She is the days I can't get over
She is the nights that I call home endlessly
For you I'll always wait
Caught in the waves of hesitation
Lost in the sea of my own doubt endlessly
For you I'll always wait.
- Green River Ordinance
____________________________________________
There were three things Shawn was profoundly aware of as he sat in the waiting area of the dean for Northern University:
One: Whomever had sat in this chair before him had either pissed themselves or had been sweating profusely (he prayed to God it was the latter, since he could feel the moisture from the seat through his pants).
Two: The two blondes across the room were desperately trying to get his attention by thrusting out their chests and biting their lower lips, while eyeing him shamelessly—or else they had some sort of impediment that made their backs arch unnaturally and had extremely bucked teeth.
And three: He was never wearing another damn tie in his entire life. In fact, when he got home, he was burning every last one.
Fighting off the urge to rip the stupid thing from his neck, Shawn busied himself by thumbing through a magazine from the stack piled on the table next to him. He had no idea what he was pretending to read, nor did he care—though he did hope it wasn't some women's shit that would make him look like a total douche. He just hoped it kept the blonde vultures from circling him. Unfortunately, moments later when the overwhelming scent of vanilla surrounded him, he knew his efforts had not been rewarded. The air in front of him shifted, and he raised his gaze reluctantly.
Before him stood one of the girls from across the room. She wore a sly smile, one side of her bottom lip caught between her teeth. At a distance she'd looked mildly attractive but up close Shawn could see the over-abundance of makeup caked on her face, and the generous amount of hair product in her hair. She kind of reminded him of Keira—the way she dressed in very tight clothes, trying too hard to be sexy by biting her lip, while curling a stiffened lock of blonde hair around her finger—which for him was not a good thing. His chest was still slightly discolored from the assault Keira had wreaked on him weeks earlier.
"Hi," the girl said, her grin growing larger.
Shawn sat back in his chair and raised a brow in response. "Hey."
The girl cleared her throat. "I'm Monica and that's Shelby," she tilted her head toward her friend, "and, well, we were just wondering something."
Shawn glanced at the other girl sitting across the room. She looked a lot like her friend, though now that he was paying attention, he noticed her hair looked dyed instead of natural. He glanced back at the girl in front of him.
"Are you Shawn Mendes?" she asked.
He was a little surprised that they knew who he was. "Yeah. Do I know you?"
"We graduated from Rockshire last year. You beat us in the final game."
"Ah," Shawn said. "Sorry."
Monica snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure you are."
Shawn grinned. "Not really."
"Are you coming here next year?"
Shawn glanced up at the space above the secretary's station, the seal of Northern University sticking out from the wall. He shrugged. "Maybe. Not sure yet."
She bent down and ran her hand down his left arm, her fingers squeezing slightly around his bicep. "I bet you have a lot of offers. This arm is very talented." He was right handed, but it wasn't like this bimbo paid attention to details like that.
Shawn pulled his arm away from her touch and she frowned slightly. "Yeah, well, I'm just checking out my options."
"Mmm," the girl smiled and leaned in, placing her hands on the arm rests to either side of him. "All your options?"
Shawn pressed back into his chair, the scent of her perfume nearly overcoming him as her face hovered inches in front of his. How the hell did this forward shit ever actually work for him before? He knew it had, remembered when it had, how he'd had no problem reaching out and pulling a girl like this to him: his hands gripping her hips, sliding over her ass, and slipping up her thigh. He'd never even thought about what he was doing, he'd only ever just felt: felt and wanted and took. But now, as this girl stood over him, dripping in innuendo and the promise of sex, all he could see in his mind were flushed cheeks and shy glances under dark lashes. And nothing this girl was offering could even compare.
"Because if that's the case," she reached out and slid his tie between her fingers, "my friend and I would be willing to show you what ... else ... Northern has to offer." She bit her lip again and raised her eyes to his.
"Oh, yeah?" Shawn asked, pretending not to understand her implication and ignoring the impulse to act like a dick over how blind she was to his obvious disinterest. "Like a tour?"
"Mmhmm. Of sorts."
"And this ... tour service you and—Shelby was it?" Monica nodded. "This service you and Shelby are offering ... do you just sit around the dean's office and offer it to all unsuspecting enrolling freshman?"
"Not all, and you're not exactly unsuspecting, Shawn." She gripped his tie tighter. "And, like I said, we've seen you on the field, and you look like you have enough stamina to handle our ... tour."
"Oh, I'm sure I do. I'm in perfect shape."
"Yes." Monica grinned again, her eyes flicking down and taking in every inch of his body. "You certainly are," she said under her breath. Her gaze met his again. "So you're interested?"
"Definitely not."
Monica opened her mouth to speak, but when she realized what he'd said, her face fell. "What?"
Shawn gave her an innocent smile and pried her hand from his tie. "I'm not interested. I've already gotten a tour of this campus, but thanks for the offer anyway."
The girl stood there, stunned, her mouth opening and closing several times in disbelief before she spun around in a huff and stalked back to her friend. Shawn shook his head and looked back down to his magazine again, when he heard a snicker from beside him. Glancing up, he spied a dark-haired guy his age, maybe a year or two older, sitting several seats down and shaking his head. Shawn raised a brow when their gazes met.
The guy shrugged. "Sorry, but that was pretty impressive, the way you took care of "the twins" over there."
"'The twins'?" Shawn asked.
He nodded. "They're here every time one of the scouts brings in a new athlete. I think they've made it their mission to screw as many of them as possible." He eyed Shawn. "Not many resist them."
"Ah, well ..." Shawn shrugged. "I don't need them. I've got a girl."
"Doesn't matter. Even ones with girlfriends usually give in to the idea of a threesome." He stood. "Anyway, I'm being rude." He thrust his hand out. "I'm Jason, wide receiver. Coach Barry said you'd be coming in today."
"Oh, hi," Shawn said, taking Jason's hand in his. "So, did you?"
"Did I what?" Jason asked, his brows furrowed.
"Resist." Shawn tipped his head toward the threesome twins.
Jason's face turned a light shade of pink. "Yeah, well, it wasn't exactly hard for me."
"Why not?"
"They don't have the parts I'm interested in."
"Oh," Shawn said. "So, if they were two guys you'd be in trouble, then?"
Jason laughed, hard. And then the door beside them opened. A stern looking woman with graying hair and a scowl stepped into the room.
"Jason? Dean Rowan can see you now."
Jason stifled his laughter and stood. Turning back to Shawn, he said. "It was cool to meet you, Mendes. Hopefully we'll get a chance to play together next year."
Shawn nodded as Jason disappeared through the door. He frowned. Would he be playing there next year? He still had no damn idea what he was doing.
