On my way home, I worried about things I'd never worried about before. Outside of Kay, I never had company, and she'd been in California for the past year.
I wondered if I'd thrown out the trash that morning. I was so bad at remembering to do that. I'd planned on doing laundry on Saturday, but I hadn't started sorting the clothes out in the living room had I? Shit. I hated the fact that people were nose blind to the smell of their homes. What the hell did mine smell like?
My mind ran a mile a minute during the half hour drive. Every now and then, I'd glance at Jackson through the rearview mirror, but he was always lost in his own thoughts.
I ran my index nail against my teeth, so damned tempted to bite it off, but I'd worked too hard to leave that habit behind.
It was six fifteen when we pulled into the parking spaces of my apartment building. After letting Jackson out of my two door Mini Cooper, I watched Cameron step out of his sleek, yet out of place, black BMW.
I almost asked him to wait there while I gathered my things. Clearly, he was used to the finer things if his car and the hotel we stayed at were any indication, but I was proud of my home.
I'd saved my financial aid refund all four years I was in college because I had no plans on moving back home after graduation.
Though Bricksfield wasn't a large town, I made sure to find a place that was in a different neighborhood than my mom. It also helped that she remarried rich a year after and had moved to the suburbs on the outskirts of town.
I'd moved in on my own, furnished the place on my own, and was so proud of myself. I refused to let someone else's accomplishments diminish that. With my head held high, I led them upstairs.
"That has to be my favorite cleaning solution."
"What?" I hadn't realized I was lost in my thoughts until Cameron spoke.
"Fabuloso," he answered with a smile as he entered my home.
Oh thank God. He thought my house smelled like Fabuloso? My shoulders sagged with relief. There was only one dish in the sink, the one Jackson ate cereal in that morning, so I quickly rinsed it and put it away before making my way into the living room where the boys stood.
"I'll be right back," I said, more for Jackson's benefit.
The couch and coffee table were cluttered with work stuff and the vision boards I was working on, so Cameron leaned against the half wall that separated the living room from the kitchen.
Jackson chose to stand near the balcony doors.
I rushed to my room and threw whatever was clean into a duffle bag. As long as I could make outfits out of what I packed, I'd be fine. I didn't plan on being with them long, just until Cameron figured things out.
I froze, the situation I'd placed myself in finally settling in. What the hell was I doing? I dropped the bag and paced the room.
Cameron was basically a stranger. A stranger who knew me intimately, but a stranger. I didn't know the first thing about healthy home dynamics, yet volunteered to be the middle ground between him and Jackson.
"Fuck." I groaned. I had half a mind to call Kay and have her talk me out of it, but she'd probably encourage it. Plus, I couldn't do that to Jackson. He deserved better.
When I stepped back into the living room, I had a suitcase of my stuff in one hand and a backpack with Jackson's clothes in the other.
Cameron quirked a brow, and a smile lit up his face.
"Too much?" I asked.
Shaking his head, he said, "nah, you're good."
I hadn't realized what he held in his hands until he placed the board, along with a few printed images I hadn't glued on yet, back onto the coffee table.
"What are you doing?" I quickly scanned the room to see if anything else had been disturbed.
I made vision boards for literally anything: classroom setups, outfit inspos, and even books. The one I was in the process of creating was of my dream home.
I'd hoped to one day buy a cozy little cottage home with a wrap around porch. I'd have sliding glass doors that led into the backyard, and that was where the magic would happen. I'd have plants everywhere, hanging from plantars, sitting on floating shelves. Maybe I'd even start my own tree.
I'd have a second hand round wicker chair, that looked like it belonged next to some outrageously large pool, and after a few YouTube videos, I'd figure out how to turn it into a swing.
"It's just an idea," I started, defensively, then immediately stopped myself. The amount of dollars I had to Zelle Kay every time I got defensive was criminal enough. To not have learned that lesson would be even worse.
"Not everything requires an explanation, Ash." I could hear her now. She was right. She was right, but habits are hard to break.
"It looked cool." Cameron shrugged before turning to Jackson. "You ready, bud?" He held a hand out for him.
