to her house myself.

I don’t expect a reply. This apology’s 100 percent completely not for me. Not for any goal or agenda and not to ease my pain and guilt. Apologies won’t fix me, but they might go far in fixing the damage I’ve done to others.

I’ve just parked outside my apartment when I hear my phone vibrate in the passenger seat. The caller ID displays my father’s office. I reach for the phone, preparing myself for whatever he’s found to criticize now. For the first time, I’m unafraid. I don’t care if I disappoint him. It’s inevitable, and entirely empty. I’m going on a run with my mom tonight, and that won’t change even if he’s found a new way to reject me.

I pick up. “Hi, Dad.” I hope he hears the ease in my voice. The confidence.

“Oh, um.” Chelsea’s voice comes through flustered. “It’s not your dad.”

“Right. What does he want?” I ask. I reach for my purse on the floor and reapply my lip gloss with one hand.

“I’m not—” There’s a pause. “I’m actually not calling on behalf of Mr. Bright. It’s just me.”

“Oh.” I didn’t think my apology warranted a phone call unless—

“I got your email,” Chelsea continues. “You really didn’t have to apologize.”

“I did,” I reply. “It was wrong of me to yell at you last night.”

“It’s fine,” she assures me. “I get it, the way that jerk’s been acting. I mean, um . . . he’s not . . .” she stutters, no doubt conscious she’s just insulted her boss.

“No,” I say, laughing. “He is.”

Chelsea chuckles. “Well,” she says, sounding relieved, “you had every right. I’m sorry he hides behind me. That’s not why I’m calling, though.” She pauses delicately. “I hope you don’t mind, but I read the résumé you submitted for our internship and noticed your web design work. You’re talented, Cameron. I took the liberty of forwarding your résumé to the design firm that rebranded our website a year ago. They have an office in Los Angeles, and I’m in touch with the CEO’s assistant. He says they’re looking for a summer intern.”

I’m speechless. I hadn’t even spared a thought for what I’d be doing this summer without the internship I’d planned for.

“If I’ve overstepped, please let me know and I’ll retract your résumé—”

“No!” I blurt. It’s not an internship that will impress my dad or bring me into his life, but . . . I don’t care. I have my mom to be proud of me, to encourage me. The realization leaves me with that airplane-leaving-the-runway feeling again, weightless and thrilling. “Sorry. I mean, no, I’d like to be put up for the job. Thank you,” I say sincerely.

“You’re welcome, Cameron. Have a good rest of your day.”

I cut in before she can hang up. “Hey, Chelsea?” I take a breath. “You’ve only ever been a conduit between me and horrible conversations with my dad. Just a voice on the phone. And, um, I wanted to introduce myself. Hi,” I say, “I’m Cameron. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

I hear Chelsea’s smile over the phone. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Cameron. You know,” she adds, “you’re nothing like your father.”

“Thank you,” I say, knowing she has no idea how much it means.





Forty-Two



FRUSTRATED, I SCRIBBLE OUT ONE MORE LINE on the list I’m working on now. I’ve struggled for the past week to come up with ideas for how I’m going to apologize to Brendan. They’re uniformly awful. From the obvious—text him for the thousand-and-first time—to the cringeworthy—deliver a gluten-free cake with “Sorry I ruined your winter formal and was a huge jerk” icing. Not my proudest work.

He’s ignored my first thousand texts, of course. We’re exactly where we began, with him hatefully pretending I don’t exist.

Except now, I miss him every day. I’m not trying to get him back. I know he could never want the real Cameron Bright—not after what he heard. I owe him an apology, though.

In the meantime, I’m buried under the inevitable week-before-winter-break homework rush. I hole up in the Depths of Mordor every day to work. Today I have to figure out my Taming of the Shrew term paper. It’s going horribly, of course. I could hardly focus on this stupid play even before the worst breakup imaginable.

Two hours and two rewrites of my opening paragraph in, I flop back on Mordor’s green couch, my book falling closed on my computer keyboard. “I’m never finishing this essay,” I groan, rubbing my temples.