The past three and a half plus weeks, since Camila had found him soaking wet and broken down in the cemetery, had been a new sort of hell for him. Not because of her—never because of her—but because of all the uncertainty that still plagued him. And, of course, because of his father.
When he'd returned from Camila's, his father was there but was still bitter over Shawn's refusal of NYU's offer. He kept wanting to know why? What happened? Wouldn't Shawn reconsider? But what could Shawn say? He wasn't going to reconsider, and it wasn't like he could tell his father why, either. So they'd basically, silently, agreed not to discuss school, or ... anything of real importance. But Shawn could still feel the tension between them every time they were in the same room. Every empty word, every movement was rife with it. Shawn didn't want things with his father this way. In spite of everything, he was still the man that raised him, and Shawn still felt a sense of ... loyalty ... or some other shit that made all of this much more difficult to handle. He still hated to disappoint him, and disappointing his father was all Shawn seemed to be able to do lately.
But, regardless, Shawn had stuck to his decision and made it a point to come and talk to the dean of each school that had offered him a scholarship to play. He needed to know what else was out there, needed to make this decision based purely on what he wanted and needed, not what his father wanted. That day in the cemetery had been a turning point for him. He'd realized everything he'd done to this point in his life had been in some way to please his father. And he couldn't deny that that feeling was still strong, almost smothering at times, but there was also someone else he wanted to please: himself.
He and Camila had spent a lot of time in the days after the cemetery going over everything, talking about what would be the best route for him to take. She was nothing but supportive, never trying to sway him in one direction or another, refusing to tell him what she wanted him to do. Though he could tell by the look on her face, the way she chewed on the inside of her lip and how her cheeks turned a light shade of pink when she wasn't exactly thrilled with something. But still she held her tongue. It meant more to him than she could ever know that she never tried to push him into something he didn't want. He hadn't had that in so many years he wasn't sure how to take it.
But even with all of that: the support about school, the willingness to talk everything through time and time again, the things that meant the most to him were those moments just after he'd completely broken down. She'd taken him home and cared for him like no one had in longer than he could remember. She hadn't told him to get over it, to grow up, to be a man, like his father would have; she'd simply held him, cried with him, touched him, carefully, as if she could tell his skin felt like it was covered in millions of microscopic cuts.
Everything hurt.
Everything was agony.
Somehow, she knew. She always knew.
And when he'd needed her, needed all of her, she'd let him have her. It was then he realized that what he truly wanted, truly needed above everything else, was right there in front of him.
Shawn closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the hard back of the chair, still able to remember everything about that day: how the rain sounded pounding against her window pane, how her wet hair felt between his fingers, how soft her touch was against the skin of his arm, and how well she'd fit when he'd pulled her into him. How well she knew him, even when he felt like he didn't know himself.
"You know what I think we should do?" she'd said, her voice somewhat muffled by his chest, her skin still warm from the shower.
"Another shower?" he asked. "Because if so, I need at least ten more minutes to recover."
"No," she laughed and slapped his arm, pulling back to look up at him. "We should make a list. You know, the pros and cons of each school. Maybe it'll help? I mean, you should at least consider every one seriously before formally turning any down, don't you think?"
Shawn scowled. "I think I like the shower idea better." To prove his point, he rolled her gently to her back, grasping both of her hands and pressing them into the mattress next to her face. She stared up at him, her eyes wide and bright, excited. And then his mouth captured hers, softly, mostly lip, just a slip of tongue. But it was enough, enough to make him want her all over again. When he pulled back, Camila's breathing was unsteady, her cheeks flushed, and it took her a moment to open her eyes again. Shawn brushed a kiss between her brows, then her nose, then her mouth again. "Or here is fine too," he said.
Camila wiggled beneath him, but not as if she wanted to get away, more like she wanted to feel more of him. So he pressed into her, letting her feel everything.
"I thought you said you needed ten minutes," she said, her voice unsteady.
"Apparently not. I am pretty above average in everything I do. So it shouldn't be a surprise that this is no exception," he said, leaning in to kiss her again, when Camila's hand came up to cover his mouth.
"I'm serious, Shawn." Moving out from under him, she sat up and reached over to her bedside table. "We should do this now before we get distracted."
Shawn buried his face into the mattress and groaned unhappily. "I'm already distracted."
"Oh, shut up," Camila said. "Big baby. I'll distract you again later, all right? Now come here."
He pushed himself up, settling against the headboard and reaching out to pull Camila between his legs, her back against his chest. If he couldn't be on top of her, he was at least going to feel as much of her as possible. She didn't protest and snuggled into him, drawing her knees up to her chest and balancing a pad of paper on top.
"Now, let's start with the pros and cons, then we can write down any questions you want to ask about each place."
She flipped open the notebook, which Shawn noticed was actually a sketchpad. Picture after picture after picture was etched into the paper. But when she tried to flip past one, something about it caught his eye and Shawn stopped her, his hand covering the page to keep her from going past. He slid his fingers down the sheet, pulling the book away from her and holding it up closer. It was a collage of drawings, so to speak. There were different scenes done in very little detail, almost as if each was hidden behind a curtain and only the vaguest hint of what was behind was visible. There was a drawing of a door, a very rough sketch of a couple embracing, a pair of hands, a male figure with no facial features, and a pair of knee-high boots.
Shawn recognized those boots.
He glanced over at Camila, and she was staring at the drawing too, her face flaming red. "I drew that the day after the party. I was trying to remember ... something. Anything. But this was all I had ..." She ran her fingers over the page, stopping over the drawing of the hands. "I remembered your hands the most. Not what they looked like, but what they felt like."
Shawn wrapped one arm around her shoulder and neck, and grasped her leg under the knee with the other, hugging her against him.
"I thought maybe if I drew it," she continued, "maybe it would come back to me. That I'd remember you, your face, just ... something else. But I didn't. It was just this ... this ... jumbled mess. Like a dream or a memory from when I was too young to know I should remember."
"Jumbled mess ..." Shawn mused, his focus still on the drawing.
Camila turned her face toward him. "Was it different for you? Clearer?"
Shawn shook his head. "I remembered your hair." He pushed a lock of it aside with his nose and touched his lips to her neck, just under her jaw. "Just this abundance of long luxurious waves, and I remembered how it felt between my fingers, on my face, tickling my shoulders."
Camila shivered.
"And I could remember how you felt wrapped around me, how much I wanted you, and God, I needed to know who you were. But I didn't know where or how to look. I had nothing else either. Just dark hair and those damn boots." He pressed a kiss to her earlobe and whispered, "I loved those boots."
Camila laced her fingers through his and pulled the hand he had draped around her neck to her mouth, kissing his knuckles, one at a time. "I loved your hands," she whispered. "I still love them."
Shawn's other hand moved up her leg, his fingers circling the edge of her shorts, moving to her inner thigh, while his mouth trailed along her jaw.
