I must make a choice
A tough decision
Listen to my voice
Should I give in
To temptation, admiration
One leads to myself
The other some one else
Just an empty shell
- Hoobastank.
____________________________________________
Camila had no idea when she'd fallen asleep, or even how she had managed to after what had happened between her and Shawn. She'd been so wired at the time she didn't think she would ever sleep again. But the next thing she knew, the sun shone bright through the window and the bed beside her was empty.
Stretching her hand out, all she felt was cold, telling her Shawn hadn't been there for awhile. Camila rolled over and caught sight of where he had gone. He sat at the desk across the room, still only dressed in a pair of boxers, his body curved over and his head resting on his arms.
She frowned and sat up. Shawn didn't move, clearly asleep. Camila stood from the bed and picked up the t-shirt and boxers she'd worn the night before, slipping them on as quickly as she could. Quietly, she walked over to where he sat. Her eyes fell over his still form, raking over the curve of his spine and the broad expanse of his shoulders, noticing the crescent-shaped marks scattered over his shoulder blades. Heat flooded her face when she remembered how they had gotten there. She felt the indescribable urge to touch him again, to run her hands over every part of him, to trace the lines of his tattoo with her fingers.
Camila remembered how surprised she'd been to see it there the night before, but it hadn't been until after that she'd had the chance to bring it up.
They'd lain there next to each other, on their sides, nearly chest to chest, as both of them caught their breath. Camila's fingers slid up and down Shawn's side, his skin still dampened with his sweat and hers, and her heart strumming wildly in her chest. Everything about her ached, but not in a way that was unpleasant. She couldn't stop kissing him, couldn't stop touching him, needing to somehow stay connected to him. The feeling was inexpressible and completely opposite from before. This had nothing to do with lust, nothing to do with wanting him because her body said so; it had everything to do with how she felt about him. Her chest was tight, but not with worry or sadness, like she was used to. It was more like her body was not big enough to hold all the emotion inside and it was trying to burst through her ribs to escape.
Shawn's hand was on her face, the curve of her neck, and his mouth was so tender, so different from how it had been moments before when he was above her, when he had kissed her so hard and so deep it was as if he were trying to take her into himself. Camila continued to trace his ribs, up, down, up, down, unable to believe that she was really there, that she'd really done what she'd just done, but not regretting it for a single second. It wasn't until her fingers brushed the raised patch near his hip that she looked down and really took in the ink imbedded in his flesh.
120111171116
She'd traced the numbers as carefully as she could, seeing that the skin surrounding them still looked irritated and not wanting to hurt him.
"What does it mean?" she'd whispered.
Shawn glanced down and touched the numbers himself. His fingers lingered on the three at the beginning. "They're dates."
Camila frowned. "Dates for what?"
He lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes so open, so clear. "For the most significant days of my life." Shawn took her hand and ran her fingers over the design, starting at the one, then the two, the zero, and triple ones. "December first, two-thousand eleven," he whispered. "The day my mom died."
Her breath caught, and she studied the next numbers in the series: 171116. It took her a second, and then she knew. "November seventeenth, two-thousand sixteen." Her gaze rose to his. "The night of the party."
He'd nodded once. "The night I met you."
Camila closed her eyes as she remembered how that had felt, to know that that night, the one neither of them could fully remember, was now etched permanently into his skin. That he had chosen to wear it, like a badge, or a scar, for the rest of his life. Standing behind him now, she wanted to trace the numbers again, to absorb them into her own skin, to absorb him. Her entire body buzzed with want, and she realized that having sex had not lessened the amount she wanted him like she thought it might, it had only made it worse.
God, what if she felt like this all the time now? What if she wanted to jump him every second of every day? What if she was really going to be a great big horny wanton woman now? The thought made her feel sick, and slightly desperate for him to wake up and possibly do again what they did last night. But as she stared down at him, she saw how peaceful he looked. There were no lines in his brow, no worried light in his eyes, no pout to his lips, and she felt something else rise up in her, something very familiar and very warm. And more than anything else, she just wanted to hold him.
Leaning in, she brushed the hair away from his face and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He stirred under her touch.
"What are you doing over here," she asked. "Was I hogging the bed?"
Shawn grinned, his eyes still closed and his head still resting on his arms. "No, that's my job."
"Mmhmm," she hummed, brushing a kiss to his shoulder. Her hands ran down his arms, fingers circling his biceps. "You are a massive bed hog, but I think that's kind of cute."
Shawn lifted his head and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "I couldn't sleep and didn't want to wake you."
"I wouldn't have minded," she said, standing straight as he sat up.
"I would've. You were tired. You need your rest." He turned sideways in the chair and circled his arms around her waist, pulling her into the space between his legs. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice so quiet, still clouded with sleep and a little bit of worry. "I mean, are you—"
"I'm perfect." Her hands immediately went into his hair and moved the impossibly soft strands away from his forehead. She knew exactly what he was referring to, exactly what worried him. A line formed between his brows, as if he didn't quite believe her. "I promise." Camila felt his shoulders loosen; she hadn't even noticed he'd been tense in the first place. "Why couldn't you sleep?" she asked.
Shawn pulled away, scrubbed his hands over his face, and pointed to the stack of papers on the desk. Camila's eyes followed his direction, landing on the space where his signature was supposed to go. It was still blank, save for multiple dots where the tip of his pen had touched the paper. She sighed and moved to the desk. Her fingers swiped over the line a few times and then she glanced back at Shawn. He was studying her with this look ... a look that seemed like he was asking her what to do, as if she might have the answers he didn't. She wished she did.