Jackson looked to me with inquiring eyes. I nodded, and he took that as his sign to make his way over to me and latch on to my belt loop.
Cameron slipped his hand into his pocket and flashed me a smile when he noticed me watching.
"Ready?" he asked.
I didn't know him well enough to read more into his actions, so I just nodded and allowed him to lead the way out.
***
The entrance of the gated community was made up of two white bricked walls dressed in greenery and lined with wisteria trees. Thin blades of sunlight pierced through the tiny openings between the purple flowers, and seemed to dance as we drove through the gate and under the tunnel of trees. It was so perfectly arched, I knew it wasn't natural, but damn was it beautiful.
We drove down a winding path that eventually branched off into different directions. I didn't need to be told wealthy people lived there. Wealth was whispered by the wind itself as it blew, unobstructed, through the expanse of land that separated each home. God, space truly was a luxury.
I'd forgotten that homes actually had backyards. My neighborhood looked like the little square on a Monopoly board that you tried to cram all your little houses on.
Cameron drove into the driveway while I parked a little to the side, not wanting to impose. I let Jackson out and he immediately latched on to my belt loop again as we walked up the driveway.
"When'd you...?" I trailed off, running my eyes over the grocery bags that were neatly placed in front of the door.
"I ordered a few things on our way to your place. I don't usually shop and drive," he tacked on when I furrowed my brows, "but it was already getting late, so I figured I'd get something for a quick dinner. We can go grocery shopping tomorrow."
He grabbed them all with his left hand in one swoop.
I stared up the home, admiring the beautiful limestone walls while Cameron put in the security code. His home was large. Clearly one story, but its size boasted spacious rooms. Maybe even a foyer and an entertainment room.
The outside of the home felt almost clinical in its beauty. With its perfectly hedged bushes, the mandatory fountain, and the arched top wrought iron doors Cameron led us through.
But the inside, the juxtaposition between the inside and outside nearly knocked me off of my feet.
His home smelled like clean linen fresh out of the dryer and felt just as warm. The brown and beige palette it was decorated in, along with the warm light that flooded the room gave it a cozy ambience that the exterior lacked.
After removing our shoes and placing them into one of the three wicker baskets, Jackson and I followed Cameron deeper into the home.
The door at the end of the foyer led into the kitchen. Cameron directed Jax and I to go right and down the hall while he went through the door to put the groceries down.
The hallway opened up into a connected living and dining room space, with the living room on the right and the dining room on the left.
That evening's sunset was framed by the glass wall that spanned the length of the two rooms.
I hadn't expected so much wood. The ceiling, along with the walls, were ivory in color, but the exposed wooden beams were a beautiful ash brown.
There were pendant lights that hung down from one of the beams and ended a few feet above the trestle dining table.
The flooring was made of the same ash brown wood as the ceiling beams.
I quickly took in and analyzed the design choices. I was no interior designer myself, but could appreciate how intentional whoever picked these pieces out were. From the reclaimed wood coffee table to the sleek black decorative vases in a room of whites, grays, beiges, and browns.
Even the white limestone accent wall that encased the fireplace and held up the wide flat screen tv didn't seem out of place.
It all just worked. The minimal decor, the color scheme, the different textures. It was beautiful.
"Who decorated this?" I pondered out loud.
"I did."
I jumped at the sound of Cameron's voice. Not because he was close, it sounded like it came from a few feet away, but because it was unexpected. He was supposed to be in the kitchen.
I whipped around and found him leaning against the partition wall that separated the kitchen from the dining room.
"Oh."
His shoulders bounced as he laughed. "Oh? You sound disappointed."
I shook my head before making my way over to him. "Not...disappointed. Just shocked, honestly. I would've never put this together. Hell, I wouldn't have expected this considering how the outside looked."
He pulled out his phone and tapped away at his screen for a minute, giving me time to realize how my sentence may have come off.
"Not that the outside was bad. It was gorgeous honestly, I just—"
My attention snapped to the tv when I heard it cut on. It was playing some kind of kid's cartoon. I watched as it also seized Jackson's attention.
When I brought my gaze back to Cameron, he was staring at me with humor in his eyes and a small smile playing on his lips.
"I get it. The outside was more modern french chateau, like all the other houses around here."
