Hush (6 page)

When his defenses are down, when he’s on the brink of pleasure with her, is also when he’s least able to control what he’s think­ing; this is when Wren plagues him most. Something about picturing Wren, about wanting things he can barely name, about wonder­ing what it would be like to be touched by him the way Maggie does, rouses him. Maggie notices changes in him. Cam assumes she attributes them to their deepening relationship.

* * *

“Nate,” Cam says, turning to
him
suddenly. He’s been unable to concentrate; this thing with Maggie has been torturing him, and he needs some perspective. “Have you ever thought about another person when you’re with someone?”

Nate sets down his pen. “You mean, like, sex stuff, right?”

“Uh,” Cam says, feeling heat rise in his face. “Um, yeah?”

“So, like…” Nate swivels himself back and forth in his chair. “Are you thinking about someone specific?”

“No!” Cam rushes to say. The flush deepens enough that it might actually show on his face; he’s not accustomed to lying, and he has no idea if he can pull it off.

“Just other people, generally?”

Cam avoids specifying what kinds of people. “Yeah.” Maybe Nate won’t notice.

Nate thinks for a moment. His eyes narrow a little when he looks at Cam. Then he shrugs. “I think so? I’ve never really been with anyone long enough for it to be an issue.”

“You think this is a relationship thing?” Cam asks.

“I don’t know,” Nate says. “I mean… when I’m with a girl, it’s pretty much only one or two times, so you know. It’s pretty—uh. Immediate.”

“Immediate,” Cam echoes.

“Or something,” Nate kicks his desk lightly. “So when you’re with Maggie, you think about other… people?”

“Not always,” Cam says miserably, pushing down a wave of shame. Even after they’d started having sex, his desire hadn’t increased all that much—at least for her. He’s done everything he can to
not
think of a boy with delicately light skin, a shock of black hair and eyes a color he can’t name, of the curve of his collarbone or the long fingers he watched for hours in a class he barely passed.

“Hmm,” Nate says. He muses. “I’ve always kind of thought that what you think about is what you think about? That you can’t always help it.”

“I guess,” Cam says.

“Do you want to be with her?” Nate speaks more frankly than he has before.

“I guess so?” Cam swallows. “Well, um. Yes.” Nate raises his eye­brows and Cam closes his eyes. “I think so. I don’t know. I really like her. It just—”

“Dude,” Nate says, “I know this is, like, awkward. But you can talk to me about anything. I hope you know that.
Anything
.”

Cam averts his eyes and fiddles with the cap of his ballpoint pen. “Yeah,” he says. It’s quiet for a moment; Nate shrugs lightly and turns back to his homework, giving Cam some space. Cam can’t say the rest: that the things he desires most deeply surface when he wakes at night, aching fiercely, so close to spilling onto his sheets with half-remembered dreams of people most definitely
not
Maggie. They work in silence for a while. He startles when Nate speaks up again.

“Whatever you do, man, just be sure you’re treating her with respect.”

“Of course,” Cam says, frowning.

“But you too,” Nate adds.

“Hmm?”

“You only get one life, Cam,” Nate says. “You’re not me. The casual thing isn’t for you. Just… be happy.”

Cam smiles. Nate’s not generally so serious; it’s touching. With Peyton so far away and out of contact, it’s reassuring to have some­one who cares the way Nate does. It’s not showy or stressful, it’s just
there
.

“I’ve never been here before,”
Cam says over his menu.

“Oh, really? It’s one of those native Chicago secrets,” Maggie says. She’s fiddling with her straw, capping the end with one finger and then drawing the straw up to watch the liquid flow out when she uncaps it. Over and over.

“You’re thinking about something,” he says.

“Duh,” Maggie smiles, but there’s something a little off about it. “Aren’t we all always thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Cam wonders. “I’ve never thought—ha ha—about it.”

Her laugh is familiar. Whatever oddity he sensed seems to break apart.

“Tell me another,” Maggie says, after he’s told her a funny story about the trouble he and Peyton used to get into when they were little. These are the things he shares about Peyton with others—the little anecdotes he can laugh over as well, like the first time Peyton had “run away,” riding her bike toward the center of town at midnight with no clear plan or destination. She’d been pulled over by a police car less than a mile from the house and brought home. Compared to the other times, their increasing frequency as the two of them got older and the accompanying resentment and tension, this first always makes him laugh.

He pictures Peyton so clearly: with her twelve-year-old face set in her special brand of defiance and her hair in pigtails, caught violating curfew. He’d almost gone with her; she’d begged but he laughed her off. It was the first time they started to go different ways. Cam understood better how following impulse would only make things worse. Although he can now see clearly the divide that began to form between them that day, neither of them had understood it at the time.

Across from him, Maggie waits with her trademark smile. But funny Peyton stories are a slippery slope that can quickly slide into something shaded darker. Cam tries to twirl his pasta on his fork and it keeps slipping off, which is annoying.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “There are lots I probably can’t remem­ber, from before I settled down a bit.”