She gathered the papers into one hand, then held the other out to him. He looked at her in confusion. She nodded toward the bed. "Come on. We'll look at them together."
Shawn eyed her carefully, before taking her hand and following her back to the bed. Camila sat, folding her legs under her, and he sat beside her, both of them leaning up against the headboard. She handed the papers back to Shawn and he took them, his fingers supporting them with a touch that looked so tentative, like just touching them may burn him. The line between his brows returned, and Camila could see the uncertainty revisit his gaze.
"Why are you so afraid of these papers?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I don't know."
"Is it—it is because of me?" she asked, fear tingeing her voice. "Because I'm pregnant?"
Shawn said nothing for several seconds and then slowly shook his head. "No, I don't think so, not that that doesn't have any bearing on my decision, because it has to. There's no use denying that. But I think it's more just ... me. I don't know if this is what I want anymore."
"Why not? You don't want to play football anymore?"
"No, I want to play."
Camila let out a breathy laugh. "Shawn, you're confusing me."
He grinned, a small, sad grin. "Try living in my head." The smile faded away and he looked down at the papers in his hand. "It isn't that I don't want to play, or go to college, or anything. I think it's just ... it's just that there's so much up in the air right now, and I want so many different things all at the same time."
"Like what?"
"Like you," he said. "Like the baby. Like ... so many things, Mila."
Camila's chest clenched. "But ... I mean, we haven't even talked about what we want to do about ... everything."
"I know. But I've been thinking about it."
"You have?"
"Of course I have." He looked at her again. "What do you think, I just forget about it?"
"No," she said. "No, I just ... I try not to think about it very much myself, so I couldn't blame you if you didn't."
"We have to think about it, baby. We have to talk about it. It's not going to go away or magically decide what we need to do for us."
She closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the headboard. "I know, but I don't want to."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what I want and what I don't. I'm afraid to say any of it out loud. I'm afraid you'll be upset with me once you know what I've been thinking about."
Shawn was quiet for several long moments, moments that seemed to stretch into eternity, before he finally spoke. "Do you want to give it up?"
Camila swallowed against the tightening in her throat.
"Do you?" he whispered.
"Yes." Her chest squeezed so hard it felt as if one of her ribs could break. "No. Yes and no." The papers crinkled in Shawn's hand. Camila looked back at him, and he was staring down at them, his brows pulled together. The look on his face was not happy, was not relief. In fact, those emotions were the furthest thing from the expression she saw. She immediately felt defensive. "I'm eighteen years old, Shawn, eighteen. I have less than a year left as a senior, my parents are getting a divorce, my brother is barely tolerating the idea of me seeing you, and when my parents find out, I don't—I don't know what they're going to do. I have no business having a baby or trying to raise a baby ... I'm eighteen ..." She paused, the fight in her dying down a little as he closed his eyes and let out a quiet sigh. "But then I remember that it's your baby. It's our baby, and I just ..."
"You just what?" he asked, still not looking at her.
She reached over and removed the papers from his hand, setting them on the nightstand beside them. Then she crawled into his lap, straddling his legs and reaching out for his face. She held him between her palms and brought his eyes up to hers. "I just know that anything that's a part of you, a part of us, I could love. I could love it so much."
Shawn wrapped his hands around her wrists, a spark of something akin to hope flashing in his eyes. "We could do it together. We could—"
"But should we?"
His eyes moved from one of hers to the other, his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, yes, technically, we could. We could keep this baby and raise it together, and we could love it. But ... could we give it everything it needs? Everything it deserves? Could we love it enough to make up for all the things we couldn't do for it? Should we even try to?" She swallowed. "And—and what about us? What about football? What about college? What about cheerleading? What about us just being teenagers? What if we did this and then started resenting each other for all the stuff and opportunities we lost because of this?" She shook her head, feeling like a horrible person for even thinking about half those things. "These are the things that go through my head when I think about this, about what we should do. And it's like I'm banging my head against a wall. And I know that most of those things are selfish, but I don't know how to not think about them, how to not question them."
"I don't think you're being selfish—not any more than I am anyway, because I think about the same things. I question the same things." He paused. "But then I think ... if I could have chosen between having all of this," he swiped his hand in front of him, gesturing to the room and the house surrounding them, "all these comforts, all these ... things ... or my real dad loving me enough to try his best, I would have chosen him." He shook his head. "I'm not saying adoption is bad, it's not. I mean, if Roy hadn't adopted me I'd have no one right now. But, for me, it doesn't compare. No possession, no home, no lifestyle can ever make up for what it feels like I missed out on." His voice lowered to a whisper. "I would still choose him."
Camila's heart dropped into her stomach. She often forgot about Shawn's real father, something she was ashamed to admit even to herself. "But this isn't the same situation."
"No, it's not. But I'm not sure it matters. It wouldn't have mattered for me, whether he'd gone because he'd been too young and didn't have a way to support me, or if he'd walked out because he didn't want me. I think I would still feel the same, I would still wonder why I wasn't good enough for him to try. It doesn't matter the intention, it doesn't matter the reason, I would still feel abandoned at some point."
Camila's eyes stung with tears.
Shawn's face fell and he reached for her, his thumbs brushing the moisture away. "Oh baby. Don't cry. I didn't mean to make you cry. I didn't mean—" He leaned in and rested his face against hers. "God, I'm an asshole."