"Right." I nodded.
I walked into the kitchen, marveling at the sheer size of it.
"While the inside" —he grabbed his ingredients out of the grocery bags and placed them on the island— "is more like a contemporary country home."
"Yeah." I nodded, unsure. I wasn't familiar with the terms, but I got the gist of what he was saying, and it was absolutely true. The outside and inside were two different styles.
"But also," I continued, "even on the inside, it's just so much stuff I wouldn't have paired. It's like luxe and country had a baby, but the baby's all hip and modernized.
His laughter shook his entire body that time and even drew a small smile out of me.
"I'm glad it comes off that way. I kind of just threw every single idea I had growing up into this place."
"What do you mean?"
He pulled out a pot and a skillet, rinsed them, then placed them on the stove before facing me.
My heart rate picked up and I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. God, he was a gorgeous man.
A gorgeous man that abandoned his son, get it together, Ash.
"I had a thing for home magazines growing up," he explained.
Ah. So he grew up with money. Only people with money had subscriptions to home magazines. I wouldn't fault him for that. That was my goal, to one day put my kids in a position to grow up not wanting for anything.
No. I couldn't fault him for that, but I couldn't respect him either. So many people had their children ripped away from them because of situations out of their control. Yet there he was, with the means to take care of his child, and he just...
I tuned back into the conversation.
"So everytime I'd get a magazine, I'd make note of everything I wanted in a home of my own one day. I used to cut out all the pictures I liked, until I didn't have to. The images were so ingrained in my brain."
"So now you have subscriptions of your own that get mailed here?" I asked, trying to appear attentive.
He shot me a deadpan look. "Be serious. I'm more of an email subscription kind of guy."
Wh-what? I was the one laughing then. His response caught me so off guard. I could tell by the crinckles at the corners of his eyes that he was proud of that fact.
Ok. A funny and gorgeous deadbeat, I mused.
"Do you cook?" he asked.
"Not at all." I shook my head and closed the remaining distance between us. I leaned against one end of the island and watched him.
"So you just order takeout?"
I shrugged. "I make a mean salad."
And I did. I hated salads growing up. I wouldn't touch them for a long time because of how my mom was always shoving one down my throat, but when I moved into my own home, I realized eating a salad was truly a simple act.
It didn't have to be a bad experience.
So I took my time making them, adding the ingredients and flavors I knew I'd enjoy while also reaping the benefits of how healthy it was. Having a salad was no longer torturous, but therapeutic.
"I didn't know salads was doing it like that." He did a slow perusal of my body, like he had at the club.
All of a sudden, I was there again. Whiskey in one hand and shredded inhibitions in the other. I felt sexy then. In that moment, I wasn't sure how to feel because I wasn't sure what he'd meant.
I crossed my arms and felt my body tense. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he started, his voice low and full of want. Not the curious want where you haven't had something and are intrigued by it. No. The addictive one, where you've felt, smelled, and tasted something, and would do anything to have it again and again and again.
I forgot how to breathe when his eyes met mine again. The tension that had seized my body left and I was consumed by a heat that could rival the one that the large pot sat on.
I bit my lip, a nervous habit of mine, and he tracked the movement.
"You could've told me you be eating cornbread everyday, and I'd believe it, Ash. You fine as fuck. In and out of those clothes."
Oh....fuuuuck.
"I-I think that's crossing a line," was the only thing I could think to respond.
With a shrug he said, "we've already crossed the biggest line there is. Sorry," he added on when he saw my expression, "just being honest, but you already knew you looked good, so I guess that was redundant."
Did I know I looked good? Some days, yeah, and felt it too. But it was different from the what I felt then. I felt like a goddess under his reverent stare, and that was scary.
"What are you making?" I asked, desperately needing a change in subject.
"Alfredo pasta."
"Ahhh, the bad bitch starter pack." With a short laugh, I tightened my folded arms and kneaded my inner bicep with my thumb.
The carton of heavy cream fell out of his hands. I rushed to grab it since it landed closer to me.
"Ain't no way I spent years perfecting my recipe to have it reduced to a starter pack meal."
