For You ... -Camren

**CHAPTER 16**

But the kiss. It was that first kiss. She blamed it all on that kiss. (And on Lauren, but Lauren was the instigator of the kiss, and thus, the kiss and Lauren were one and the same and she blamed them both.)

She'd known her feelings were different, but she had assumed it was because Lauren was her best friend. The one who understood her, the one who could calm her down, the one who could make her laugh, the one whose mere presence left her heart palpitating and quite possibly making her go into cardiac arrest. But with the kiss—oh, the kiss left nothing to doubt, left nothing to chance, made it abundantly clear why the feelings were different. (The fact that she knew, the fact that she was sure of why it was different, didn't change anything. She knew, and yet she resolutely refused to admit it to herself, because admitting it would make it true, and that wasn't something she could handle.)

Because Lauren's mouth barely brushed hers, because it was a sloppy kiss that tasted like beer and fries, because it left her head spinning with a single, monumental thought:

Uh oh.

Her feelings were not those of friendship (though it was an unequivocal fact that Lauren was her best friend). Her feelings were so much more, so much deeper, so much more insane and all Camila wanted to do was punch Lauren for doing this because it was entirely her fault.

Because who wouldn't feel this way with Lauren? With her crooked grin and sarcastic comments? With her (annoyingly) ever-present calm, her wittiness, with her ability to make the most mundane of things fun and exciting? Lauren, who brought her muffins and coffee when she was nervous, who intuitively knew how to act around her, who never, ever, not for one moment, thought of herself. (Who got flustered over Normani's teasing, over her shoddy artwork, over admitting to Camila things she hated admitting, like whether or not she liked Chinese.)

Lauren was Lauren, and Camila stood no chance against her. She rammed her way in, not caring about the fact that Camila had most definitely not issued an invitation for her to take up residence in her heart.

You weren't supposed to feel this way, Camila knew. Not at only twenty. Not so young, not when she barely knew what she wanted to eat for dinner that night, let alone who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with (but she did know, she wanted to live with Lauren, forever only Lauren, and that terrified her, and she refused to admit her feelings, refused to put a name to it).

So she blamed Lauren, blamed her for being perfect, blamed her for the feelings, blamed her and wanted her and was desperate to tell her. (She refused to admit it to herself, but loving Lauren, oh, loving Lauren—that was entirely Lauren's fault. Her fault for being it, her fault for being unapologetically herself, unapologetically kind, unapologetically wonderful. And Camila, oh Camila, she fell hard and fast, and she had no idea what to do under the enormity of what she felt.)

(So she kept silent.)

(That was mistake number one.)

//

"I don't believe it, not for one second," Lauren muttered, shaking her head, the tips of her fingers getting cold despite the gloves she wore. She thought that Camila's cheeks were paler, the tip of her nose just a tad red.

"Believe what?"

"Believe that you knew you felt that way since the first kiss." Camila huffed, looking away and shrugging.

"You wanted the truth, Lauren. And that's the truth."

"That would mean you felt that way a full year longer than I did. That's just not possible, Camila. I'd have noticed." Camila's head, which had swiveled towards Lauren halfway through her comment, was suddenly too close for Lauren's comfort.