"No, you're not," Camila said. "I need to hear this. I need to know. This isn't something they tell you in the pamphlets. They just make it sound all wonderful, like you can give your baby to people who will be able to take care of it the way you can't, and then you don't have to worry anymore. You can just go back to your life ... They don't talk about this, about what might happen later. About how it might affect everyone. But I still don't know what the right thing is, Shawn."
"I don't have the answers, Mila," Shawn whispered. "I don't know what the right thing to do is, either. I don't know anything. I only have my own experiences, how it feels to be me. And I don't want that for my kid. I don't want him to find out who I am someday, see what I chose to do with my life, and wonder why I chose that instead of raising him. I don't want him to wonder why I didn't want him."
Tears flowed freely over Camila's cheeks now. "Or her," she said.
"What?"
"You said him, but it could be a her. It could be a girl, so 'or her.'"
"Or her," he brushed the tears off her face once more, "of course, 'or her.'"
"Shawn, I just ... I don't know."
"You don't have to know yet. We don't have to know yet."
"You sound like you already do know," she said.
"I know how this feels." He placed his hand over his heart. "My perspective is different. But that doesn't mean I know if it's the right thing for you, for any of us."
Camila wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. "How will we know?"
"Maybe we won't," he said. "Maybe that's the point. There is no right and there is no wrong, there's just this. Just you and just me and just what we want."
"Maybe ... but," she sat back and looked at him, "what if I don't want what you want? What if I can't do it? Will you hate me then?"
Shawn placed his hand on her face, his fingers lightly drawing lines up and down her cheek. "I could never hate you," he whispered. "Why would you even think that?"
She looked down at her lap. "Because I read—"
He gripped her face between his hands and forced her gaze back up to his. "Then maybe you should stop reading," he said. "What I feel, you're not going to find in a book or a pamphlet or any other shit Haiz or the doctor gives you. You're only going to get it from me. I told you last night and I'm telling you right now how I feel. That's not going to change because you may or may not want the same things I want. I get that this is big, it's huge compared to so many other decisions we're going to have to make in our lives, but that doesn't mean what I said becomes void." He closed his eyes and leaned in. "We're in this together, Mila. No matter what. We'll make this decision together and we'll live with whatever that decision is together. Okay?"
"But what about NYU—"
"Do you know what I want, baby? What I want right this second?"
She shook her head.
Shawn reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the papers from NYU. "I want to forget about this for now. I want to forget about everything." He shoved them into the table's drawer and sat back up, his hands settling on her bare thighs. Her stomach twisted. Shawn touched his lips to her neck, leaving soft, tiny kisses behind, all the way to her chin. "I know we need to talk about this. I know we need to make some decisions, but we don't need to do it today. And, God, I just want to kiss you for awhile before you have to leave. Is that all right? Can I just kiss you?"
Camila closed her eyes, nodded, and threaded her fingers into his hair, the feelings of fear and unease floating away. "Just kiss?"
She felt him smile against her throat. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" She tightened her fingers in his hair, eliciting an "Ow" from him. "Don't you dare tease me, Shawn Mendes, I told you the deal with pregnancy and super horny wanton woman. If you even insinuate it, you have to follow through. That's a rule."
"Is it? Funny, I've never heard that rule before."
"You're hearing it now." She bent and whispered in his ear, "Besides, I may or may not be wearing any underwear right now."
Shawn's hands slipped up her legs, freezing when he reached the fabric of her shorts. Then Camila found herself on her back, Shawn's light brown eyes staring down at her. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it isn't nice to lie?" he said.
She blinked innocently. "Yes, I've been told that. But, technically, it wasn't a lie." She touched the waistband of the boxers and pulled them down a little, exposing more of her skin, but nothing beyond that. "See?"
Shawn's eyes turned nearly black. "Yes," his voice cracked on the word, "Yes, I see."
Camila gave him a self-satisfied grin.
He leaned in until his mouth hovered over hers, and although they didn't touch, Camila could already taste him on her tongue. "I wouldn't be so smug, if I were you," he said, and fisted Camila's shirt, dipping down to murmur in her ear. "I'm only wearing underwear, and you've got this on. I don't really think that's fair, do you?" Camila swallowed hard. "You should probably remove it before I rip it off—in the spirit of fairness, of course."
"Fairness, huh?"
"Mmhmm," he hummed against her throat as his lips followed her neck down to her collarbone. "You know how much I like being fair. Sportsmanship is highly important."
Oh, yes, she quite remembered. She struggled to keep her eyes from rolling back into her head at the way he was working her. "It's not my shirt, so do what you have to do."
Shawn lifted his head and grinned the most wicked grin Camila had ever seen, causing chills to race up and down her spine. God, what he could do with just a smile ....
"Just remember, you're the one who said it." Shawn's grip tightened, and Camila only had time to draw in a quick breath before she felt the fabric give.
____________________________________________
"Come on, baby, he'll be here any second," Shawn said, holding his hand out to her as she rushed around his room. His father had called fifteen minutes earlier, saying he was ten minutes outside of town and wondered if Shawn wanted something from the diner for breakfast. He'd told him yes, just to stall for time, but even still, he knew there wasn't much. Especially when neither of them were dressed.
Camila ignored him, and he watched, amused, as she darted back and forth, lifting his blankets and looking under the nightstand. He had no idea what she was looking for. She'd arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back and a cell phone, and she'd made sure she had all of those. She lifted her hand to her head and scratched at her scalp, her face fixed into a scowl.
"Do you need some help?" he asked.