"I didn't coin the term." I shrugged, handing him the cream. "Take it up with the people."
"Here."
He handed me two yellow onions, a red bell pepper, a green one, and some garlic, along with a knife and a bowl.
I shook My head. "I suck at cutting too."
"It'll be fine. It's a basic meal."
"No. Starter pack meal. And you're the bad bitch," I corrected. "I think that puts it a notch above basic."
"And what does that make you?"
"Your basic sous chef."
He gave me another quick once over, like he wanted to argue the fact, but just shook his head instead.
I cut everything up, then watched him clean and season the shrimp. Once everything was prepped, he started boiling the pasta, then dropped two generous spoons of butter into a hot skillet.
I handed him my bowl once the butter had melted down. He took one look into it, then met my gaze and laughed.
"Aw damn. I thought you were joking about the cutting. How'd you manage to make every slice a different size?" he asked as he picked through the onions at the top.
I waited until his eyes to landed back on me to flip him off.
"Is that an invitation, Ashlynn? 'Cause I will show up."
I flipped him off with my other hand. Two was always better than one.
He chuckled, shook his head, then dumped the bowl's contents into the skillet. He was such a relaxing cook. There was an easiness and carefree feeling in the air. He cleaned as he went, so at no point did the kitchen start to feel overwhelming.
My eyes zeroed in on his watch again. It was so out of place, considering his home, his car, his supposed upbringing. I just—I couldn't understand why he wore it. Even a family heirloom would've been expensive and better kept.
It was tearing and fraying in some places. It looked like something I could've found as a kid, rummaging through my granddaddy's old things. I wanted to ask about it, but also didn't want to open the door to divulging personal information about ourselves, so I let it go.
I joked about the pasta being a starter pack meal, but I surely couldn't make it from scratch. He seemed so comfortable in the kitchen. There was a reason I couldn't cook. The kitchen and anything having to do with food was not a safe space for me growing up. I was making strides as an adult, but I didn't think I'd ever be as at home in it as Cameron was.
He was tall and wide, with his broad shoulders, yet fluid. As I watched him, I wondered how he and Nicole met. All of our conversations had to do with Jackson, so, granted, I didn't know much about her, but she seemed nice and down to earth.
She didn't strike me as someone who came from money, so I was sure they hadn't ran in the same circles. Going off of what he'd revealed, I could assume he was there for the first two years of Jackson's life.
What tore them apart?
I understood not everyone aspired to be a parent, but that was why there were so many preventative measures out there. Then again, assuming we were the same age, he had to have been about twenty when Jackson was born. Who was making sound decisions at twenty?
I stared down at my own belly and tried to imagine a future in which I was mother. For a long time, I wasn't able to. Not after—I swallowed a hard gulp and pushed the thoughts away. I liked to think I was past that, but was also afraid of having a child only to realize I wasn't.
"You good?"
Cameron's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. It lacked all the humor from before and was laced with concern.
"Hmm?"
"Your stomach hurts?" He was wiping his wet hands on an oven towel. At the confused look on my face, he explained, "you're clutching your stomach."
Damn. I was. Tightly too. How hadn't I realized? I dropped my arms and flashed him a smile.
"I'm good."
"Food smell so good, you just can't wait, huh? Got your stomach crampin' up and shit?" he joked.
The food did smell good. I hadn't even planned on eating it since I had a big lunch that afternoon, but I might have to take a spoonful or two.
"That's what it is." I nodded, feeding into the joke. "I gotta tell the people they was wrong."
His brows rose and eyes widened. With his head cocked to the side, he responded, "right. Them other alfredos may be starter pack, but not mine."
"Naw, not yours." I laughed.
"Cameron the hood chef!" He slapped his chest.
"Mhm." I scrunched my lips and nodded.
He grabbed three plates and rinsed them.
"Cameron Ramsay in the kitchen."
"Mhm."
"I'm winning every episode of Chopped!"
I cocked a brow. Childhood traumas aside, I enjoyed Chopped. Hell, I enjoyed a good competition show period. I'd only seen Cameron cook one meal. I didn't have enough data to cosign him.
He paused his plating and turned back to look at me.
"You uh... You forgot to say mhm."
