Bad Things

6. Let Me In

"Damn it." He rested his forehead against the cool glass. "What the hell have I done?"

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If the soft knock on the door hadn't woken her, Camila was sure the knot she used to call her stomach would have. For days now, it had been like this in the morning. She had the vague notion that she was hungry, but she'd never felt hunger like this before. It was almost as if her stomach tied itself into a knot, then tightened into a rock, lodging itself just under her ribs. It was barely reminiscent of what she'd grown used to the feeling of needing to eat being like. This was more of a ravenous, nauseating need that bordered on torture. And it wasn't just in the morning either. All day she'd suddenly get so hungry she was tempted to gnaw off her own arm just to lessen the pangs a little bit.

She rolled over onto her stomach—the only position that seemed to alleviate the tightness—and pulled her pillow over her head to drown the continuous knocking. It was Saturday, for crying out loud!

"Karla," her mother's voice said quietly, following the click of Camila's opening door, "Are you awake, honey?"

Camila removed the pillow from her head and tossed it aside. She answered, "I am now," without opening her eyes.

"Somebody's crabby this morning."

"Mama, it's Saturday." And I just had the crappiest day imaginable yesterday, so I'm entitled, Camila thought. Finally she opened her eyes and met her mother's. "When did you finally get home?"

"This morning," her mother said while brushing a few wild strands of dark brown locks from her face. Camila wished she had her mother's light brown color instead of the dark crap she'd ended up with.

Camila flipped over onto her back and raised herself up on her elbows. Her stomach clenched in protest. "So, the show went well, then?"

"Better than expected. In fact, I need to be back for a second showing this evening," her mother said, but would not meet her daughter's eye. "Last night, it was late by the time the buyers dispersed, so Harold let me stay over on his couch."

Of course he did. Sandra, Camila's mother, spent more time on Harold's "couch" than she did on her own. Camila wondered if her mother thought she was stupid. It certainly seemed like it since she constantly spewed the same lame excuses as to why she couldn't drag herself home night after night from the hour-long drive from the city.

Camila crossed her arms over her chest and stared at her mother. Sandra was a beautiful woman: light golden brown hair, smooth, flawless skin, gorgeous green eyes, a body with curves and delights that made her seem much younger than her age, all features Camila had, yet didn't pull off near as well. She could understand how men would want her mother, how they would do whatever it took to be with her, but what was Sandra's excuse? She had a good-looking husband and children at home. What was she looking for elsewhere?