“And she didn’t,” Maggie guesses. “What happened, there?”

“What do you mean?” A bit frustrated with the pasta situation, he settles for cutting and eating it. He always feels guilty when he cuts it, and isn’t sure if he does because it seems rude or because it seems like cheating.

“Well, Peyton certainly still hasn’t settled down, right?”

He shifts a little.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” Maggie rushes to continue. “I just mean that you guys seem, from what I hear, very different now.”

“I guess,” Cam says, looking down. She’s not wrong. He and Peyton
are
different—about as different as people can be. It’s never felt that way to him, though; he’s always felt like another half of a whole.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie says softly. “Did I say the wrong thing?”

“No,” he forces a smile. “Not at all. I just miss her.”

* * *

Maggie is a bit different
after that. The sense of oddness returns, though on the surface, everything is the same. Cam can’t quite put his fin­ger on it, but there’s some undercurrent. Everything seems to hum with the faint vibration of discordant-energy.

“Did I do something wrong?” he finally asks.

“No.” Maggie doesn’t look surprised. “Well. Maybe.”

“Oh, that’s not good,” Cam says. He folds his napkin carefully and puts it on the table.

“No, I mean—” Maggie sighs and looks away. “I’m not mad at you or anything. I just…”

Cam waits as long as he can through the silence that follows. “Do I have something to apologize for?”

“I don’t know.” She speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “Cam.” She looks up at him. “Are you happy?”

“What?” Cam feels a bit confused. “Of course I am, why would you—?”

“I don’t just mean with me,” she interrupts, “although that too.”

“Maggie,” he says helplessly, unsure where she is going.

“So, I’ve been thinking about this for a while. And I don’t know how to say it. And it might be offensive, or all kinds of wrong, but I’ve been having this feeling.” She stops and takes a breath. “Well… I’ve had it. It’s come and gone, and maybe it was just a small hunch, and then you seemed to disprove it—”

“Maggie,” he interrupts. “What are you trying to say?”

“I don’t—” She lifts her hand and lets it drop helplessly. “Cam, do you think—is there any way…”

“Any way…?” he prompts. She closes her eyes, takes a breath and then shrugs a little, settling into her body. When she opens her eyes again, there’s something a little sad, or lost, in them.

“Cam, I don’t know that you feel the same about me as I do about you,” she says finally.

“Maggie,” he starts. He has nothing to follow that with, though; how can he refute it when he’s sure it’s true? And how can he fail to deny it, when the implication is that he’s doing the wrong thing? He cares about her. So much. After a beat, he says so.

“I know you do, Cam,” she says. “But it’s not the same. And—” She swallows, blinks shining eyes and then looks up, startled by their waiter bringing the bill. Cam takes it with a quiet thanks.

“How much do I owe?” Maggie asks softly.

“No, I’m paying.” Cam says.

“Cam—” Maggie’s brown eyes are gentle when they meet his. “I don’t know that you should anymore.”

“Stop it.” He presses his lips together.

“Cam, when I said I care about you, I meant it,” she insists. Her hand covers his and squeezes. “I care about you, and I want you to be happy, and I don’t think you can be with me.”

“Maggie,” he says. “I
am
.”

“Not like you should be,” she says and takes the bill from him.

“Please, Maggie,”
Cam tries to
take her hand when they exit the restaurant. His stomach is still knotted; his body is caught in the suspension before free fall.

“Look, Cam,” Maggie says, “I think, once I have some time to get over this a little, we’re going to be great friends.”

“But—” Cam starts.

“That’s all we were meant to be, I think.” Night has come, a hush of dark cloaking the city. Her face is shadowed, but the tears in her eyes are clear. She stretches up on her toes. With her palm cool against his face, she kisses him so tenderly he can hardly feel it. “We’ll talk about this more, in a while,” she promises.

Cam closes his eyes and breathes; this feels terrible. He isn’t just sad, but also guilty. He’s let her down. And he hates that he’s hurt her; it’s clear that he has. Her hand slips from his before he opens his eyes. When he does, it’s to watch her walk away. She’s putting her purse over her shoulder, cross-body in her way, and he catches a glimpse of her tucking her hair behind her right ear. He knows so well how it smells, like coconut and vanilla, in the hollow behind her ear.

“I am… ” Cam says
into the darkness.
He can tell Nate is awake. “More complicated than I realized.”

Nate just snorts a laugh.

Cam closes his eyes and rolls until he feels the cool cotton of his pillowcase against his cheek. He’s tangled, less sure than he was before—because he feels guilty, somehow complicit and also, for some reason, relieved.

“Dude, what was that about?”
Nate asks him the next morn­ing. Cam shrugs, and then realizes Nate can’t see that when he’s in the closet. He finds the shirt he’s been looking for: a rich cobalt blue button-down with a light sheen to it and double pockets on the right side that Peyton gave him for his last birthday. She’d sent a huge package with all sorts of things he’d never buy for himself, as usual.