"I'm sorry, Cameron. You lost me at Chopped."
"Really?"
"Yeah." I shrugged. "Try again after a few meals."
He shot me a deadpan look.
"What?" I started with a laugh. "Have you seen what they have to cook with on Chopped?"
He nodded, then resumed his plating. "Alright. Bet. Next dinner, I'm buying pig's tongue."
An involuntary cackle escaped me. "Please don't."
"Imma pick some grass from outside for a lil razzle."
"Jackson and I will both be eating out that night."
"And then..." he trailed off, heaping a large amount of pasta onto a plate I hoped was his, "some chocolate syrup."
I rolled my eyes and made my way over to him. "Do you need some help plating?"
He shook his head. "Plating is my favorite part. Taking my time figuring out just how much to give each person. Throwing in a little extra of what I know they like." He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "I don't know. It's just a simple pleasure of mine."
My stomach knotted. I didn't want him to make my plate. I wanted control over how much food went onto it because I'd feel obligated to finish it all even if he gave me too much.
I started wrapping my arms around my stomach again, but quickly dropped them, not wanting to draw his attention to me.
"You can go sit with Jax. I'll be out in a bit."
The anxiety in my stomach grew heavier. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly before nodding and obliging.
I was going to have to start working out again if he planned on cooking and serving dinner every night. Maybe I could come up with some excuses, like having a big lunch or being allergic to one of the ingredients. I could even make one of my salads for dinner. They were so filling, I doubted Cameron or Jackson would complain.
I cocked my head to the side when I reached Jackson. He hadn't noticed me yet, so I just stood there, taking him in. It had to have been the most at ease I'd seen him in a while.
He lay across the armchair, his back resting against one arm while his legs dangled over the other. The frown lines that often mapped his face were gone, replaced by a small smile that changed the entire topography of it. My lips parted in disbelief. When was the last time I saw him smile?
The first month of his silence, the kids in the classroom tried everything to get one out of him. They brought his favorite snacks to school, offered him the bike during recess, and cleaned his dishes after snack time. Some even gave up line leading so he could do it. Nothing worked.
So to see him there, relaxed and smiling at the blue dog on the screen, considering he was in a new home with a man he probably didn't even remember, caused my throat to close up.
I blinked away my tears, not wanting Cameron or him to find me crying. A part of me had felt selfish for my decision. I hadn't given Cameron much of a choice, and Jackson hadn't gotten a say so. I felt like I was making decisions that would've benefited my inner child, not Jackson. But seeing him like that validated that choice. I'd eat every plate Cameron gave me if Jackson made it through the situation better than he went into it. Feeling loved.
Without a word, I sat on the sofa perpendicular to his. I saw him stiffen out the corner of my eyes as he turned and watched me, but he soon relaxed again and returned his attention to the show.
Not long after, Cameron came out carrying three plates on one arm and three glasses in his other hand. If that wasn't the epitome of wanting to make one trip, I didn't know what was.
I watched him. I found myself doing a lot of that. A wide grin split his face, spread his nose, and crinkled the skin around his eyes. So much joy lit his eyes that I was awestruck. I'd never seen someone so happy serving food to people. I rifled through what I'd learned about love languages from when I was hyperfixated on the concept and decided his must've been acts of service.
"Before y'all ask, yes, I made enough for seconds."
He allowed Jackson to grab a plate and a glass before settling next to me and allowing me to do the same.
My eyes bounced between the two plates on his arm, hoping to choose the one that had less food, but they were equally large portions. I gulped down my unease and smiled at him.
"Thanks," I breathed out, grabbing one of the plates and a glass of what I guessed was lemonade.
The smile never left Cameron's face. Between each of his own bites, his attention went from me to Jackson and back.
"What?" I asked with a mouth full of pasta.
He shook his head. "Nothing." His smile widened. "I just wanna see y'all expressions. Y'all like it?"
I glanced at Jackson, who's eyes were glued to the tv. I'd expected Cameron to turn it off since some parents were really particular when it came to having dinner, but he hadn't.
