What Happens Now(58)

My mother told him her real name was Katia, which was Greek, because she was Greek and yes, she’d heard all the goddess jokes. She told him about the kinds of crazy things that happened during the night shift, and what her new job was going to be like. Richard told his best “wacky art supply store customer” stories.

Dani kept poking Camden with the trunk of her stuffed elephant, Ivory. Which meant she loved him, of course, but didn’t know it yet.

After dinner, Camden and I did all the dishes. It was a strange kind of heaven, to be doing this boring task together. As if we were real people, simply living our lives. Mom and Richard were watching TV with Dani and I couldn’t remember the last time that had taken place, whether or not it was all an act for Camden. And if it was, was that because Mom knew he was special? They’d certainly never done that for Lukas.

When the kitchen was clean—it still felt absurdly cool, knowing he and I had made it that way as a team—I walked Camden downstairs so he could say good-bye. More handshakes, more use of the word pleasure, along with lovely and delicious.

“How was I?” he asked as he leaned against his car, once again clutching the copy of Time Enough he was borrowing.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You got freaked out when I stayed over, when I told you about last summer. But you’re not freaked out about meeting my family.”

He shrugged. “I never said it made sense.”

“So. What happens now?”

“Well, there’s the SuperCon. Eliza has plans for that. I hope your mom will let you go, since she’s met me and I’ve hopefully impressed the bejesus out of her.”

“That’s what happens next week. What happens now?”

Camden seemed stumped, then searched my face, maybe looking for an answer he could borrow. He glanced toward the house and reached out, pulled me close so we were pressed up against each other. His heart drumming against my chest. I still didn’t know what truly kept it beating. The secrets of him lay just under his skin but I could not reach them.

“This,” was all he said. “This is what happens.”

The front door creaked open and I jumped away.

“Camden!” called Dani as she ran out. “Wait! I want to watch you leave!”

“She likes to watch people leave,” I said, feeling the heat drain from my cheeks. “It’s her thing.”

Camden smiled. “We all have a thing.”

We watched him together, sitting on the porch, until his car was out of sight.

Five minutes later, Mom stepped outside and put her hands on Dani’s shoulders.

“Pajama time,” she said, and steered Dani toward the door like she was a puppet. “Daddy’s waiting to help you. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Dani resisted at first, planting her feet far apart, her hands on her hips. “Hmph.”

“I’m serious, Danielle,” said Mom in a different voice now, a layer of softness stripped off. “We’ve had a nice day. Don’t ruin it.”

Dani gave me an imploring glance, but I nodded at the door. “Go.” And she did.

After the door closed behind her, Mom stared out at the street. The sun had finally set, the light scattering quickly. Our neighbors were visible in their living room window.

“The Gustafsons are playing after-dinner poker again,” said Mom. “I often notice them when I leave for work.”

She sat down on the top step next to me. It felt awkward, creaky. Had my mother and I forgotten how to quietly coexist in the same space?

Please, I thought. Don’t talk about Camden. Then another thought: Please talk to me about Camden.

“He’s great,” she said.

I flicked a look at her, trying to hide my surprise, then glanced away. “I think so, too.”

Mom let out a small laugh, like tiny bubbles. “I can see why he’d make a good Azor.”

Warmth and relief flushed down the back of my neck and made the hairs stand on end. Something about her even saying the name Azor.

“Here,” I said, sliding my phone out of my pocket before I could think of all the reasons not to. Kendall had emailed me about a dozen of the best fair photos from her camera. I pulled them up and handed Mom the phone, which she took hesitantly.

I couldn’t read her expression as she browsed through the images. It was like she wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry. She seemed on the verge of either, the lines on her face capable of going both ways. I didn’t know what I expected or wanted here, only that this was something I had to give at the moment. When it came to my mother, there had been so little I had to give, above and beyond what I was expected to . . . or what she took from me, depending on how I wanted to see it.

When she finally handed me back the phone—I think she must have looped through the photos at least twice—all she said was, “Looks like fun.”

“It was. Much more than I thought it would be.”

“Nobody gave you a hard time for being dressed like that?”

“We got some stares. But, you know. It was the fair. People probably thought we were part of a stage show or something.”

“It’s funny, how you’ve stayed a fan of the show. I always thought it was something you put up with because of me.”

“No. I loved it, too. Really, I did.”