"I—I feel like I'm forgetting something." She started toward him, her face still turned to look at the room. "Am I forgetting something?"
When she reached him, Shawn pulled her forward, eliciting a gasp from her lips, and pushed her gently back into the doorframe. "Yes," he said, dipping his head down. "This." His mouth touched hers and it was like the room had caught fire.
It wasn't a passionate kiss, just light and sweet, but it didn't seem to matter because his body responded the same regardless. Her hands slid up his arms, stopping just at his biceps and squeezing hard. She wiggled her hips a little and he pressed into her, remembering how it felt moments before when she was naked, how warm and soft and perfect she'd been underneath him, the piercing sound that ripped through the room as he'd torn his shirt from her body. Shit. He needed to stop now or he wouldn't be able to, and this was definitely not the way either of them wanted their parents to find out about them. Painfully, he pulled away and she whimpered quietly.
Shawn rested his forehead against hers and swiped her lips with his thumb, feeling the wetness of his kiss still on her mouth. "You have to go."
"I know, but I just ..."
"I know," he said, and he did. He knew. This wasn't like a normal relationship where they could just plan to see each other later or tomorrow or even next week. They had to take advantage of these moments when they came; there was no planning for them. And it seriously sucked ass. Shawn should have been able to see his girl when he wanted. It wasn't supposed to be like this: all hiding and pretending and lying. He pressed a kiss to one cheek and then the other, before leaving a soft peck on her mouth. "We'll figure it out, okay?"
Camila nodded and Shawn tucked his arm around her back, leading her out into the hall and down the stairs to the front door. As much as he didn't want her to go, he also had that nagging, crushing feeling of needing to get her out of there. His father would be back any moment now.
He opened the door and spied the dark car waiting outside the front gate. With a sigh, he turned back to Camila. She stood at his side, her eyes fixed on the car too, and her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She looked up at him, her brows pinched together, and he could feel her hesitancy to leave.
"Go," he said. "I'll call you later."
"Okay." She took one step, then turned, flung her arms around his neck and kissed him again. He smiled against her mouth.
"Or we could stand here kissing and let my father catch us. Whatever you want." Though Shawn would never let that happen. He remembered his father's reaction to seeing them together at the school, the awful things he'd said to her. There was no way he wanted Camila around when his father found out about the two of them.
Shawn pouted. "Fine. I'm going." But she didn't let him go and didn't stop kissing him until the obnoxious blaring of a horn startled her out of his arms.
Shawn brushed his nose against hers, letting his lips swipe her mouth with the action. "I think that's your ride."
"Damn it," she cursed under her breath, resting her forehead against his chin. Her fingers curled into the hairs at the nape of his neck, and he felt the same desire inside him. The desire to just stay together, to just say screw it to everyone else and take their chances with their families' wrath. But he knew they couldn't yet. Not yet. "Okay, okay, I'm going," Camila said.
Shawn let her go, and Camila turned away, making her way down the front steps. When she reached the bottom, she turned once more.
Shawn met her eyes and grinned. "Bye, beautiful."
"Bye," she said, and then turned away from him and ran toward the gate.
Shawn watched as she went, each step taking her farther and farther away. His chest tightened as she slipped through the gate and climbed into the car waiting for her. Not just because he didn't know when he would see her again, but also because he knew how close they'd been to getting caught. This was his father's customary way of telling Shawn to "get the girl out of the house." His father wasn't stupid. He knew Shawn had entertained girls in his home before—mostly Keira—and it wasn't that he minded, per se (as long as it wasn't during the season) he just didn't want to see them. Not for the first time, Shawn was glad for his father's strange acceptance of his son's sex life.
Closing the door behind him, Shawn rushed back up the stairs to finish dressing. He froze when he stepped over the threshold of his room. His normally meticulously made bed was a complete and utter disaster. His comforter lay in a white heap on the floor and his sheets were twisted, the bottom corner pulled up, exposing the mattress underneath. Shawn moved forward, stopping only when he came upon the tattered remains of his very first varsity football t-shirt. He bent and lifted it into his hands.
Camila's laughter, as he'd torn the fabric from her body, back arched, throat exposed, flashed through his mind. He could still feel her fingers in his hair, her mouth on his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands as they'd cupped him outside his shorts, and inside as well. A shudder ripped through him, and he stood, shoving the shirt back into his drawer. He didn't care if it was ruined. The memories that would now be associated with it were worth keeping the shirt around.
Shawn pulled a clean shirt out of his drawer and slipped it over his head before going over to his bed. As he stood there in the wreckage, his eyes fell on the evidence of what had occurred the night before. In the past, he'd always stripped his sheets and threw them in the wash immediately after anything happened in his bed. Sex was messy. Always. No exceptions. And it wasn't like he wanted to sleep on that shit, but this time ... well, he didn't mind as much. This was Camila, and what they'd done was so much more than sex. It had never felt like that to Shawn before, like an overwhelming explosion of feeling that practically stole his breath away.
And it wasn't just physically, although that was God-damn amazing too. Even though she was inexperienced—besides that night with him—somehow she'd known just how to touch him, just how to kiss him, just how to make him need her so much he literally shook with it. Her fumbling movements and the embarrassment, made apparent by the flush on her cheeks, just made it that much better, that much purer. There was none of that fake bullshit, none of the lies to make her seem like she knew what she was doing when she really didn't. It was all her: innocent, insecure, genuine. And maybe that's why it was so good. Because it was just her, and just him, and just them.
