Bad Things

27. Devastation

And I've always lived like this
Keeping a comfortable distance.
And up until now I have sworn to myself
That I'm content with loneliness.
Because none of it was ever worth the risk.
Well you are the only exception. 

- Paramore.

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Pre-Author's Note:

Before we begin I'd like to take a moment to thank all of you who have stuck with me throughout this story (and to all of you who are new to it). I know it's an emotionally tough journey, and I know that some of you have had a hard time reading so much angst and hurt. So, I just want to let you know how much I appreciate you all, and how much I appreciate your comments and encouragements as I try to churn this out. We're getting there.

Pregnancy progression as of this chapter: approx. 26 weeks

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"This shirt is totally adorable," Hailee said, plucking a black, form-fitting t-shirt from the shopping bag near the foot of her bed.

Camila raised her brow and stared at her friend. "It's a t-shirt."

"Yeah, but it looks like a regular t-shirt. Not one of those poufy tent shirts preggos usually wear." She dug in the bag a little further, her dark hair falling forward and hiding her face. "Oooh, and this!" She pulled out a white, full-length tiered skirt. "I love this."

Camila sighed and leaned back against the headboard of Hailee's bed. "Yeah, well, when you get knocked up someday I'll give it to you."

Hailee ignored her and thrust the skirt at her. "Put it on. I wanna see."

Camila groaned and tipped her head back, staring up at the ceiling. "Why? It's just a skirt."

"Just do it," Hailee said. "I'm sick of seeing you in my brother's sweatpants. Sweatpants are not fashionable, Mila. Ever. They're for ... sweating."

Camila rolled her eyes and heaved herself off the bed—a feat that was growing harder and harder with each passing day. Turning her back to her friend, she slipped out of her sweatpants and pulled the skirt over her legs, the band resting just under her belly. She had to admit, the elastic in the skirt was infinitely more comfortable than the one in the sweatpants, but the fact that they were maternity wear did not help her floundering self-image at all.

Neither did the fact that her father had bought them for her.

It had been the strangest thing, finding him standing on the Steinfeld's porch with three shopping bags in his hands. He'd cleared his throat and held them out to her. "I asked my assitance to pick up some things for you."

Camila had taken the bags from him reluctantly and glanced inside, spying the array of maternity pants, shirts, skirts, and undergarments. "Clothes?"

"After I saw you last week wearing ... well," he gestured to the oversized t-shirt and sweatpants she still wore, "that, I assumed you were probably in need of something new."

Suspicion blossomed inside of her as she'd watched him fidget in the Steinfeld's doorway. This wasn't the man she knew.

Even now, hours later, as she looked down at the skirt flowing around her ankles, she felt it. That stitch of question, of uncertainty, of mistrust. Why did he care what she wore anyway?

Camila turned around in a slow circle for Hailee, her hands out to her sides. "Well? Better?"

"Uh huh. I even like it with that ratty tank top you've got going on there."

Camila flipped her off and plopped back down on the bed, deciding to push thoughts of her father out of her mind, and grabbed her laptop.

Hailee stood, placing her hands on her hips, as she looked down at her friend, her brows coming together a bit in the middle. "Are you sure you don't want to come to the game? I promise Ails won't say anything to you. If she even tries, I'll give her a fat lip to go along with her swollen nose."

Camila shook her head, thinking that the final basketball game of the season was the last place on Earth she wanted to be. "No. I have to get a little homework done. This online schooling is a lot more work than I thought it was going to be."

"Homework on a Friday night? That's pathetic even for you, Mila. Tell me you at least have some sort of sexy rendezvous with Loverboy or something."

"Well, that's me. Miss Pathetic. And no." Camila frowned and opened the portal to her new school. The white and gold banner stretching across the top still made her stomach turn. "Now, run along so I can be a good little home-school student."

Hailee let out a defeated sigh. "Okay, I get it. You don't want to go. You don't have to claim 'unavoidable homework' just to get out of it." She paused. "But ... I could always skip and stay here—"

"Haiz," Mila interrupted, meeting her friend's concerned stare. "Just go, okay? It's fine."

"But it's your last night here. I feel like we should hang out and ... I don't know ... look up sexy boy pictures or read some smutty love story together or something."

Camila forced out a laugh. "As lovely as that sounds, I'm sure. Just go." Quietly she added, "Please."

Hailee's expression softened, as she nodded in understanding and turned to go, but paused at the door. "I really do like the skirt. You look pretty."

