Hush (18 page)

Cam grimaces sympathetically.

“I have no idea what we were thinking, choosing this one as our elective,” Nora adds.

“You mean, other than because we needed one and could take this one together and we ran out of time to be picky because we put it off?” Wren says.

Nora’s been slipping him bits of brownie; Cam is fighting the urge to smile like a fool because it’s frankly adorable, the way Wren nibbles them slowly, careful not to scatter crumbs.

It’s almost midnight, and with the exception of Steven, Maggie has them all laughing when Cam’s phone chimes. He’s a little dis­appointed it isn’t Nate.

So? Did you like it?
Peyton asks. Cam ignores the message with a pang; it would be rude to text her right now. When he looks up, Wren is watching him—he looks away before their eyes can meet.

“Nate?” Maggie asks, trying to see over his shoulder.

“No, Peyton,” he says, pocketing his phone.

“Has Nate even texted you yet?” she asks.

He shakes his head and, at Nora’s questioning look, explains, “Nate is my roommate.”

“Is he okay?” Wren says. It’s the first time he’s addressed con­versation to Cam directly, and there’s something amused in the look he gives him. Cam is much too discreet to tell a table­ful of people he doesn’t know that he’s been kicked out so that his roommate can have sex.

“He’s fine.”

“Sexiled.” Maggie raises her eyebrows suggestively, tilting her head at Cam.

“Maggie,” he hisses, smacking her lightly on the arm with the back of his hand. Wren and Nora both laugh, though, and Cam is utterly distracted. He’s never heard Wren laugh—not like this. He sounds so real, less other, more… regular. More like any other guy and not some unattainable, otherworldly creature. Cam can’t help but laugh too.

“Where are you gonna go tonight?” Maggie asks. He shrugs. “Come over and crash at my place,” she invites. “You know Chris­tine won’t mind.” She won’t. But he’s never felt comfortable with her since the romance with Maggie ended.

“Sure,” he says, only a little reluctantly. “Unless Nate texts me soon.”

“It is pretty late for your roommate to still be doing it,” Steven says, apropos of nothing, which makes Cam stop to stare at him and sets off more laughter from Wren and Nora, who are sharing a case of the giggles.

“Is there a curfew on sex I’m not aware of?” Nora asks between laughs. Steven frowns.
He probably has no idea. Anyone with Steven would be bored into sleep or annoyed into leaving before any­thing might happen.
Cam shakes his head and catches Maggie’s amused expression—either she’s thinking something similar or knows Cam is.

“Yes,” Logan jokes, “midnight. By rights, you should have had your room back about fourteen minutes ago.”

“Wow, it’s late,” Nora checks the time on her phone. “Ugh, I have to work tomorrow. So do you,” she says to Wren. Cam tucks that away—that Wren works, and that it’s a job that requires him to work Sundays.

“Don’t remind me,” Wren moans. He stands, smoothing the line of his pants—a mustard yellow Cam had no idea anyone could pull off—and adds, “I’ll be right back.” He inclines his head toward the men’s bathroom.

“So,” Nora leans over the table and addresses Maggie. “I’ve been thinking, would you want to hang out sometime? Maybe go shopping?”

“That sounds great,” Maggie says. “I’m always down for shop­ping. Lately all I’ve had is Cam to drag around, and he’s so resistant to letting me dress him up.”

“Har har,” Cam says. He stands to take their mugs to the bus bin and tries to wrap his mind around this new development. What if they become friends and hang out more than just for shopping? Would there be a way he could manipulate that, somehow working himself into a new group of friends that would include Wren? He shakes his head before his thoughts can spiral too much further.

“You’ve been in that study
group
all semester?” Cam tries to ask casually as he and Maggie head to her apartment.

“Yeah,” Maggie says, “and if I had known you were going to develop a crush like that, I would have figured out a way to intro­duce you sooner.”

“Me and Steven?” Cam jokes. “I fear our love would never work out.”

“Eww,” Maggie shudders. “No. There is something off about him. And he’s an asshole.”

Cam thinks of Steven’s pointed remarks about gifted people and grimaces.