A very small part of him wanted to keep the "them" that still lingered there. Then he realized how disgusting that thought was and pulled the sheets off anyway—though he left the pillowcase Camila had slept on. As pathetic as it may have been, he couldn't bear to lose the scent of her all together.
He gathered the sheets and walked across the hall to the second floor laundry room. His clothes were usually washed by Janet, their housekeeper, but since she wasn't there on weekends—and he didn't want her dealing with his messy sheets—he threw the fabric in and started the wash. Grabbing a new set of sheets from the linen closet, he carried them back to his room and quickly made his bed.
Just as he finished, he heard the front door open and his father call out to him. He sighed and went to join his father downstairs, but when he passed the door to his father's office, a golden glint caught his eye from through the slivered opening. Pausing, he pushed the door the rest of the way open. Lining the back wall of the room was a shelf full of trophies and medals. Some were his father's from when he'd played ball, but most were Shawn's. He recognized his last few MVP awards and several from Pee Wee football.
Stepping inside, a strange realization came over him. Camila was right; it was strange that all of Shawn's trophies were in here instead of in his own room. He had never thought about it before because this was just always where they'd gone. Whenever Shawn won something, his father would take it straight away and set it on the shelf. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad, but Shawn really wasn't allowed to be in there—only when his father asked to speak to him in his office. This was his father's private space and not even Janet came in unless invited.
A shiver of anger danced down his spine. Those awards were his. His. He'd worked for them. He'd earned them. His father had no right to keep them there then tell Shawn he wasn't allowed to come in. Determined, Shawn moved forward, but his toe caught the edge of the small metal trashcan sitting next to the desk. It toppled over, an abundance of wadded up paper and several large envelopes spread across the floor.
"Fuck." Shawn bent to pick them up, pushing the paper wads back into the can, but pausing when he revealed the writing on one of the envelopes.
Northern University. To: Mr. Shawn Mendes.
Shawn picked it up. It felt thick and heavy in his grasp. Turning it over, he slid his finger under the flap and tore into the paper. Inside, there was a university catalogue and a letter. Shawn unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the print below.
Dear Mr. Shawn Mendes,
After receiving high recommendation from our athletic scout, Mr. Liam Benedict, we are pleased to offer you an athletic scholarship for Northern University ...
Shawn's head spun. What the hell was this shit? Glancing down, Shawn noticed four more envelopes, varying in size. All addressed to him, and all from different universities. With shaking fingers he opened each one and each offered him the same deal. Six universities in all—including NYU—had sent him a scholarship offer. Shawn was having a hard time comprehending what he was seeing. Why didn't he know about these? Why were they in his father's trash? Why hadn't his father told—
A throat cleared behind him, and Shawn's back stiffened.
"What are you doing in my office, son?"
Shawn knew that voice, that calm, collected tone that really was not calm or collected at all. He stood slowly, keeping his back to his father. His fingers closed around the envelopes.
"I'm not going to ask you again, Shawn."
Shawn drew in a breath and turned. His father stood in the doorway, hands in front of him, eyes on his son. Shawn held up the envelopes.
"What are these?"
His father's eyes slid lazily to the papers in Shawn's hand then back up to his face. "Garbage. Which is why they were in the trash. Why were you going through my trash anyway?"
"I knocked it over on acci—what does it matter?" He shook his fist, the papers rustling noisily. "These are addressed to me. Why haven't I seen them?"
His father shrugged. "They were irrelevant."
Shawn dropped his arm to his side. "Irrelevant? I got offers to play at all these places and you think that's irrelevant?"
"Yes. We got the offer we wanted. None of these mattered in comparison."
Shawn's head felt like it was going to burst. "How long have you known about these?"
"A while. I saved them in case NYU backed out. When they didn't, I put them in the trash where they belonged."
Fury rolled in Shawn's stomach. "And you didn't think I'd want to know about this?"
"Why would you?" his father asked, as though this really were no big deal. "NYU has been decided forever, Shawn. It's what you wanted. It was the only choice. I didn't think you'd care—"
"It was decided by you!" Shawn interrupted, unable to hold in his anger any longer. "Have you ever asked me what I wanted, Dad? Have you ever even thought that maybe I would be interested in any of these other schools?"
"Frankly, no." His father's tone still held that eerie calm. "I don't understand what this is about. For as long as I can remember, you've talked of nothing but NYU."
"No, that was you, Dad. You talked about NYU. I talked about nothing."
"This is ridiculous." Shawn's father waved his hand in front of his face. "NYU is a done deal. You've accepted their offer, so that makes these null and void."
"I haven't accepted anything."
"What?" Finally, a hint of emotion played across his father's face. "What are you talking about?"
"The offer from NYU. I haven't signed it. I haven't accepted it."
And now the anger Shawn knew was there took over his father's face. "What are you trying to do? Lose the offer all together? I told you NYU wouldn't wait! I told you they had other—"
"Then let them choose someone else! I don't give a sh—I don't care! If they want me so bad, they'll wait for me to decide, and if they don't, then they won't. This is my choice, Dad. Mine." He clutched the papers to his chest. "You should have given these to me. You should have let me make my own decision."
"What do you know about making choices? You haven't had to make a decision in your entire life."
"Well, that's going to change now."