Camila's cheeks warmed at the compliment, but she said nothing in return as Hailee exited and closed the door behind her. Camila's own eyes, reflected in the full-length mirror attached to the back of Hailee's door, stared back at her. Her heart quickened against her ribs as hot disgust flooded through her. Even still, she could not bear to look at her own reflection. It didn't matter how much pretty she layered on top, how many times other people told her she was beautiful to them, the ugly had seeped through her skin and burrowed straight into her heart.

Standing from her position on the bed, Camila moved over to the door, averting her eyes from the nearing double of herself, and opened it back up to direct the mirror's truths away from her. Once it was hidden, she could breathe easier. Making her way back to the bed, she plopped back down onto her side and focused on the lesson on her laptop.

It had been almost ten days since Camila had been "recommended" to start the online home-school rather than attend regular classes. Seven of those had consisted of her father and her locked in a standoff over her coming home. She didn't want him to think she was just going to forget everything, come home, and play by his rules now, because she wasn't. There were certain things he couldn't have power over anymore. Things she wouldn't let him control.

In the end, what either of them wanted didn't matter in the least. The school district insisted an adult, legal family member oversee her home-schooling. So as much as Camila wanted to remain a stubborn teenager and fight him, that fact made any argument to the contrary a moot point.

Camila's gaze drifted to the bags sitting at the foot of Hailee's bed and a chill raked over her. She'd had them packed for days, but today marked the final day she was allowed to stay. Tomorrow she'd be going back home. No more excuses. She'd already stalled long enough.

With a sigh, Camila looked back at the screen, squinted, and tried to remove all thoughts not centered around the lesson on the computer. A task that was becoming more and more difficult, with the voices from downstairs floating through the open door, and her son playing soccer with her bladder.

Grabbing a pair of headphones from the nightstand beside the bed, Camila pushed them into her ears and soft strands of music floated through the tiny speakers. She closed her eyes, tapped her fingers to the rhythm against the part of her belly receiving the hardest beating, and let the melody tune everything else out: the noises in the house, the thoughts in her brain, the worries of her heart. As she calmed, the baby did too, his kicks and wiggles slowing until they were practically non-existent. For at least fifteen minutes, she lay there with her eyes closed, letting her mind slowly clear, and her son fall asleep.

It felt so good to just be empty for once, to be still, nothing running through her brain or kicking against her skin. It was just her and the music.

When she felt like she was ready to fully concentrate, she opened her eyes, startling when she caught sight of a figure resting against the doorframe.

"Holycrap!" she said, tugging the buds from her ears and resting her hand over her pounding heart. "You scared the crap out of me."

Shawn stood unmoving in the doorway, his jean-clad legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded over his chest. "Sorry," he said. "I thought maybe you were sleeping."

"So you watched me? That's kinda creepy, you know."

Shawn said nothing, but his mouth lifted slightly in one corner.

"How'd you get in here?" Camila asked after noticing the utter silence of the house.

"Hailee let me in before she left for the game," he said. "What were you doing, then, if not on your way to droolsville?"

"Studying."

"That didn't look like studying to me. It looked like slacking."

"I was getting in the mood."

"Really?" Shawn lifted one brow and pushed himself away from the wall, taking a slow step toward her.

Camila rolled her eyes. "Yeah, to study."

"That's a shame," Shawn said, stopping at the edge of the bed and dropping his hands down to the mattress. He grinned wider as he pulled on the end of the comforter and Camila slid down to her back.

The bed sank on either side as Shawn climbed onto it and slowly moved up Camila's body, pausing only when his palms pressed into the blankets at her head. His face hovered above hers, his eyes filled with the same mischievous mirth as his mouth.

Camila's stomach twisted like it always did when he looked at her that way.

"Although ..." Shawn bent down to whisper in her ear, "I'm glad to hear you weren't getting in the mood for things I'd prefer to be involved in." He feathered his lips along her jaw, until he reached the corner of her mouth and brushed a kiss there. "Very glad." Camila shivered as he switched to the other side and pressed another soft kiss there, before pulling back just a little and sweeping her bottom lip with his tongue.

Unease took over the pleasant twist and ignited in Camila's stomach. She pushed against Shawn's chest and he moved back further. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and hooded, the way they always were when he wanted her. And then he blinked and that desire was replaced with something else, something Camila was noticing more and more as she, more frequently in the last month, rebuffed his advances.

She swallowed against the myriad of feelings churning inside of her: fear, anxiety, desire of her own, and unbelievable self-doubt. She didn't want to upset him, but she didn't know how to explain what she felt inside, either. How when he kissed her and touched her that way, the only thing she could think about anymore was what he'd see when he undressed her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice breathless and small. "I thought you were meeting with Ben about Jennifer."