Jackson sure seemed to like it. He was halfway done. The rim of his glass was smeared with more alfredo sauce every time he brought it to his lips for a large gulp. He placed it back on the floor before grabbing his fork and stuffing his mouth with enough pasta for it to be a choking hazard.
I slid my gaze back to Cameron who was still watching me. I nodded.
"It's good as hell," I assured him after swallowing.
It was. Insanely so. Better than any pasta I'd had at a restaurant. And I'd watched him make it from scratch. He was heavy handed with the sauce, which I loved. And the flavor profile--I knew there was paprika because I'd watched him put it in, and basil, but there was something else that I couldn't put my finger on.
"What's—"
"Rosemary," he answered before I could get the question out. Like he'd been anticipating it.
My brows rose with realization. Yes. I'd only had rosemary in potato dishes, but it was a gamechanger in pasta.
I nodded my head. I was impressed.
"Maybe you would win Chopped."
"Nah. You're just saying that 'cause you don't want me to cook with pig's tongue and grass."
I laughed. "Two things can be true, Cam. I absolutely will not be eating pig's tongue, and your pasta is amazing. If I had a sticker, you'd definitely be getting one."
"Well then," he started, placing his empty plate on the coffee table, "maybe I should..."
"Maybe you should," I rushed out, panicked, as he leaned across the space between us. My grip tighened on the plate and my eyes flew to his hand and tracked it's movement towards my arm.
My gaze flew back to his when his hand stopped a hair's breadth from me.
His eyes were already on me. The right corner of his lip lifted, then he plucked something off me. I dragged my eyes away from his, and they landed on the golden star sticker that he held between his index and thumb.
I hadn't even known it was on me, but I wasn't surprised either. It was normal for me to go home with at least 5 stickers on my arms, the back of my shirt, wherever my kids could reach.
He placed it on his own arm, right below the sleeve of his shirt.
I relaxed when he pulled away and loosened my grip on the plate. I finished the rest of my meal in silence, while he seemed content watching tv with Jackson. He didn't speak to him. Maybe he didn't want to pull Jackson out of the calm he was currently in, but every now and then a chuckle would escape him.
I stood up once I was finished, prepared to take our dishes to the kitchen and wash them since Cameron cooked, but he quickly followed suit.
"I was just gonna," I started.
"Nah, I got it. I got it." He grabbed my plate and stacked it onto his before doing the same with Jackson's plate. "If you could just, uh..." he trailed off, his eyes on Jackson.
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Different emotions warred on his face. I could name some. The one's I'd felt myself. Fear and inadequacy. They were written so plainly that I wondered if he was even aware of how vulnerable he allowed himself to be at times. A soft breath wooshed past his lips and he settled his attention on me again.
"If you could run his bath. I don't..." he took his time choosing his words, "think me and him are there yet."
"Yeah. Sure." I nodded. "I can do that."
He flashed me an appreciative smile, then nodded his thanks.
"Jackson, buddy," I called out softly.
He turned his head in my direction.
"Time for bath and bedtime, ok? I brought the bath bombs, so you can pick another awesome color tonight."
I held my hand out to him, and, after a few seconds of contemplation, he made his way over to me.
After running his bath and dropping in the blue bathbomb he chose, I stepped out of the bathroom to give Jackson some privacy. I returned to the living to grab the bag I'd packed for him.
Before I had the chance to ask, Cameron said, "let me show you where you can put that."
On our way to Jackson's room, he stopped at a hallway closet and pulled a plush, navy comforter, and I made a mental note to grab one for myself after my shower.
"What's that?" Cameron jutted his chin at the underpad I was setting down on the bedsheet.
"An underpad. I noticed him peeing during naptime. Kids that are potty trained start bedwetting when they're going through a big change or something else is stressing them."
He was silent. I didn't ask his thoughts, though I knew he had them if the way he was worrying his bottom lip was any indication.
"I'm not a bad person," he finally said when I grabbed the comforter from him.
I kept my eyes on the bed. It was twin sized and in the shape of Lightning McQueen. The entire room was Cars themed. The red letters on the wall spelled Jackson's name, though I couldn't tell whether they were painted on or decal stickers from where I stood.
Had they lived there at some point, Nicole, Jackson, and him? If not, it was clear that he had at least intended it.