Shawn's strode toward the door, trying to push past his father, when his father grabbed his arm. "Don't screw this up. You've worked too long and too hard for this for you to mess it up now. NYU is the only choice, Shawn, the only choice. If your mother were here, she'd—"
"If my mother were here, she'd have given these to me." He held up the papers once more. "She'd trust me to make my own decisions about my future. She'd be proud of me for accomplishing what I have. She wouldn't be trying to force her own agenda on me. What is it that's so important about me going to NYU? Is it because it's Alejandro Cabello's alma mater? Is it because I'd be taking his son's position? What the hell is the big deal?"
Rage simmered behind his father's eyes. "It has nothing to do with that man or his lame progeny! This is about you! About your talent! About what we deserve!"
We. Shawn heard it, and his father knew he'd heard it.
His father tried to backtrack. "What you deserve. This is what you deserve."
But it was too late. Too late to change what had been said. Too late to change what had been done. Too late to go back and make all of this happen for the right reasons. Shawn shook his head and finally pushed past his father. He didn't really know what he wanted to do or where he wanted to go, but he knew it couldn't be there.
"Shawn!" his father called. "We're not finished. Come back here!"
Shawn ignored him and continued down the stairs. In the front foyer he grabbed his jacket and keys off the table next to the door. God, where the hell was he going to go? He needed to talk to someone about all this, but whom? He wanted Camila, but in the same breath didn't. She had too many other things to worry about, and he honestly wanted to make this decision on his own. He needed an unbiased ear. Someone who could give him the advice he needed without consciously or unconsciously swaying his decision either way. Camila would never try to do it on purpose, but just looking at her, touching her, would make choosing that much more difficult. When he reached out for the door handle, he heard his father behind him.
"If you leave, don't even think about coming back tonight."
This time the anger erupted like a volcano. Shawn spun, narrowing his eyes as he caught sight of his father. "This is my house, Dad. Not yours. Mom was the heir, and when she died I was. So don't tell me not to come back to my house. If you don't want to be under the same roof with me, you can leave!" And with those last words, Shawn turned back to the door, wrenched it open, and slammed it shut behind him.
____________________________________________
Camila drummed her fingers uncomfortably the entire car ride home. She tried to seem nonchalant, like nothing had changed at all between when she'd seen Hailee last until now. But she was pretty sure she wasn't pulling it off. How did she know? Because Hailee was not pelting her with question after question and was whistling while driving. Hailee did not whistle. Ever. And there was good reason for this. Hailee couldn't whistle in tune. At all.
Camila tried to ignore it, but when she focused on anything else, her thoughts always brought her back to what she and Shawn had discussed that morning. She clenched her fists at her sides. She didn't want to think about that, didn't want to acknowledge it. There was more time, a little more time before she had to ...
The horrid excuse for music seemed to get louder and louder the further they drove, and then Hailee started humming. Finally, Camila couldn't take it anymore.
"All right! Just ask already. God, you don't need to continue to torture me."
Hailee turned to face Camila, a large pair of sunglasses covering her eyes and her lips pursed as if she were going to start whistling again any second. "Ask what?"
"You know what." Camila glared. "You want me to tell you what happened last night."
Hailee shrugged. "Do not."
"Yes, you do. Don't lie."
"I totally don't," Hailee said, turning back to the road. "Besides, I already know."
"Oh, you do, huh?"
"Yep."
"So, what was I doing then?"
Hailee glanced back at Camila. "Taking a ride on the Shawn train."
Camila's mouth dropped open, and Hailee shook her head.
"Don't even try to deny it. You totally popped your secondary cherry."
"Why would you—"
"Your hair," Hailee said, matter-of-factly. "I could tell the second I saw you. That," she pointed at Camila's head, "is not regular bed head, that's total sex hair."
"It is not sex hair!" She ran her hand down the back of her head, feeling several knots and a whole lot of frizz. "And besides, you can get so-called 'sex hair' from making out too."
"True, but you don't smell like sex unless you've had sex."
"I don't smell like sex!"
"Uh, yeah, you do."
"I—I don't want to talk about this, Haiz."
"Fine by me," Hailee said, a small smirk playing at the edges of her lips. "You're the one that brought it up. I was content to just enjoy the quiet ride home."
Camila huffed and turned away, feeling how hot her face was and not wanting to think about how she looked or ... smelled. God, did she really smell like sex? As discretely as she could, she lifted the front of her shirt to her nose and tried to sniff down the front. Hailee snickered, and Camila dropped the shirt, crossing her arms over her chest and turning as far away from her friend as physically possible.
Several minutes later, Hailee pulled into Camila's driveway and cut the engine. Camila scrambled to undo her seatbelt with the intention of bolting out of the car so fast Hailee wouldn't even be able to see her. But before she could, she felt Hailee's hand on her thigh. It was a soft, gentle touch.
"Mila?"
Camila swallowed and met her friend's gaze.
Hailee had lifted her sunglasses and they were now perched on the crown of her head. "I'm not going to ask you what happened, because, as much as you may think I need to know all the juicy gossip, I realize that this ... this was special for you, and I'm not going to make you talk about it if you don't want to. But I just want to know one thing, okay? Just one thing and we can be done talking about it until you want to."
Camila nodded. "Okay."
"Was he ... was he good to you this time? I mean, he didn't hurt you again, did he?"
Camila felt her defenses fall and she took in an unsteady breath. "No. He didn't hurt me. He was very ... he was very ... careful with me, Haiz."
"Good," Hailee said, and turned back to the windshield, replacing her sunglasses over her eyes. "I really didn't want to have to kick his ass. The jerk is sort of growing on me."
Camila laughed. "He's sort of growing on me too." She paused. "Thanks, Haiz. For dropping everything to come and get me, and for ... for not pushing me to tell you. I'm just ..." She shrugged. "I don't know."