"Shawn ..." she said, her voice low with warning. "We really should—"
"Don't make me stop," he breathed, watching goosebumps form where his breath hit her skin. "I don't want to stop."
She sighed, turned around in his arms, and wrapped hers around his neck. "Okay," she said, "but afterward, we're making that list. No excuses or any more distractions. Got it?"
Shawn grinned, shoved the sketchpad to the floor, and pushed Camila back onto the bed. Her legs circled his waist and her hands laced behind his neck.
"You're insatiable," she accused.
He nodded, kissing down her throat, along her collarbone, the tops of her breasts. There was no denying it, he was. "Mmhmm. You can't resist me and you know it."
She let out a huff, like she was annoyed, but he could tell how much she loved it by how hard she was clutching him, and how she craned her neck to give him easier access. He would take it. He would take all of it.
"Keep complaining, baby. I'll just take my sweet time."
Her fake protests continued as he kissed, down, down, down, smothering her, teasing her with his lips and fingers, making her forget about stupid lists and anything else. And then those protests weren't protests any longer. They were his name and pleas and fingers in his hair, pulling him in, guiding his mouth and hands and body where she wanted them to go.
A buzz against Shawn's thigh brought him out of the memory. He lifted his head, seeing that the two blonde bimbos had left the room, then fished into his pocket for his phone. Pulling it out, he grinned at the message displayed on his screen.
I swear to God I'm going to go all hormonal psycho on Ailee's ass. She is such a bitch.
Shawn shook his head, still smiling, and typed out a message.
Baby, what have I told you about dirty talk through text? You know what it does to me.
A minute later his phone buzzed again.
I'm serious!
I am too. If you were here right now, you'd see my very inappropriate predicament in the middle of the dean's waiting room.
He fidgeted in his seat, his pants uncomfortably tight from being lost in his memories for a minute.
I need you to be my supportive boyfriend right now, not the assy one. Okay? Besides, how is calling Ailee a bitch dirty talk?
I'm a man, and you're talking about going ape-shit on some girl. In my mind, that equates to: hair pulling, scratching, hair pulling (again), some substance that makes everything slippery and clothing cling to your bodies, hair pulling (a third time) and the likelihood of someone's shirt getting ripped. And how is me telling you your text turns me on being an ass?
Oh. My. God. You are such a pervert. Everything turns you on.
Just you. And girl fights.
*sigh*
Did you just text sigh at me?
Shawn ... please?
Shawn sighed for real.
Fine, I'll be serious. What did she do?
It took her several moments to answer.
I quit the squad today.
Shawn frowned. Camila had been talking about needing to step away from the cheer squad for a few weeks now, so this wasn't a surprise. But he knew how hard it was for her, how much she didn't want to give that part of her life up.
Okay, but that was the plan, right?
Yeah. I just ... didn't expect her to be so rude about it. She told me I'd ruined the squad, that I'd ruined their chances to go to nationals by not being a team player and refusing to do mounts, and by now leaving them a person short. I just ... don't know how I feel.
Shawn felt a twinge of anger himself.
You're right. She is a bitch.
There was no reply.
Baby, you know she's just talking shit, right? It's not your fault.
Isn't it? I can't see how it's not. I can't cheer anymore because I'm knocked up. Who's fault is that—and don't say yours or I'm going to rearrange your pretty face next time I see you.
She was always trying to spare him this guilt and he didn't understand why. He was at fault, at least partially. He always would be.
Unless it was some other guy that knocked you up, then I'm pretty sure I—
The door beside him opened again, and the same woman who'd called Jason back stepped out into the room. "Shawn Mendes?"
"Yeah—uh, yes?"
The woman looked down at him, her eyes tired and unsmiling. "The dean will see you now."
He nodded and stood from his chair, finishing his text to Camila after the woman turned her back and led him down the hall.
Baby. I have to go, they just called me back. We'll talk when I get out?
Yeah. Okay.
She still sounded so defeated—if one could sound defeated over text.
She's just being a bitch, baby. Don't let her get to you.
Yeah, I know. I won't. I'll talk to you later.
He bit back a sigh, reading the lie in her words, but unable to do anything about it right then.
Bye, baby.
Bye.
Shawn swallowed against the guilt crawling up his throat. He knew Camila hated it when he felt this way, but he couldn't help it. He didn't like her having to give up things because of this, because of him. She could spout about it not being his fault all she wanted, but he knew better. Nothing she could say would ever make him feel any differently. He'd accepted it now, so the guilt wasn't all consuming, but that didn't mean it didn't still bother him. The fact of the matter was: she was pregnant because of him, because he was drunk and couldn't keep his hands off her, because he hadn't used a condom. And it made him feel like shit.
But he couldn't dwell on that now. He needed to focus, because if everything went the way he hoped it would, he would be one step closer to making things better for him and Camila.
Shawn shoved his phone back into his pocket just as the woman escorting him stopped in front of a large oak door at the end of the hall. Reaching forward, she twisted the knob, and pushed the door open. She didn't look at him or offer any sort of comforting words, making him feel like she was annoyed by his mere presence and couldn't wait to get rid of him. What a shitty secretary or whatever the hell she was. With a wide sweep of her arm, she gestured for Shawn to enter.
His nerves sparked and panged. It never failed. Every time he walked into one of these offices, he felt like he was holding onto all of this by a very weak piece of thread, like one wrong word or move would cause it to snap. He knew he shouldn't worry. Of everything going on in his life this was the most sure. But he couldn't help it, this was important. Being closer to Camila was important. He couldn't afford to screw this up.
Taking in a breath and trying to squash the residual irritation at this woman and his worry about Camila, Shawn pushed all other thoughts from his mind except giving the dean what he expected: confidence, surety, control, and stepped inside, trying not to wince as the heavy door closed behind him.
____________________________________________
Camila stared at his words for several seconds before switching off her phone. She drew in a breath and tucked it into her pocket, leaning back into her chair. The hard plastic creaked under her weight and a few of her classmates glanced back at her, their eyes lingering longer than normal. Camila immediately felt a sense of panic. Why were they looking at her? What did they know? Could they tell already? She glanced down at her growing stomach, covered by a bulky sweatshirt, and rolled her eyes at herself. She really had to stop imagining things. No one was looking at her. No one could tell yet at all.
She attributed her increased paranoia to the massive suckiness this day had entailed so far: from Ailee, to the freaking stomachache she'd had for several days. All Camila wanted to do was go home. Unfortunately, she had fifteen minutes left of school before she could leave.
Her history teacher droned on and on at the front of the room, and Hailee twirled her hair around her finger and yawned. With a roll of her eyes, she leaned over the row and whispered, "Thank God for winter break. I'm so sick of school it's not even funny."
"Yeah," Camila said, her face heating when her stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly. God, what was with her drawing attention to herself today?