My shoulders sagged as I softened towards him. I met his gaze. His cognac eyes were a shade darker under the dim lighting of the room.
I sighed. "I never said that, Cam."
The corners of his lips turned up, but his eyes remained shadowed. "You never had to. I can...feel it."
I maintained our eye contact. He was right, and I refused to be a coward about it. I'd been judging him since I found out he was Jackson's absentee father.
I brought my hand to the back of my neck and tried to massage away the tension I felt.
"Ok. I have been judging you. I just—I can't help it. People that say they don't judge are liars because we're human and we all judge. Based on our experiences and our stances on certain things, that judgement could be good or bad, but it's judgement nonetheless."
He nodded, seeming to at least appreciate my honesty. "You're right. But I'm still not a bad person. I just—" He shook his head. "I had no idea that he was—" He motioned towards the bed. "And that Nicole..." A sigh left him, heavy with frustration.
I didn't respond. I didn't encourage him to continue or try to talk him through his thoughts or feelings. I didn't want to know because if he shared, I'd feel obligated to make us even by sharing my own experiences.
I decided to allow him a few minutes to work through them on his own while I went to rinse Jackson off.
I brought a few books from the classroom for him in vain. The bookshelf in his bedroom had every book I'd recommend for a child plus some I'd never even heard of.
He picked a Pete the Cat book that I read while Cameron sat at the foot of the bed. Half way through the story, Jackson was asleep.
"That was fast," Cameron noted, standing up.
I followed suit, chuckling. "Yeah. Today was an eventful day."
"Understatement." He brushed a hand down his head and sighed. "Who'd a thought?"
I smiled at him because who'd a thought indeed. "I'm gonna go take a shower, so this'll be goodnight."
He nodded, then placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Thanks for helping and caring enough to take him home. For not reporting, and just, all the invisible work that I know nothing about."
I found myself blinking away tears for the second time that day. From the way his gaze bounced back and forth between my eyes, I knew he'd noticed, but he didn't point it out.
He had the right to feel a lot of things in that moment, anger at how I pushed him into a situation he wasn't ready for being at the top of the list. Instead, he was appreciative. And that appreciation relieved a tension I hadn't realized I carried until I found it easier to breathe.
I was afraid of his anger and reproach because I knew it was warranted. I was judgemental and overstepping, and maybe I was the bad person. Maybe we were both horrible people.
With one last nod, I left the room. After grabbing what I'd needed out of my suitcase, I showered and got ready for bed.
On my way to the bathroom, I'd checked out the other rooms to get an idea of where I'd be sleeping, but as large as it was, seemed the house only had two bedrooms. The other doors ended up being a laundry room, the garage, and the closet where the linens were kept.
Ok. Stretching my neck left and right, I psyched myself up for sleeping on the couch. It was a pretty big couch. The cushions were comfortable, too. I could spend a few days sleeping on it. So what if I came out of it with a little back pain? It wasn't nothing a few stretches wouldn't fix.
I halted, a few feet away from where my suitcase should've been, when I noticed Cameron already settled on the couch. He was wrapped in a comforter similar to the one he'd pulled out for Jackson, instead his was taupe.
"I, uh." I cocked my head to the side. "What are you doing?"
He cracked an eye open. "You can take the room. It's the first door to the right."
"I am not taking the room," I started, shaking my head. "This is your house."
"I'll carry you there if I have to, Ash. And we both know I can."
He opened both eyes then, running them down the length of me. I was dressed in a silk pajama set. A very modest one at that, yet his eyes devoured me like he could see past the fabric. Like he knew exactly what lay beneath it.
Because he does.
I cleared my throat and took a step back. Distance. We needed distance.
"Well, it's your house, so if you insist—"
"I do," he interrupted, "not too much though 'cause I'm not opposed to carrying you either."
Without another word, nor glance is nis direction, I bolted out of the living room. The sounds of his laughter bounced through the hallway and followed me to the bedroom.
At the foot of the bed stood my suitcase, and a comforter was folded neatly atop it.
"No back pain for me, I guess."
I flicked the bathroom light on, then puleld the door halfway shut before sinking into the bed and dozing off.