“Don’t play dumb,” Maggie continues. “You know I’m talking about Wren. Super hot, huh?”

Cam tries to think of a way to answer without giving her any ideas. Knowing Maggie, she’ll start campaigning for him to take Wren on a date, or worse, try to work on it from Wren’s angle during study group.

“Yes, he’s hot,” Cam says. Sticking closest to the truth might be best.

“You should ask him out.”

“You know there’s a thing,” Cam reminds her, blithely glossing over the fact that the
thing
happens to be
with
the man in question.

“I—” Maggie looks away, and Cam tugs on her hand to get her to continue. “I worry about you. Should I be worried? That you won’t talk about it?”

“No,” Cam says. “I promise, you shouldn’t.” He could say some­thing to assuage her concern, but he leaves it at that.

“So…” Nora drapes her sweater
over the back of the couch and turns to give Wren a
look
, her eyebrow arched and a slight smirk on her lips. The apartment is dark and chilled and Wren is tired, tired in his bones. His brain is oversaturated from studying and addled from having to maintain a straight face all night. Hiding his reaction to Cam filled him with the oddest mix of sensations: regret and longing and fear. Wren’s not even sure what he’s scared of anymore, there’s so much.

“I’m tired,” he says, hoping that it will give him a stay of execution, so to speak, from having to talk to her about this. “And a little pissed, because lately all you do is read me, when you know we have a deal.”

Nora sits on the couch and pats the cushion next to her. He sighs and follows, picking up a gold-accented throw pillow and holding it in his lap like a shield. Their furniture is soft, plush and welcoming; the couch is a deep burgundy. It’s hard to appreciate when he’s so tense from all the complicated threads binding and tangling him up.

Nora confesses, “I won’t lie, I was reading him. When you came in, his astral body did the most magnificent thing—it
pulsed,
almost magenta. His physical auric body was just a lovely swirling red, a true red.”

“So?” he says defensively, picking at the seam of the pillow. He’s never been able to keep up with all the nuances of reading. Mostly he’s interested in defending himself from her ability to do it to him.

“Yours did it too,” she says matter-of-factly. “And also, after you sat down for a bit, it waned. Went lemon yellow.” She says this last loaded with certainty and innuendo, as if he’ll know what it means.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’re scared. It means you don’t know if you can control something. And I have a pretty good guess what that is,” she says. She has put her hand on his arm and he has to will him­self not to snatch it away.

“Why do you think that has anything to do—”

“I’m not dumb, Wren. I know you’re playing with him. It was so clear,” she says, shaking her head. Then she says softly, “Are you going to let yourself be scared your whole life, Wren? Don’t you want more?”

Wren closes his eyes and lays his head back. He feels a swell of just too much throbbing in his chest. “Stop,” he begs. “I can’t do this, it’s too much—”

“Honey.” She pulls him into a tight, sweet hug and he lets him­self be held, lets the tension shudder out of him with each trembling breath, tucks his cheek into her neck. She’s so tiny, but she holds him just the way he needs most, as if her arms are strong enough to keep him from quaking apart. “I just want everything for you.”

“I do too,” he says, battling tears when he finally admits it for the first time in years. “I can’t stop being scared, though. If I say the words. If I let myself believe. Want.”

In the silence of the room she sways him a little, runs her fingers over his head and lets the quiet cradle them both. Thankful and spent, Wren lets the silence seep into his head and heart and roiling stomach until the anxiety is almost gone. Nora doesn’t push him, doesn’t challenge him or make silly promises about not getting hurt again.

* * *

The thing about Nora
is
that she understands him, but also can’t help but meddle. Empathy for how he’s feeling, she has in spades. Desire for something else for him, unfortunately, is some­thing she can’t seem to control. And it helps her, distracts her from her own problems, which makes it hard for him to get too mad about it; all of which means that in the next few weeks, he’s surprised more than once by Cam’s appearance at social gatherings.