Hailee reached into the bag hanging on the back of her chair and pulled out a granola bar, wrongly assuming the sound meant Camila was hungry, and held it out to her.
Camila shook her head and placed her hand over her churning stomach. She'd had trouble eating much of anything lately without getting a massive case of heartburn, which more often than not led to vomiting. Even water made her feel sick.
Hailee raised her brow. "Still feeling like crap?"
"It's only really bad when I eat," Camila said. "Right now it's only a dull roar."
"You've got to eat, Mila."
"Tell that to this kid, Haiz." She paused. "I'm trying, it's just not staying down."
Hailee sighed. "Well, it won't be for forever."
"It feels like forever."
"It's only nine months, Mila," Hailee said. "Besides, you're already, what? Four months?"
Camila nodded. "Sixteen weeks." She paused. "Out of forty. Ugh. That sounds like forever still."
"Well, when you put it that way, yeah. The months sound better. Nine is way better than forty."
"It's the same difference, Haiz." Camila stuck her finger between the band in her pants and her stomach, trying to relieve some of the pressure. It was no use. Her pants were too tight. Again.
She sighed and shifted in her seat to find a more comfortable position, but it didn't matter which way she turned, the band still dug into her flesh. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to keep them away, hoping her friend didn't notice. She was not that lucky.
"Hey," Hailee leaned in. "You okay?"
Camila nodded and wiped at her eyes.
Hailee gave her a look that said: Don't lie to me, bitch. But at the same time, their teacher cleared her throat and said, "Girls? Is there something you'd like to share with the class?"
Camila felt her face heat immediately, but Hailee stayed cool. "No, Mrs. Sage. Mila and I were just discussing how crazy it was for the girls back then to be ready for marriage so early. I mean, thirteen is so young!"
Mrs. Sage seemed mollified by Hailee's answer, and Camila was dumbstruck by how her friend could have been paying attention to the lesson while talking. Camila couldn't do the same, she was too preoccupied with how Hailee's statement brought her thoughts back to a conversation she and Shawn had had the week before. Her chest still tightened when she remembered it.
"Are you cold?" he'd asked, as they'd walked up the path toward the old section of the cemetery.
Camila tucked the end of her scarf into the neck of her coat and shivered. The soft flakes of the year's first snow fluttered down around them, coating the ground in a thin layer of white. "No, this shivering means I'm hot." Her teeth chattered and her breath came out in hazy puffs.
Shawn chuckled and muttered a quiet, "Smartass," as he unzipped his own coat and threw it over Camila's shoulders.
"You don't have to give me this," she said, even as she clutched the material closer to her, his warmth and the scent of him surrounding her. "You'll freeze."
He rolled his eyes and grinned. "I think I'll live. I've practiced in less than this and in colder weather than this."
Camila eyed his black zippered hoodie which covered the long-sleeved shirt she knew he wore underneath, the dark-washed jeans, and the knit cap covering his head. It didn't look like enough to her, but she had to admit, he didn't seem cold. If it weren't for the fact that his warm breath was visible on the frigid air and there was a rosy tint to his cheeks and nose, she would have sworn he was not standing in the same weather as her. His arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her in, his lips brushing her temple, before he dropped his arm and his hand trailed down, his fingers tangling with hers.
Camila tucked her face into the soft material of her scarf, her cheeks heating and her lips curling into a smile. It amazed her how, in spite of all they'd done and said, with just the simplest action or touch, he could still make her blush. "Well, thanks, then. But just tell me if you get cold."
"I'm not going to get cold."
Camila stopped and pulled on his arm. "I don't want you getting sick just to prove you're man enough to stand out here without a jacket."
Shawn looked down at her, and after a moment, his mouth twitched into a smirk. "Tell you what," he said, moving toward her. She inched back until she hit the short wall surrounding the old part of the cemetery. "I'll let you know when I'm cold, but I don't want my coat back."
"Then how are you supposed to get warm?"
"You'll think of something."
Camila puckered her lips to hide her smile. "Maybe I already have."
Shawn's mouth stretched into a full grin, the one Camila thought made him even more beautiful. "I'm suddenly freezing," he said. She laughed as he stepped into her, wrapped his hands around her waist, and lifted her up. He grunted softly as he settled her on top of the wall. Placing his hands to either side of her hips, he leaned in, his eyes glittering with mischief, "Now, warm me up."
She reached for him, still fighting her smile, and twisted her hands into his hoodie, pulling him further into her. As he drew closer, the playfulness in his eyes changed to something else, something more. And when he was close enough to kiss, his lids slipped shut, his breathing coming faster in anticipation. But instead of taking his mouth as he expected, Camila leaned in and kissed the end of his cold nose, lingering long enough for her warmth to take away the chill.
"There," she said, pulling away. "Better?"
His eyes opened slowly. "Cheater," he whispered.
And before she could really laugh, he slipped his hand up under all her layers and pressed it against her lower back. Camila yelped and tried to twist away from his cold fingers.
"Shawn!" she screeched.
His hold on her tightened as she struggled against him, his freezing skin soaking up all her heat. "That'll teach you to tease me," he said, his eyes full of laughter. "Now, kiss me right."
"I should kick you," she said.
"But you won't." He lowered his head, his nose nudging hers. "Kiss me."
Before giving him what he wanted, she lowered her hands to the wall beside her, rubbing her palms in the freshly fallen precipitation accumulating there. Raising them, the melting snow dripping down her wrists, she cupped his jaw and the upper part of his neck. He sucked in a breath and his eyes widened at the sensation. Camila leaned in, a smile on her lips.
Shawn's other hand came up, chilly fingers tracing along her cheekbone and up into her hair as he pulled her face against his: lips brushing, mouths parting, breaths sharing. It was delicate, slow, perfect. The taste of him flooded her mouth and the smell of him filled her nose. And even though it was cold outside, it was scorching inside their bubble.
The hand against her back moved around, resting for a moment at the dip of her waist, then continued forward until the back edge of it lay against the swell of her stomach. His thumb brushed back and forth over the side of the bump, something he'd been doing more and more lately.
Camila broke the kiss and pressed her forehead to his mouth, his lips puckering against her lightly as she stared down at where he touched her. She couldn't see him, but she felt him. Closing her eyes for a moment, she swallowed and opened them again.
"It's getting bigger," she whispered.
"Mmhmm," he said, kissing her forehead again and spreading his whole hand over the bump.
Camila let out a shaky breath. "I can't hide it much longer. I'm going to have to tell them soon."
Shawn's fingers faltered, but he never completely stopped moving them over her. "When?" The question came easily, but Camila could hear the nervousness in his voice.
Looking up, she met his gaze. "Not until after Christmas. I don't ... I don't want the holidays to be any weirder than they're already going to be ...." She trailed off, thinking, planning. "But sometime during break. I—I have to. I know I have to."
