What Happens Now(50)

“Even the imperfect part was perfect, to me. We all have a past, Camden. If we’re going to be with each other, we can’t ignore that.”

As soon as I said it, Camden looked at my arm, then back up at me. When I didn’t stop him, he turned back to my arm. He started to slowly push up my sleeve. It was tight at the wrist and wouldn’t slide any farther.

“Can I?” he asked, and I knew what he meant. If he’d been asking to take off my shirt, it could not have been more intimate than this.

“You’ve noticed the scars,” I said, my voice catching.

“The first time we really spoke,” he said. “That day with Dani and the diving.”

He rolled up the sleeve until it hit my elbow, then turned my forearm so it was exposed. He took one finger and traced the scratches as if committing them to memory.

“They were shallow, and not anywhere near an artery,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I wasn’t trying to die,” I said. “I was trying to feel better.”

Now he just nodded. “Did you at least ice it down first?”

“With a bag of frozen peas.”

He laughed nervously. “Did it work?”

“It was like someone else’s skin I was cutting.”

Camden lifted my arm. “I know this isn’t going to make it all better,” he said, “but . . .” Then he kissed my wrist a few inches from where the scars trailed off.

I inhaled sharply. “It might.”

He looked up at me from under those giraffe eyelashes, my arm in his hand, and kissed it again. The voice behind the door stopped whimpering. He could have asked me to do anything. I would have taken on a thousand regrets just so I could have whatever he was giving.

“Ari,” whispered Camden, placing my arm gently back down. “I need you to know something.”

“Okay,” I whispered back, not really ready for whatever he was going to say but definitely ready to fake it.

“I want you here,” he said. “I want to stay here in my bed with you all night but . . . I can’t . . .” He made a waving motion with his hand. It took me a second to figure it out.

“Oh.” Then a flooding rush of relief. “No. I wouldn’t want to . . . I mean, it’s too soon.”

“Good.” He sighed, then looked to the ceiling. “That’s excellent.” He put one hand to his forehead, like he was seeking shade from some blinding memory. “You have to understand the things I’ve grown up with. The stuff I’ve seen my mother do, and the guys who’ve come through our lives. And how she seems to lose a little piece of herself every time.”

We were quiet for a few seconds, then I said, “So you’ve never . . .”

He looked straight at me again. “No.”

I glanced away, partly because I didn’t want him to see how glad I was to hear that. And how surprised. That any guy could date Eliza and not go there.

Because he was Camden, that was how.

“I haven’t either,” I finally said. It was technically true. Could it be that I was actually more “experienced” than he was? And how would that change things?

Camden exhaled and smiled a bit. He was glad. I was glad he was glad.

“You understand, then,” he said, lacing his fingers through mine. “Why I can’t seem to touch you enough but I can’t . . . I’m not going to do something just because some unwritten rule somewhere says we should.”

I nodded, blocking out the memory of Lukas saying, Come on, Ari. We’ve been going out for three months.

“Should I leave?” I asked Camden.

His eyes widened. “No! I mean, I don’t want you to. I’d like you to stay. Can you stay?”

I knew he was really saying, I don’t want to be alone.

“I’m supposed to be sleeping at Kendall’s, but she said she’d cover for me.”

Camden nodded, suddenly businesslike, and patted the bed. We unfurled together, stretching out on the sheets, our heads touching on the pillow. I wrapped my feet around Camden’s feet. He reached up and cupped my cheek.

“You told me about the scars. I want to tell you a secret about Gus. The one who died.”

“Tell me,” I said, staring up at the skylight.

Camden moved his arm so it was across my waist. Took a deep breath.

“He was an *.”

I let out a nervous, surprised laugh, then quickly sucked it back in.

“I hated him,” added Camden. “It feels really good to say that out loud to someone.”

“What did you hate about him?” I asked, because I wanted him to continue the telling.

“When my mom wasn’t around, he’d say nasty things about her to me. Then he’d say nasty things about me to me. He took money from her purse and dared me to squeal on him. So a few times before the night he died, I wished he were dead. You know, the kind of wishing that comes out of you like you’re swearing, you’re just letting out your anger.”

I nodded against his shoulder.

“Then, when he did actually die . . .” Camden’s voice closed up, tied tight with a string.

“You thought you’d made that happen.”

“I was twelve.”

“You never told anyone?”