Maggie, he suspects, is in on it too. Over the course of the semes­ter, he’s learned to like her—to be honest, he can’t imagine any­one
not
liking her. She has wonderful energy. She’s funny and open and lovely. Now that things have changed and her friend­ship with Cam has been revealed, Wren wants to dislike her, because as time passes, it’s obvious she’s in cahoots with Nora. He’s reasonably sure that Maggie is clueless about what’s really happening, but that doesn’t mask the fact that she
wants
some­thing to happen between him and Cam.

It’s obvious. And Wren doesn’t doubt that Cam sees it too, though they don’t discuss or acknowledge it, ever. Wren lies in bed at night, every night, and talks himself out of Cam. Steels himself and figures out a hundred ways to cut off something that now feels intractably rooted in him. He remembers everything he can, the details, makes himself look at pictures of himself, so young, with Robert, his smile wide and sure. So in love. Although it pierces, each memory a bit of shrapnel, he does it over and over to remind himself that this is how love ends.

But erasing Cam never works.

Wren with other people
is
enlightening. It takes him a while, every time, to loosen a little, especially the first few times, when he and Cam are genuinely surprised to see each other. It doesn’t take long to catch on to Nora and Maggie’s meddling, and it’s clear that Wren doesn’t appreciate it—he’s got an excellent poker face, but sometimes the smallest flash of annoyance or worry flickers there. When it comes to observing Wren, Cam has made a concerted effort to be watchful of everything he can.

“Here,” Nora says now, passing Cam a drink. The bar they’re in is packed, and eight of them are squeezed into a booth meant for six people. Wren is across and down by two people—too far away to hold a conversation with, but close enough for Cam to catch snatches of Wren’s conversation with others. Wren, after a few drinks, is spellbinding. His hair falls into his face a little in the heat of the bar, and his cheeks go a lovely crimson as he unknots a little with each drink. Smiling and unselfconscious laughter brighten his face into something so young and soft, it makes Cam yearn in patterns he never imagined for himself.

“Thank you,” Cam smiles at Nora and sips the drink. It’s strong, and he has to work not to grimace.

“Too much?” she asks.

“I’m just not used to this,” he admits.

“Here,” Nora abducts a soda from Brokk, her and Wren’s large and intimidating friend who is their designated driver. Nora empties half of Cam’s drink into hers and then pours some of Brokk’s soda into Cam’s glass; Brokk doesn’t notice, he’s so busy flirting with Christine. Cam sips gingerly.

“Better?” she asks, and he nods.

“I owe you,” Cam says, reaching for his wallet.

“Don’t be silly,” Nora bumps his shoulder with hers. “Get me later.”

“It’s nearly two,” Cam points out. The room lists gently. His muscles feel lax in a lovely way; everything is smoother, easier. He watches Wren without subtlety; every now and then their eyes connect and Cam knows that Wren’s also been drinking too much and is starting to let his guard down.

“Another time, another place,” Nora sings. Cam smiles.

“You are—” he starts, and then loses his train of thought. She laughs and sips from his glass easily.

“You too, darling,” she says.

The room has tilted dangerously
by the time they’re ready to go. Bills are being hashed out. Maggie and Christine have already left, citing work the next day. Cam hasn’t any work to do on Sunday, only some studying. He doesn’t mind waiting with everyone and hopes for a moment, even a few seconds, with Wren. Wren—who has slipped away. Cam curses, and then offers Nora some money.

“You don’t owe this much,” she points out.

“Don’ worry,” he says. He frowns and tries again, this time mak­ing an effort not to slur. He stands, suddenly needing to use the restroom.

Only he doesn’t need to use it. He just needs to be there.
Wren.
He’s being called.

Drunk, but basically aware, Cam exhales a light “
Oh”
and follows where he’s being led.

“Don’t talk,” Wren grabs Cam
by the lapels of his button-down shirt. He has to steady Cam when he trips a little; Cam is drunk, stunningly yielding and sending off waves of desire. Cam’s eyes, such a lovely almond shape, are dark, slumberous and sensual, and Wren
aches
. Cam bites his lip, takes Wren’s face in his hands and just looks at him, their faces so close they’d hardly have to move to kiss. He doesn’t speak, but the look they share says so much. Wren swallows something down and closes his eyes.