"I did," Shawn said, trying to cover the disappointment Camila had already seen in his eyes. He dipped down to kiss her jaw, her neck, the length of skin along her collarbone. "It was short. I'm not spending more time with him than I need to. Besides, I wanted to see my girl." His lips moved once again to the top of her shoulder, the curve of her elbow, the tips of her fingers. "I couldn't stop thinking about her all day, and I thought maybe I'd come over and kiss her a little." Shifting, he hovered over her once more and moved to her other side, kissing down her body in the same pattern. "And maybe touch her," he whispered, tucking his finger under the strap of her tank top and pushing it down her arm, before lowering his mouth to the bared skin of her shoulder.

"But ..." Camila fought against two sides of herself: the one loving the feel of his mouth, and the other screaming at her to slow it down, to stop it entirely. "What did Ben say?"

"I don't want to talk about him right now," Shawn mumbled into her flesh.

"Well then, what do you want to talk about?"

Shawn glanced up at her, his eyes so dark they barely looked brown anymore. "I don't want to talk at all." He tugged on the neck of her shirt, his fingers grazing the top of her breast, as he kissed a line down her neck to the valley between her cleavage.

Camila's breath caught and she closed her eyes, willing the heat of his lips to chase away the rising dark. Bringing her hands up, she let them glide over his arms, until her fingers passed his shoulders and threaded into his hair. Shawn kissed back up the underside of her neck, over her chin, and claimed her mouth, parting her lips and wasting no time pushing his tongue inside. Camila fought against the apprehension building up inside her, as Shawn's fingers traced across her collarbone, up her neck, then softly, carefully cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing the underneath.

This was okay. Kissing was okay. Touching her face was okay.

Camila let her hands slip from his hair and cradle his face, her fingers brushing down his neck, resting at the point where his pulse was going crazy. Her blood rushed through her veins and her heartbeat pounded in her head. She tried to tell herself it was just her hormones, that she was just getting excited, but she could feel the other leaking inside her, turning her stomach into a knotted fist.

Shawn's hand slipped from her face and ran down the length of her arm, falling to the space that used to dip in at her waist, and even lower to her thigh. He fisted the soft material covering her legs. "I like this skirt." He pulled it up, the fabric brushing along her calf, over her knee, until there was nowhere left to go and his hand was on her bare skin. "I like this better."

His breath grew sharper, faster, and Camila's did too, but for completely different reasons. Shawn shifted and his knee came up between her legs, parting them and making space for him to fit tighter against her. Camila could feel what he wanted, and exactly how much he wanted it, against the outside of her leg. And as he kissed her harder and deeper, his body moving slightly against hers, his fingers slipped under the bottom edge of her tank top, dragging it up over the overstretched flesh of her stomach.

At the feel of that hidden skin being exposed to the cool air, the anxiety she'd been trying to hold back exploded inside of her and Camila wiggled beneath Shawn, her hands coming back up and shoving him hard in the chest. Shawn drew back, shock and confusion etched into the lines of his face. Camila scrambled backwards and up, lowering her shirt back down. Her heart slammed into her ribcage and her stomach twisted so hard she felt sick. Shawn's gaze bored into her like lasers, tearing through her flesh and running straight through her heart. She fought to control her breath, to keep her shoulders calm and steady, as her lungs screamed at her to breathe.

"Mila," Shawn said, his voice strained. "What was that?"

"Nothing," she said, turning away from him and fighting against the urge to cry.

"That wasn't 'nothing.'"

"I just need to study and I can't get all caught up in making out right now."

Shawn was silent for a few moments. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?" Camila still refused to look at him. After a few moments, she felt his fingers on her face and then she was staring at him.

"That," he said quietly. "Brush stuff off as something else just to avoid talking to me. Why do you do that?"

"I'm not—"

"Yes," he said, dropping his fingers from her jaw, "you are. You always are."

Anger and embarrassment flooded her cheeks. "I thought you didn't want to talk, Shawn." Camila could hear the condescension in her voice and it made her feel like absolute crap.

"Come on, you know that's not what I—"

"Well, maybe I don't want to talk now, either."

Shawn let out a frustrated growl. "God, Mila, that's exactly what I'm talking about! You never want to talk about anything. You haven't wanted me to touch you for weeks and you won't tell me why. I just don't get it, and I'm sick of having to drag everything out of you!"

"So stop trying!" Camila finally turned toward him, giving him her unwavering attention. The dark feeling twisted up inside of her, choking her, taking her over. "Stop trying to figure me out. Stop trying to fix everything all the time!"