"No problem. Besides, I fully intend to call you—once you get your license—to come get me from the house of my latest booty call someday too. You owe me."
"Okay. We have a deal." She climbed out of the car, and bent in one last time, furrowing her brows. "Haiz, Do I really ... smell like sex?"
Hailee threw her head back and cackled loudly. Camila closed the door, and she could still hear her friend two houses away. With a sigh, Camila turned and trudged up the front steps, wanting nothing more than to take a shower, eat, then nap. She hadn't had much sleep the night before, not that she was complaining or anything, but she was starving and freaking exhausted.
The door opened with a creak and Camila entered, expecting the front room to be empty—her father never sat up there and much preferred his office or the informal living room—but it wasn't. On the normally unused white suede couch sat her mother.
Camila froze in surprise. "Mama?"
Her mother stood, her posture straight and confident, but her eyes—mirrors of Camila's—spoke to how nervous she was. "I know you're mad at me, sweetheart, and it may have taken me a couple of weeks to understand why, but now I do. I—" Her mother fidgeted—something Camila had never seen her do before. "I ... I wondered if maybe we could talk. Just us. Like we used to?"
Camila swallowed back the tightness gathering in her throat. "I just got back from—from Haiz's, and I need to take a shower. Plus, I'm starving. I don't think—"
"We could go out, then? To the diner?" The look on her mother's face was so hopeful, so desperate, even though Camila was still mad, could still feel the icy chill of her anger in her veins, she decided maybe she could give her mother just this one chance.
"Okay."
All the tension in her mother's face fell and her mouth curved into a smile. She stepped forward, her arms swung wide as if she wanted a hug, but Camila moved back. Her mother halted. Not only was Camila afraid she actually did smell like sex, but she wasn't sure she wanted her mother to touch her. Things weren't okay, they were far from it, and she didn't want to give her mother the impression they were.
"I'll just," Camila scooted around her mother, giving the woman a wide berth, before darting to the doorway to the hall, "go shower and I'll be back."
Her mother nodded, hurt staining a blush on her cheeks. "Okay. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."
Camila turned and started toward the stairs, thinking about the words her mother had said: I'm not going anywhere. And a large part of her wished, more than anything, that her mother could say those words and actually mean them.
____________________________________________
Shawn picked at the remaining bits of his sweet potato fries. The diner was somewhat full, but not so much that it made him feel stifled. He sat in the very back, corner booth, his back to the room purposefully in case someone from school came and tried to strike up a conversation with him. He wasn't in the mood to talk. He wasn't in the mood to do anything but sit there and brood until Alex showed up.
The acceptance letters sat in a pile to his right. He'd gone through them once more, reading each word over and over again until he had nearly every one memorized. It wasn't a secret that his father had always pushed the idea of NYU on him, and Shawn had never questioned it. Why hadn't he questioned it? Maybe it was just because he really didn't care where he went as long as he went to play football. Or maybe he just wanted his father to be happy. To be pleased. Lowering his face into his hands, Shawn let out a loud sigh.
Shit.
He didn't know what to do. He still felt this undeniable pull toward NYU, still felt the desire to complete a dream that had been in the works for so long he couldn't remember having another. But what he didn't know was if it was his dream or his father's. Somewhere the lines between what were his thoughts and his father's had become blurred.
And then there was Camila. God, Camila. And the baby. And ... and it was too much for him to think through and decide on his own. Too much.
"Dude, are you crying?" Alex's voice came from behind him. "Because, you know I don't deal with that shit."
Shawn turned and glared at his best friend. "I don't know why I bother calling your ass for anything."
"I'm not sure why you called my ass either. It doesn't talk—well, except for after I eat burritos."
"For fuck sake." Shawn scrubbed his hands over his face.
"Oh, chill, I'm just messing with you. You look like someone ran over your cat."
"You did run over my cat."
"That was two years ago. Lord, don't you forget anything?"
Shawn crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the window behind Alex. The sun was still shining, but clouds were gathering in the north. Quite poetic and appropriate, he thought. After a moment, he glanced back at his friend. "Do you think you can be semi-serious for a minute?"
"Maybe for a minute."
"I'm not kidding, Alex. I—I need to talk this through with someone and I need you to not crack asinine jokes."
The mask that Alex always wore, the one that made no one take him seriously, the one that made everything and everyone into a joke, slipped away. "Damn, man, yeah. What the hell's going on?"
Shawn thrust his hand into his hair, before taking in a breath and pushing the stack of papers toward Alex.
Alex gave Shawn a strange look, then carefully glanced down at the letters in front of him. Shawn watched as Alex's brows furrowed, then rose, then his eyes widened. He flipped the first over and read the second, then the third, then the forth, then the fifth. When he finished, he sat there for a few moments, staring down at the table, not moving, not speaking.
To clarify, Shawn said, "I also have one from NYU at home."
"Holy shit, dude," Alex finally said. "How—what—why do you look so torn up about this? It's God-damn awesome!"
Shawn reached forward and slid the letters back to himself. "Yeah ..."
"Why don't you seem more excited? I mean, damn, that's six universities that want you to play. I don't get it."
"Because you don't know everything," Shawn said, quietly, maybe not even purposefully.
"What do you mean? What else is there to know?"