Shawn removed his hand from her stomach and cupped the other side of her face, holding her between his palms. "Maybe it won't be so bad."
Camila gave him the "are you freaking crazy?" look.
"What?" He shrugged. "I know they're going to be mad, yell, threaten to kill me, or worse—cut off my dick. But really, what can they do?"
"Tell me I can't see you. Make me move with my mother. I don't know."
Now he kissed her nose. "Or maybe they'll insist I marry you and make you an honest woman." He chuckled.
"Oh, God!" Camila shoved him away. "Don't even say that!" She shuddered and closed her eyes, hugging herself tightly.
Shawn didn't say anything, didn't laugh again, didn't move. When Camila opened her eyes, she was confused by what she saw. Shawn's brows were pulled together and he was staring down at his feet.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing." He shook his head, his gaze still glued to the ground.
"No, what?"
He lifted his head, but didn't look at her. "Is the idea of ... that ... so repulsive to you?"
She didn't know what to say. Thinking about marrying him ... someday ... didn't make her feel scared, but thinking about doing it now, because she was pregnant, because someone made her ... no, that was not how she wanted it.
"Shawn ..." she reached for him, but he pulled back, shaking his head.
"I'm gonna go see my mom," he mumbled, and turned away from her.
Camila watched him go, his hands now tucked into his jeans pockets and his shoulders hunched. For a moment, she sat there, frozen, unsure what to do or say. Slowly, she lowered herself from the wall and made her way out of the old cemetery, following Shawn's footprints until she found him. He stood before his mother's grave, hands still in his pockets, his eyes cast down, and snowflakes gathering on his cap and the ends of his hair.
Moving to stand in front of him, Camila grabbed his hands and pulled them into hers. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it sound like that."
"Make it sound like what? That marrying me would be the worst thing to ever happen to you? Worse than being pregnant at eighteen even?"
"Yes."
"Well, you failed," he said, still not looking at her. "That's exactly how it sounded."
"Shawn ..." she started, searching for the right words and not finding them. "I'm eighteen. I'm too young to have a baby. But I don't have a choice about that anymore. It's going to happen no matter what I want, but I don't have to be the cliché eighteen-year-old who marries the boy who knocked her up just because her daddy tells her to. I'm not going to settle for that."
Shawn let out a very unamused laugh. "Oh, that's great. So marrying me would be settling?"
"No, God, that's not what I meant either."
"Then what the hell do you mean, Camila?" He finally looked at her, but she didn't like the hurt and anger in his expression.
"I just ..." Tears stung her eyes, but she held them back. "I just don't want to get married because I'm pregnant. I don't want to get married in high school."
"Well, I didn't ask you, but it's good to know where you stand."
"Shawn, please." She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his chest and gripping the edges of his hoodie in her fists. "Please hear what I mean and not what I'm saying. I can't say it right."
It took several long moments before Camila heard him sigh and wrap his arms around her. "Do you really think that's the reason I'd marry you?"
Camila shook her head. "I don't know. I mean, why else would you consider marriage at nineteen?"
"I'm not. I mean ..." he said. "I never planned on getting married at nineteen. But I never planned on being a father either, and here I am." He paused. "I would never marry you just because you're pregnant or because someone told me I had to." He bent into her, and Camila could feel the warmth of his breath stirring her hair. "I would marry you because I can't stand the thought of not having you, of not kissing you every day for the rest of my life. I would marry you because I love you and I need you and I can't live without you. I would marry you because you make me feel like I can do anything, be anything, have everything. Those are the reasons I'd marry you, Mila." His voice lowered to a whisper. "I'd marry you tomorrow if you'd have me. I'll marry you ten years from now if that's what you prefer. I don't care when; all I care is that when it happens, you know why. And those are the reasons why."
Camila couldn't hold the tears back any longer, and they fell over her cheeks: first hot, then cold as they slipped over her chin. "You said when," she said into his sweatshirt.
"What?"
"You said when, not if."
Shawn didn't say anything for several seconds, and then Camila felt his hands on her face lifting her up to him. When their eyes met, it was as if he was memorizing her, writing every plane of her into his mind. "Because that's what I meant."
Camila swallowed.
"I won't ask when you're in high school, okay?" He tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. "I know that's not what you want. But ... someday ... when I do, it will be for all those reasons and more."
"You can't say that. What if you change your mind? What if things don't work out? What if—"
Shawn's finger closed over her mouth, cutting off the rest of her protests. "There is no if. With us there are no ifs. Only whens."
Camila's memory was shattered by the shrill blare of the bell signaling the end of class.
Hailee jumped from her seat and slung her bag over her shoulder. Holding out her hand to Camila, she said, "No school for two weeks! Let's go celebrate."
Of course, that was easy for Hailee to say. She wasn't the one with a time bomb growing in her uterus, and a boyfriend promising her when. When, when, when. The word swirled around in her mind, and Camila had to shake her head to dislodge it. It wasn't that she didn't want it—someday—she just couldn't seem to keep herself from thinking: if she hadn't gotten pregnant, he wouldn't even know her, wouldn't even want her. So, in essence, wouldn't his "when" be because she was pregnant anyway? She shook her head again. God, she had to stop thinking like this. Gathering her books and stuffing them into her bag, Camila stood, feeling an immediate sense of vertigo.
"Whoa," she said, swaying slightly and clutching the back of her chair.
Hailee grabbed her arm, her eyes growing wide. "What's wrong?"
Camila blinked at the fuzzy vision, swallowing hard against the nausea rising in her throat. "I—I just stood up too fast, I guess."
Hailee eyed her skeptically. "You sure?"
Camila nodded. "I think so." Her stomach still churned painfully and her head felt as though it had been pumped full of air. "I need to go to the bathroom before we go."
"Okay," Hailee said, and led her friend out of the classroom and into the packed hallway.
Camila felt strange, almost as if she were walking in a dream. She was no longer dizzy, but nothing felt real, and the air around her seemed thick and wet. Her stomach burned and she could feel her pulse in her head. Numbness prickled up and down her arms, settling in her fingertips. She'd been feeling off for the last several days, but nothing like this.
Hailee steered her into the bathroom, and left her by the sink while she walked over to get some paper towels. When she noticed there were none, she moved to one of the stalls to grab some toilet paper. She was talking to Camila the whole time, but all Camila could do was stare into the mirror at her reflection. It was fuzzy around the edges, and Hailee's voice sounded as if she were speaking to Camila from above water. Blackness tinged the edge of her vision and Camila gripped the sink hard.
"Haiz ..."
"Yeah? Damn it, doesn't anyone fill the paper in here?" Her voice sounded like it was coming from miles away.