“What was what about?” Cam says, checking in the mirror the way the shirt fits.

“The crisis ‘I’m complicated’ shit,” Nate doesn’t look up; he’s doing something on the computer, clicking his mouse rapidly. Probably playing Candy Crush.

Cam takes a breath. He buttons the last button. He’s never worn such a vibrant color before; the man in the mirror is almost a stranger. He sits on his bed, gripping the edge with his fingers.

“Maggie broke up with me,” he says.

“Oh man.” Nate turns away from his game. “That blows. Why?”

Cam shakes his head, curling his toes to crack them. “She said we didn’t feel the same way about each other.”

“Well…” Nate starts.

“Well?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Nate says.

Cam tamps down a surge of irritation and takes a deep breath. Nate has a point, although his easy acknowledgment and unsur­prised demeanor are frustrating. It’s uncomfortable to know other people might see things about him so much more clearly than he has.

“I guess so,” Cam says. “This sucks,” he admits candidly. “I think I really hurt her, and I never meant to. I mean… I’m—”

Nate cocks his head and waits him out.

“I’ve been confused. And I don’t know why,”

“Well, isn’t that the definition of confused?” Nate asks.

“No. I mean, yes. I— I don’t even know what I’m confused about. I just know that something doesn’t feel right, and with her, I couldn’t ever make it feel one hundred percent like I thought it should, like other people seem to—”

“Cam, man. You cannot try to figure out your shit by comparing it to other people,” Nate butts in.

“Well how else will I know how to do what’s right?” Cam retorts.

“By figuring out what’s right for
you
,” Nate says.

Cam straightens the cuff of his shirt. “You should charge me for the therapeutic services you provide.”

“I will eventually,” Nate jokes back. “Seriously, though—you okay?”

“Yes and no,” Cam says, tipping his head from side to side. “A part of me feels like she’s right, but another—”

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m just going to miss her,” Cam says.

Nate smiles. “She’s a great girl,” he says. “She’ll find a way to be friends with you.”

“That’s what she said,” Cam says with a frown.

Nate just smiles at him and turns back to his game. Cam pulls a scarf on, knotting it carefully before donning his new coat.

* * *

“Let’s get shitfaced tonight,”
Nate
says, pulling up a chair across from Cam. It scrapes loudly against the tile floor. Cam winces. He hates that about this coffee shop—well, he’s not really a fan of the place at all; it’s sterile, with its white tiles and big windows, its regimented rows of tables that are always a bit crooked by the end of the day. The coffee isn’t always fresh.

But it’s cheap, it’s near campus, and it’s where his friends are today. And it’s hot, which is welcome, with the thick January snow falling outside.

“Bad week?” Julianne smiles over her mug of coffee and the cheerful strawberry blonde swing of her hair catches the overhead lights.

“Nope,” Nate says. He tilts back in his chair and drapes his arm across the back of hers. His Cubs hat is turned backwards, which makes his unkempt hair stick out in all directions under the brim. “It’s just been too long since I’ve participated in any planned debauchery.”

“Really?” Cam jokes. “I thought that’s what every Sock Saturday was about.”

“Har har,” Nate flips him off and Cam laughs.

“What’s ‘Sock Saturday’?” Mic butts in.

“You know that old sock rule guys used to have in dorms?”

“And girls,” Julianne chimes in.

“Yeah, I guess. You guys don’t actually do that, do you?” Mic asks.

“No, no.” Cam says, laughing lightly. “He just texts me the word ‘socks’ pretty much every Saturday. I call it being ‘soxiled.’”

“I take a break every now and then,” Nate says, pretending to be offended.

“Yeah, that’s what Friday is for,” Cam retorts.

“Well this certainly explains some things,” Julianne observes.

“Oh?”

“Your excellent grades and why you are
always
at the library?”

Cam looks down, turning his coffee mug around and around on its saucer. “Yep. I do love the library.”
And it has nothing to do with stupidly hoping to run into someone there,
he doesn’t add.

“Okay, so, Cam’s perfection aside,” Nate says. “Tonight? Wild night out?”

“I’m in,” Julianne says; Mic nods.

“Cam?” Nate asks in a leading tone.

“You know it’s not really my thing,” Cam hedges.

“No,” Nate wags his finger. “What I know is that you
think
it’s not your thing, but that you totally love getting crazy too. At least, that’s what your actions tell us.”

“He has a point,” Mic smiles.

“The embarrassing ramblings of a drunken man should not be considered truth,” Cam grumbles.

“Au contraire,” Julianne says. “Drunken confessions are the most honest kind.”

“That’s a terrible line of thought if you are trying to sway me,” Cam points out.

“How about this, then,” Nate says, tipping his chair back down. “We’re gonna have fun. You need more fun. It’s on, baby.”

Cam rolls his eyes but can’t hide the twitch of a smile. Nate slaps him on the back, takes Cam’s hand and makes Cam fist bump him.