Shawn swallowed and glanced back up at Alex. They'd been friends for years, for as long as Shawn could remember and were probably closer than brothers, but he still hesitated. How would he react if he knew about Camila, about what happened between them at the party? Shawn wasn't worried that Alex would tell, but he was worried about something. Should he tell him? It would be such a relief to tell someone ...
"Shawn?"
The sound of his name startled him. Alex never called him by his name. It was always dude or asshole or douchebag, not Shawn. Never Shawn.
"What's going on?" Alex leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the table. "Are you in some sort of trouble or something?"
Shawn chuckled a disbelieving chuckle and shook his head. "You could say that." Alex raised a brow and Shawn sighed, leaning forward as well, after glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. "Okay, but ... you can't tell anyone. Got it? Not your sister or ... anyone for that matter."
"Yeah ... Okay."
Shawn drew in a breath, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled. "You remember the party a few months ago. The one I met Camila at?"
"You mean the one you devoured her face for an hour at? Yeah."
"I, uh," Shawn looked around again, "I might have let you think things were a little more ... casual ... than they were ..."
"Meaning ..."
"Meaning ... " Shawn swept his hand in front of him to indicate he meant more.
"Oh," Alex said. "Oh! So you and Dora and ... ohhhhh."
"Yeah, so ..." Shawn paused, uncomfortable telling Alex any of this. It wasn't like he hadn't bragged about other sexual experiences. Shit, Alex probably knew every place that made Keira moan as well as Shawn did. He was a dude and dudes had to look cool in front of other dudes, and that included boasting about how virile they were. But with Camila he didn't want to brag, didn't want to use what they had together as some sort of measurement for how studly he was.
"Okay, so ... you got it on with Dora—Dude, though, seriously, not in my bed, right?"
"No! I did not have sex in your bed!" Shawn said a little too loudly. A couple of old ladies a few tables over glared at the two boys then returned to their meals. A few other snickers and whispers echoed around them.
"Okay, damn. Just calm the hell down." Alex sat back into his chair. "What's the big deal? What does you and Dora boinking have to do with any of—"And then it was like the light bulb inside his mind clicked on. His face paled. "Dude. You're not saying ... you didn't ... she's not ..." He discreetly mimed a bump over his stomach.
Shawn couldn't even confirm it; he just lowered his head and closed his eyes.
"Holy fu—"
"Can I get you anything else?" A waitress appeared out of nowhere, startling Shawn into opening his eyes. Alex continued to stare at Shawn, his eyes wide and unblinking.
"No," Shawn said. "We're good."
The waitress smiled and winked as she turned to walk away.
Shawn turned back to his friend. Alex's mouth was open as if he wanted to say something but didn't know how to talk. Finally he managed, "Dude ..." And there was a note of sympathy and a whole lot of disbelief to his tone.
As much as Shawn hated pity, he felt somewhat better having told someone. This whole time he'd been holding it inside, afraid he might slip up and say something to the wrong person in the wrong way.
"So," Alex said, "this kind of explains why you're freaking out about ..." he gestured to the papers on the table. "What the hell are you going to do?"
Shawn shook his head. "I have no God-damn idea. That's kind of why I—"
The tinkling of the bell over the diner door sounded, and along with it came a very familiar giggle. Shawn's entire body tensed at the sound. He and Alex both turned toward the door at the same time, although Shawn already knew what he'd see.
Camila stood near the front of the café, dressed in new clothes from what she'd been in that morning, and her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Beside her was a woman. A woman Shawn could only assume was her mother, as she had the same dark hair and deep set of brown eyes. He knew he should look away, shouldn't let himself get caught up in looking at Camila, but he couldn't help it. Suddenly, Camila's eyes caught his and hers widened. He tried not to react, not to make it look like his gaze was anything more than a curious glance. But when Camila's mother looked up, a strange expression came over her face, and she nudged Camila lightly in the side and nodded toward where Shawn and Alex sat.
"Shit." He turned away quickly, noticing Alex's hand in the air in a half wave. "Dude! What the hell?" He reached over and pushed his friend's hand back down. "What are you trying to do?"
"What?" Alex asked. "I was just saying hi—oh. Shit. Well, straighten up because they're coming this way."
"God-damn it, Alex!" Shawn felt his heart slamming in his chest. It shouldn't have been a big deal to see Camila in public. He'd done it before. He'd pretended before. But not since he'd told her what he'd told her. Not since he'd held her and touched her and kissed her like he had last night. And never had he done it in front of their parents—besides when he first found out who she was. This time he wasn't so sure he could hide it, if he could fake not wanting to pull her into him and kiss her again, if he could pretend he didn't know how every inch of her felt under his fingers and against his mouth.
A throat cleared behind them, and Shawn took in a breath, closed his eyes briefly, then turned. Camila and her mother stood just behind them, her mother smiling politely and Camila's face devoid of all colour. She honestly looked like she was going to puke. Shawn swallowed and tried to avoid her eyes. If he looked at her, he knew it would show on his face. Everything. What he felt. What they'd done. What he still wanted and planned on doing.
"Hello," Camila's mother said, her smile still there, her face open and so, so much like Camila's it was hard not to stare. "Are you two friends of Karla's?"
Shawn chanced a peek at Camila, and how much they weren't friends was written all over the red hue engulfing her face.
This was not good. This was not God-damn good at all.
____________________________________________
Author's Note:
Scream 'I MISS YOU' if you miss me gracing your wattpad, lovelies!
lol. Kidding. Anyway. Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing. I love reading your words. I apologize for not responding to every one. Please just know that I read them and appreciate them all so much!
xoxo
Bloomsbelle