"Haiz ..." Camila said again, and the blackness moved further inward, her head so full of pressure and her hands tingling painfully. "I don't ... I don't feel good," she said, dipping her head and closing her eyes, trying to ward away the wrongness. Her heart thudded against her chest. Too fast. Way too fast.
"Mila?" Her name was an echo, bouncing around in her skull.
She tried to open her eyes but the blackness was there, everywhere, and she felt her grip slip.
"Mila!" Hailee's voice was so far away. So far ...
Camila fell forever, into infinity, and the only thing that let her know she was still alive, was the crack of pain that spread throughout her temple and the rush of warmth that engulfed the side of her face as it rested against the cool tile floor.
She tried to move, tried to speak, tried to pry her lids open, but she couldn't do anything except lie there. Hailee was over top of her, hands against her back, fingers wrapping around her arm. But Camila was so tired, so, so tired.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she needed to open her eyes, needed to respond somehow, but she just couldn't. Hailee's frantic voice continued above her, the words she was saying making no sense at all, just frenzied murmurs in the dark. And then there were more voices, and more hands, and more chaos. But it was starting to grow less and less, dimmer and dimmer, until there was nothing but darkness and silence and peace.
____________________________________________
The next thing Camila knew was cold: bitter, unending cold. She shivered and shook, but nothing seemed to make her warm. There was a strange sound coming from far away, an incessant beep, measured and slow. She couldn't make out what it was, couldn't seem to connect the noise with anything she knew.
Everything was dark and silent besides the beep. She tried to move, but her limbs felt like lead weights against her strength. She was so tired and so weak.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound grew closer, louder, and Camila tried to open her eyes, but they, too, were too heavy to move. The blackness around her was so thick, so all encompassing that she couldn't see even a few inches in front of her face. She wondered if she were dreaming, if this weighed down though floating feeling was all in her head, but she couldn't be sure. The beeping grew louder and more pronounced, and she could almost grasp the memory of what it was. Almost ...
"What's wrong with her?"
Camila heard her mother's voice from far away, wherever the beep was coming from. There was pressure in her ears and a dull ache in her head.
"She's suffered a mild concussion, caused from when she hit her head on the sink on the way down."
The pain in her temple increased at the reminder, and Camila wanted to press her palm against it.
"No, I know that ..." her mother said.
"Why isn't she awake yet?" her father's voice finished.
Papa's here? Camila thought, confused, and again wondering where she was and what that God-awful beeping was. Something cold pressed against her chest and she wanted to shiver, but her body didn't respond. She wanted to open her eyes. Why couldn't she open her eyes?
"Your daughter came in severely dehydrated, which would account for her collapse. Her blood pressure was low and her heart rate increased. We gave her a few stitches to close the minor gash on her head and are giving her intravenous fluids to rehydrate her. We'd like to keep her overnight just to monitor her, but all in all we think both of them will be just fine."
Wait. Both. Wait ...
"W—what do you mean 'both of them'? I don't ..." Mama's voice came out uncertain, confused. "I don't understand what you mean."
There was a rustling of papers and the beeping sound increased, the space of time between them coming faster and faster.
"Your daughter ... and her baby."
The beeping was speeding now. Oh, God, she needed to open her eyes; she needed to stop him.
There was a gasp and something clattering to the ground. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Camila's father said, "but my daughter is not pregnant. She's only eighteen-years-old. You've made a mistake."
"I'm sorry, sir," the other man's voice came from lower, and the sound of papers crinkling floated to Camila's ears. "There's no mistake. Your daughter is pregnant. Pretty far along too. Almost four months."
There was a sharp cry—her mother—and then a bunch of cursing from her father. Camila struggled to move, to speak, to open her eyes, and then finally, finally, she could see a slip of light. It was small but it was there. Her head pounded and her mouth was so dry and scratchy it was as if it were filled with sandpaper. A hazy picture of her parents emerged, but it didn't seem right. Her mother was curled into her father's chest, her hands gripping his shirt and his face fixed in anger directed at the man in from of him.
"Mmmm," Camila said, swallowing against the dryness, her throat aching at the movement. "Mama." The word came out a croak, but it was enough.
Her mother's head snapped up and her eyes were on Camila. Faster than Camila could comprehend, her mother was at her side, her hand reaching for Camila's and her tear-streaked face hovering over top.
"Oh, God, baby, we're here. Papa and I are here. Oh, God ..."
"Mama," Camila said again, her eyes stinging and her throat hurting. "Papa." Her gaze flickered to her father's, as he stood behind her mother, his face drawn and pale. She couldn't decipher the emotion she saw there, but she knew now that they knew. "I'm sorry. I should have told you, but I was scared and I—"
"How could this happen?" her mother asked. "You're pregnant? How could you—"
"I was at a party," Camila said through tears she didn't give permission to fall. "I was drinking. I don't remember ... I don't know ..."
"Did—did someone force themselves on you, Karla?" her mother asked, and somehow, her voice sounded more hopeful, like the fact of her daughter being forced into it would be better than choosing.
Camila tried to speak, but the pounding in her head made her want to throw up, so she whimpered instead.
"Shhh," her mother said. "It's okay, sweetheart. You don't have to talk now. We'll figure it out and we'll find this boy and—"
"No. No ..."
"Karla, how can you not want to punish the person who did this to you?" her father asked, irritation and anger plain in his voice. "I will not let this boy get away with doing this to my daughter!"
"No." Camila shook her head, ignoring how it made her more nauseous. "He didn't ... he wouldn't ..." She turned her fuzzy gaze to her mother, her mouth not working with her mind. "Mama ... You know. You heard ... He wouldn't ..." Her voice dissolved into unwanted sobs, her chest shuddering with the inability to draw in enough air, her vision clouded with tears. Her mother straightened, her eyes widening.
"It was him? He did this to you?"
"Mama," Camila managed. "He didn't ... d—do ... a—anything ... w—wrong ..." She wanted to stop, but she couldn't seem to hold it in. Every emotion, every fear, everything she'd felt and hidden and pushed away for four long months came pouring out. "Mama, p—please d—don't."
"Who?" her father asked, his voice calm, scary. "Who are you talking about? What do you know about this, Sandra?"
Camila's mother's eyes met Camila's, and she begged her through her stare not to tell, not to say anything at all. But she should have known her mother wouldn't or couldn't listen.
"She's been seeing the Mendes boy."
Camila closed her eyes and turned onto her side, crying harder into the pillow, wishing she could just fall back to sleep, that she could just cease to exist for a little longer.
"Mendes!" her father boomed. "Shawn Mendes?" As if there was another.
"Papa," Camila squeaked out, and her father's gaze fell to hers. "Please don't. It's ... it's not like that."
"Not like what, Karla?" he said, his eyes turning into black slits. "You didn't sleep with him? You didn't get yourself knocked up? By a damn Mendes?"