Shawn reached for her. "Stop pushing me away."

Camila slapped at his hands, doing exactly what he'd just accused her of. "Then stop pawing at me all the time!"

Shawn reeled back as if he was slapped, and Camila watched her words slash through him. She wanted to take them back, to tell him it wasn't anything he'd done wrong, that it was her, that it was all her. But her pride and self-protectiveness wouldn't let her, and instead, she continued pouring all the acidic self-doubt and hurt onto him, tearing at him with all the ugliness and shame that lived inside of her.

"This is still my body, you know. Just because I'm sharing it with this kid doesn't mean I have to share it with you whenever you feel the urge!" Camila felt the words burn her throat as they flowed out of her, and watched as each one knocked him down a little more each time.

She hated them.

She hated all of them.

But yet, she couldn't stop them from pouring out of her like venom. "Sometimes I just want to study or talk or just freaking lay down on a bed without you thinking it's open season. Maybe there's nothing wrong, maybe I just don't want to. And I shouldn't have to explain my reasons to you!"

When she finished, silence lay over the room in a suffocating fog. Shawn just looked at her, his eyes fixed and unmoving. Camila's blood still fizzled in her veins, her anger and hurt and disgrace radiating through her.

After several moments, Shawn finally moved, slowly and with purpose. He stood from the bed, his stare never wavering as he moved away from her. Camila could feel the heat of her outburst dissipating, only to be replaced by the cold reality of regret.

"The last time I checked," Shawn said, his voice steady and eerily calm, "this was a relationship. And in a relationship, talking is a major part of it. So, yeah, Camila, you do have to explain your reasons to me." The timbre of his voice became harder, harsher. "You do need to tell me why you don't want me to touch you. You do need to explain it to me, because it's not like I'm going to understand why you push me away over and over again if you don't. So, please," he said, "please, just tell me what the hell's wrong."

Camila broke his stare and lowered her gaze to the comforter, then closed her eyes. Emotion bubbled through her, filling her from head to toe with uncertainty, self-consciousness, and fear. She wanted it all to go away, so badly, but still, she couldn't tell him, didn't want to tell him. Her shame was shameful. The way her body sickened her and the way it affected everything she thought, did, and said, was shameful. He wouldn't understand. He couldn't.

And so she did the only thing she could.

"I have to study," she said, so quietly she wasn't even sure he'd heard her.

When he sighed in defeat, she knew he had.

She expected him to turn away and storm off. It was what she would have done had their roles been reversed, and she wouldn't blame him in the least if he did the same. But Shawn rarely did what she expected. Instead, Camila heard him come toward her and felt his warm fingers tuck under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. Camila kept her eyes closed for a bit longer, and when she opened them, her stomach dropped when she saw the pain on his face. The pain she'd put there.

"I don't know why you do this," he said, his words almost a whisper. "I don't know why you do this to yourself, to me. To us. I don't know why ..." Shawn swallowed. "But when you decide to tell me, you know where to find me." And then he leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek and lingering for a few seconds, before he turned and walked out the bedroom door.

Camila sat there atop the bed where he'd left her, unmoving, as she listened to his footsteps grow farther and farther away, the heat of his words and his kiss burning into her cheek and her heart. Her pulse still pounded and her stomach still twisted, but the ugliness was all she felt. It was all-consuming and never ending. It owned her now.

Her throat filled and her eyes stung with unshed tears, but it wasn't until she heard the outside door click and the motor of his car turn over, that she dared to let them out.

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God. I am such an asshole.

Shawn gripped the steering wheel and stared at the layer of white that continued to coat his windshield between each pass of the wipers. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there in that exact position at a stop sign several blocks from the Steinfeld's house, but he didn't really give a shit either. He was still preoccupied with how incredibly stupid he'd been. What the hell was wrong with him?

He should have known Camila wouldn't want him to do that. He should have known it! But he'd tried anyway. Tried and got her all pissed off in the process. Shawn lowered his head and banged it a few times on the steering wheel, trying to get her words out of his mind. But nothing he did made them go away. They were stuck on repeat, playing over and over on a loop in his head.

This is still my body, you know.

Stop pawing at me all the time!

A glare of light shone through the snow covering his back window, and Shawn swallowed as he pulled away from the stop sign. The streets were empty and quiet, odd for this time of night, but Shawn was secretly glad. He was having a hard time concentrating on the road anyway and didn't want to have to worry about oncoming traffic. The argument that had erupted between him and Camila was probably a long time coming, seeing as Camila had been more and more reluctant to be touched by him, and he was too much of an ass to take a hint.