“Turn.” He manhandles Cam, pushing him against the tile wall of the stall. Cam’s hands splay against it; the exquisite, smooth rich gold of his skin is stark against the cracked white wall. Wren pushes his forehead against the dip of Cam’s neck and cobbles himself together, works Cam’s belt open with slurred fingers and fumbled movements.

“Oh, god,” Cam whines when Wren’s hand finds him roughly.

“Shut up,” Wren says. He means it as a command, but it comes out sounding broken. He’s so weak like this, laced with alcohol that has unleashed something lighter than the darkening desire he’s let himself feel for so long. He puts his hand over Cam’s mouth and shudders when Cam bites down. Wren jerks Cam off quickly, grinding against him, breath huffing short and hard. He soaks in Cam’s pleasure, opens himself to it in a way he rarely does, and when Cam’s knees buckle, his body dependent on Wren to keep him up, they both come hard and wrecked and utterly in sync.

Cam has barely gotten his
shaking,
buzzing limbs together when he realizes that Wren is gone. The wall under his hands and cheeks is slippery—he recognizes with a start that it’s wet from his sweat. His pants are a mystery to his stupid hands, and put­ting himself together takes longer than it should.

“Bar’s closing!” An impatient voice follows the bang of the bath­room door opening. It slams shut again. Cam washes his hands quickly and avoids his image in the mirror.

Everyone is gone when he stumbles out. Nora and the rest must have assumed he’d left.

In some ways, Cam feels as if he has.

* * *

Cam doesn’t see or hear
from Wren for a long time after that. It’s enough time for Cam to feel it, wretchedly, in his bones, enough to finally find words for what’s happening to him. Wren is a beautiful enigma, a bright light that’s blinding and sud­den. In his absence, everything around Cam seems like waning phos­phorescence.

Nate is a presence he senses but doesn’t engage with. His classes are shadows, hours he has to endure, and when sum­mer comes, he barely feels the transition. He and Nate, Maggie and Chris­tine choose to rent a run-down house near the college until they graduate, and the room Cam now shares with Nate is bigger, which they both appreciate. With slightly more space—a living room and a kitchen and their own bathroom—Cam also has much more time to himself.

Every moment he can steal for himself, he spends remember­ing the littlest things, like the whimsy of plugs Wren chooses to wear; one time he’d forgone them completely in favor of a single octopus adornment that had curved along the length of his ear. Cam remembers the chaos of Wren’s hair, so black it’s like ink and Cam can hardly believe it’s real. He treasures the closest moment they’ve shared, Wren’s encouragement when Cam finally chose to claim what had been deep and undiscovered in himself for so long.

* * *

By early summer, Cam doesn’t
want
to admit he might have given up; he’s had no way to connect with Wren other than the phone, and his calls and texts have gone unanswered. The only thing that’s kept him going is an amorphous sense of a tether that hasn’t loosened. There have been days when he wonders if it is deluded hope, and others when its shape is so solid in his chest, he knows it is real. Then suddenly, during the second week of June, Wren’s silence ends.

Want to revisit something
? Wren texts late on a Friday night.

Of course
, Cam responds so quickly he’s a little surprised to have avoided typos.

Find me in the library tonight

Where?

I’ll let you figure that out

Cam stares at that last one, then laughs. Wren has made himself a treasure hunt, and Cam knows exactly where X marks the spot.

“You’re fast,” Wren says.
He’s
cross-legged on the linoleum floor between rows of musty books. The bright florescent lights shine over his hair; he’s wearing distressed jeans he must not care much about, since he’s on the floor, and a loose purple shirt.

“Dare I say you’re predictable?” Cam kneels in front of him and doesn’t say
I missed you.

For a moment they just stare at each other. Wren’s eyes are one of hundreds of shades of green Cam’s never seen. He read once that neither blue nor green eyes are the result of pigmentation, but rather a lack of it, and that depending on light conditions, the color of lighter eyes can vary greatly.