"Alejandro, please—"
"No!" Camila's father jerked his arm out of Camila's mother's grasp. "Don't 'please' me, Sandra. You knew about this ... this ... whatever it is between them?"
"I only found out she was seeing him a few weeks ago, and I had no idea it was this serious. I had no idea ..."
"You know this is all your fault!" he said.
"My fault?" her mother said. "How is this my fault?"
"You weren't there! You walked out! You left your daughter there without a mother, without someone to talk to her about these things!"
"She's not just my daughter, Sandra. She's yours too—"
Camila covered her ears and rocked back and forth on the bed. She was dreaming. This was not happening. This was not—
"... going to kill that little son of a bitch!"
Camila's eyes popped open.
"Now, just calm down, Alenjandro. I'm upset too, but we need to be rational about this."
"Rational?" he nearly screamed. "Rational? How's this for rational: the doctor just said she was four months along, Sandra. Do you know what that means?"
"Yes, I've had two children myself, I'm quite aware."
"And are you aware that your daughter turned eighteen three months ago."
Her mother grew silent; her brows furrowed in confusion and then rose in realization.
Her father drew his point home. "That little bastard knocked up a seventeen-year-old girl!"
____________________________________________
Shawn stood from the chair and reached over the desk, taking the dean's hand in his.
"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Mendes, and we really hope you'll choose us to further your education."
"Thank you, sir. I'll definitely let you know when I make my final decision."
The dean smiled and walked around the desk, leading Shawn back to the door and out into the hall. As Shawn stepped out into the waiting area, relief washed over him. He was done. He'd visited all the schools, gotten all his questions answered, and he couldn't wait to tell Camila all about it.
An excited shiver rushed through him as he exited the building and onto the center campus. Because it was winter, there weren't many students milling around the quad, but there were some, bundled in dark coats with book bags slung over their shoulders. Benches sat in intervals around a grassy clearing with several large oak trees scattered throughout. Shawn smiled to himself. He could do this. He could come here. He could still play football. And he could still be there for Camila.
It wasn't near as large as NYU, or as big into football, but he could be happy here. He would be happy here. On the way across the quad to the visitor's parking lot, he pulled out his phone and dialed Camila's number. He glanced both ways before crossing the street and listened as the phone rang once, twice, three, four times. And then her voicemail picked up. He frowned and pressed the end button, glancing at the time: 4:15. She should have been out of school by then.
Pressing her speed dial once again, Shawn waited through four more rings and hung up again when her voicemail answered. He pulled a hand through his hair. Where was she? Maybe she just forgot to turn her ringer back on. She sometimes did that. Figuring that was probably it, he typed in a text instead.
I'm on my way back. Meet me at the old cemetery in 45? I have so many things to tell you.
All the way home, Shawn couldn't seem to shake the niggling feeling at the back of his mind, telling him something was wrong. Why hadn't Camila texted him back? It wasn't like her to take this long. But he figured there must be a reason. Maybe she hadn't gotten his text yet? Maybe her phone had died? That was probably it. She was forever forgetting to charge it the night before. She'd probably get his message soon, so he figured he'd just go to the cemetery and wait for her there. If she didn't show after a little while, he'd find another way to contact her. He wouldn't mind visiting his mom again anyway. He'd been going a lot more lately, and the visits always seemed to help him clear his mind. But he couldn't ignore the knot of anxiousness lodged in his stomach.
Traffic through town was a bit busy due to it being rush hour, but he made it through after only a short delay and was pulling up outside the iron gates soon enough. Without pausing to grab his coat, he jumped out of the car and rushed through the cemetery to the very back. He paused when he found himself alone. There weren't even any footprints in the snow, so he knew she hadn't been there already and gone. He looked down at the time on his phone again. It had been fifty-five minutes, and there was still no text from Camila.
Shawn walked around to the opening of the old section and sat on the low, half-wall. He stared down at her name, his brow furrowed. Where was she? Why hadn't she at least gotten back to him? The feeling that had just been a niggle on the way home was a full-on pull now. He flipped to his contact list and clicked on Hailee's name. Holding the phone to his ear, he waited through four rings to her and got her voice mail too.
"Damn it," he said to himself and went to dial Camila's number again, when he heard the snow crunch behind him. He jumped to his feel, whirling around. "Thank God, I was starting to freak—"
But it wasn't Camila he found standing before him.
"Dad?"
His father stood only a few feet away, his body still covered in his work suit and black trench coat. In his hands he held a manila envelope.
"What—what are you doing here?" Shawn asked.
His father met his gaze, his own unreadable. "I could ask you the same thing, Son. Waiting for someone?"
Shawn glanced over his father's shoulder, hoping Camila didn't show up now. "Uh ..." He looked again, his heart thudding in his chest.
"She's not coming, son."
Shawn froze, every muscle in his body seizing up as he registered what his father had just said. She's not coming. Shawn swallowed. "I don't know what you—"
"The Cabello girl," his father said, still no emotion in his tone. "She's not coming."
Shawn drew in a breath and released it slowly.
"Aren't you going to ask me how I know about the two of you?" His father closed the distance between them, now only standing a foot away.
"How ...?" Shawn asked, his own voice barely a whisper.
His father glanced down at the envelope in his hands and twirled it a few times between his fingers. Shawn couldn't help how his eyes were drawn to it. What the hell was it?
"I had a visitor waiting for me when I got home today. Do you know who it was?"
Shawn shook his head, his pulse pounding in his ears.
"Alejandro Cabello."
This time he swore his heart stopped completely.
"He had quite the story to spin," his father continued. "It seems his daughter had some mishap at school and was admitted to the hospital."
"What?" Shawn said, his heart slamming back into its normal rhythm. "What happened? Is she all right? Is she—"
His father held up his hand, something flashing through his eyes. "The girl is fine." He studied his son. "Though your reaction tells me I don't need to ask you if his claims of you seeing his daughter are true." He paused. "I probably don't need to ask if it's true you are the father of her unborn child either, do I?"
Shawn stepped back, his balance unsteady, and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, Dad, I—"
"I don't want to hear it," his father snapped, his old anger flooding his voice. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Any at all?"
"Dad, I—"
"No! Don't 'Dad' me. Don't call me 'Dad'. I'm not your dad. I didn't raise you to be so damn stupid, did I?" His father lifted the envelope and shook it in Shawn's face. "That girl was seventeen-years-old, Shawn. Seventeen damn years old! Do you know what that means?"
Shawn gripped his hair harder. "I—I didn't know then. I was drunk. I was—"
"It doesn't matter what you knew! It doesn't matter that you were drunk!" his father roared. "Do you know what he's threatening?" His father ripped open the envelope and thrust a document at Shawn. Shawn grabbed it, his fingers trembling. Looking down, he realized it was a legal complaint, written out against him. He felt like he'd been kicked in the gut.
"But ..." His eyes scanned the document, unable to make sense of anything he was seeing. This wasn't right.
Victim : Karla Camila Cabello.
Alleged perpetrator : Shawn Peter Raul Mendes.
Alleged crime : Sexual assault of an underage (Statutory rape).
On and on the paper went, legal jargon Shawn had no idea what it meant. The only thing he saw was the word rape. "But I didn't ... I didn't ... I would never ..." He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Alejandro Cabello was accusing him of rape?
His father snatched the document back. "The girl was under the age of consent. She could not legally say yes." He shoved the paper back into the envelope. "Do you understand now? Has the meaning of this gotten through your head? The man wants to throw you in jail, and because she's pregnant, you have no way to claim it's a lie. Inside of her is irrefutable evidence that it was you, and when it happened."
Shawn shook his head. "But I didn't rape her. I didn't—"
"You don't have to force yourself on a girl to be accused of rape! Not when she's that young!" His father took in a breath, seemingly trying to calm himself, but there was no calm inside of Shawn. "But it appears he is giving you one chance."
Shawn looked up, surprise and hope rippling through him like a tidal wave. "What? What does he want me to do?"
Shawn's father leveled a stare at him. "He wants you to stay away from his daughter." He dug into the envelope again and pulled out another paper, this one with some lawyer's letterhead. "You sign this, which states you will stay away from his daughter, no contact at all, physical, text, phone, nothing, and he will drop the rape charge."
Shawn stared at the letter and backed away as if it were diseased. "No," he said. "I'm not signing that shit." He glared at his father. "I love her. I promised her I'd stay with her, that I'd help her. That's my kid and I'm not leaving her to deal with it on her own."
"You have no choice."
"Of course I have a choice. There's always a choice, and I'm not leaving her. I'm not leaving them. I promised."
His father drew out another paper, this one identical to the last one he had given Shawn, with only a few slight differences. His name was on the top and Camila's signature was on the bottom. Shawn ran his finger over the ink, feeling the indent of her name as she'd etched it into the paper.
"Apparently she's okay with not being with you."
"She wouldn't," he whispered, his eyes stinging. "She wouldn't agree to this. She loves me too. She wouldn't ..."
"She did." His father handed him a small white envelope with Shawn's name on it, written in Camila's hand.
With shaking fingers, Shawn withdrew it from his father and opened it carefully, his breath catching when he saw her handwriting scrawled across the note. It was only one line, one line that tore him apart when he read it.
Please don't fight this. ~ Camila.
That was it, nothing else, no parting words, no "I'm sorry," nothing. Shawn's throat was closing up, his chest aching with disbelief.
"Cabello is holding all the cards," his father said. "He wants to fry your ass, and the only reason he hasn't is because his girl agreed to sever all ties to you. If you sign this," he tapped the paper waiting for Shawn's signature, "this," he held up the rape complaint, "goes away."
Shawn swallowed hard and shook his head.
"Sign it, Shawn. It's the only chance you have. If he files these charges, your life is over. No football scholarship and a sex offender charge on your record. Is that what you want?"
Shawn shook his head again and closed his eyes, his mind going ten thousand miles a minute. All his plans, all the things he'd said, everything they'd shared, gone. With this piece of paper it was all gone. "I need to think," he said.
"What is there to think about? There are no other choices here! Sign the damn paper, Shawn!"
"I said I need to think!" Shawn opened his eyes, his words coming out loud and angry. Camila's letter crinkled in his hand. "This isn't as simple as just signing a piece of damn paper. She's mine and she's," his voice broke, "she's having my kid. My child. What the hell am I supposed to do? Just give them both up? Just walk away?"
"Yes," his father said. "Yes, you are. Cabello will never let you near them. Not without enacting this." He waved the complaint in the air. "And then where will you be? Rotting in jail? Served with a restraining order anyway? At least this way you can still have a life. Don't be a fool."
Anger washed over Shawn, pure, undiluted rage. "This is all happening because of you!"
"I fail to see what any of this has to do with me."
"Don't give me that shit, Dad. We expected her father to be pissed—as pissed as any father would be, but this ... this ... bullshit is because of you! Because of this stupid feud or whatever the hell is going on between you two. He wants to stick it to you, so he's going to do it by destroying me. But what about Camila? What about her? He's going to make her have a baby on her own? Raise a baby on her own? What kind of piece of shit father does that? Especially when I'm right here!"
His father's eyes narrowed. "She's not going to raise it on her own. Cabello says the baby will be given up for adoption immediately after birth."
Shawn's knees buckled and he only remained standing because of the cool, rock wall behind him.
Adoption.
They were giving his kid up, giving it up and not giving him a chance at all to be a father. The pattern was repeating. He would be no different than his biological father.
"No. They can't," he whispered, his voice barely loud enough for his own ears. "She said we'd decide together. She promised we would."
"It's done," his father said, pressing the envelope to Shawn's chest. "And what did I tell you about believing anything a Cabello says? They're trash, the whole lot of them. Sign it. Sign it and move on with your life. You don't need to be held back by this any longer."
And then his father walked away, leaving Shawn there, with the loss of all his hopes, his future, in his hands. He closed his eyes and slid down the wall, the snow on the ground soaking into the butt and legs of his jeans, but he didn't feel a thing. He was too consumed by the gaping hole left in his chest.
Camila's letter rustled in one fist, the envelope containing his only options: a sexual assault charge, or losing his reasons for everything, in the other. He'd already made his choice the moment he'd fallen in love with her, really, and his choice had left him alone. To protect him? Maybe. But still alone.
Alone, with no real choice left at all.
____________________________________________
Author's Note:
Hello lovelies! Yes, I know I know. The rape word just came to play? I've gave you a heed notice about this so, lets us huddle and be prepared for this upcoming turmoil cause it is going to be a very long one. And by the way, in my country, seventeen is still considered as minor. You're only legally an adult when you're nineteen so I'm just incorporating it. Just heads up.
To those who've inbox me, somehow offended by the "so much sex"; this is a mature story with a mature theme (which has been outlined from the beginning). Sex, vulgar language, descriptive situations involving pregnancy and birth are to be expected. If this makes you uncomfortable, do not read this story. I won't apologize for the way this is written, nor for the content inside, but I must say that 3-4 mentions of sexual activity (with only one sex scene and one make out scene being fully written out) is not much at all considering this story is already well over 300 pages long and 150,000 words. But to each his/her own opinion. I do not write gratuitous sex. I will not write it. All scenes are integral to either plot and/or character/relationship development.
I appreciate all the support and love I've received in the duration of writing this story. I love all of you more than you know and strive to do my best to bring you a story worth reading. I appreciate every single review and regret that I can no longer respond to them all, but just know that I appreciate them more than I can ever say.
xoxo
Bloomsbelle.