As it were, he had not expected it to be that bad.

Shawn slowed his speed and squinted through the wall of white in front of him. It was really coming down now. He tried to get out of his head and concentrate on the road, but he couldn't stop seeing the look on her face when she'd pushed him away. It wasn't anger or hurt or anything he would have expected; it was fear. She was afraid. But of what? Him?

Shawn pushed a hand into his hair and swiped the damp strands away from his forehead. He'd been trying so hard not to be a dick about it, letting her make the decisions about when, where and how far they could go. He understood—well, he tried to understand—that with all the changes in her body, maybe she just didn't feel like it all the time. But ... it had been weeks since they'd had sex—the last time being after she'd gotten out of the hospital and they'd been stranded in his car. God, that seemed like forever ago.

Images from that time flooded his brain. He could still see her above him: in control, needy, beautiful; he could feel her nails in his chest and her thighs clenched around his hips; he could hear the hitch in her breath when they joined and the quiet hum in her throat as she'd moved over him.

Shawn shook his head and blew out a slow breath, trying his hardest to dispel those thoughts. They did nothing to help and only frustrated the situation further. Yeah, he could take care of his own needs—he was an nineteen-years-old guy and that shit was just a given—but he missed her so damn much.

He missed the way she used to look at him, the heat that filled her eyes as they traveled over his body. He missed the way she used to touch him, as if she couldn't get enough, no matter how long she'd had her hands on him. And he missed the way she'd kissed him, as if he was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

Now, she guarded her gaze whenever she turned it on him, maneuvered her hands over him in ways that were purely non-sexual. She still kissed him the same as she had before, but her lips were stiffer and her tongue shyer.

A horn blared behind him, startling Shawn out of his head. Glancing down, he realized he was driving ten miles under the speed limit. He sped up, but knew he should probably just pull over until he got his thoughts under control. About a half a mile up the road, he spied a dimly lit parking lot and pulled in without caring what he was pulling into. He just needed a moment, a single damn moment to get his head together.

When he was finally parked, Shawn closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. His heart pounded in his ears and the soft snick of snow hitting the glass was the only sound he heard. Normally, the quiet would be good and peaceful, but tonight it just accentuated the unrest in his mind.

He sat there for a while, before he became aware of a screech of laughter just outside his window. Opening his eyes, Shawn spied a young couple—maybe a few years older than him—laughing and dancing in the snow near their car. The guy had his arms around the girl's back, and she was bent backwards, her arms flung out as if she were flying, her eyes closed as he spun her round and round. The untroubled happiness Shawn saw in them made his chest squeeze, and he realized that he and Camila had never had that. Nothing had ever felt so happy and carefree for them. Everything was always a struggle. Every moment of peace, every second of happiness, they had to fight so damn hard for. And it wasn't fair.

It wasn't God-damn fair.

And as he sat there watching the couple twirl and smile and hold each other in the falling snow, he felt a stab of loneliness.

Tearing his gaze away from the happy couple, Shawn stared straight ahead. The wipers swished across his windshield, and his breath caught when he realized where he was. In the seconds before the snow covered the glass again, Shawn saw the broken down outer of the diner where he and Camila had met Ben to discuss his case. His mouth dried out and he tried to swallow against it. Shawn watched as people moved around inside, seemingly content and happy as they enjoyed their coffee and pie.

More than anything, Shawn wanted that—not coffee or pie, but contentment. He wanted content. He wanted happy. He wanted anything other than what he was feeling now: darkness that crept up on him with no warning and stole his breath, emptiness that seemed to spread, and grow, and thrive right along with it.

Just for a minute, just for a second, he wanted to feel something else.

Without thinking, Shawn switched off the ignition and unbuckled his seatbelt. He opened the door and stepped out into the falling snow. The stinging wetness quickly slipped down his cheeks and stuck to his hair and lashes, but he didn't bother to brush it away. His gaze was glued to the place before him, the place that brought him so many conflicting feelings.

Lord, what the hell am I doing here?

Shawn's feet drew him forward, the snow crunching underneath his shoes as he walked. The chatter and laughter became louder as he neared the door, but he did not slow. The draw to what was inside was so strong Shawn didn't think he could stop himself even if he tried.

Moments later, he stepped through the doorway and was assaulted once again by the scent of grease, warm apples, and cinnamon. It wasn't a smell he was accustomed to, as his mother had never baked, but for some reason it still felt welcoming and like ... like coming home.

He stopped just inside and looked around, observing everything in a way he hadn't the first time. Despite the storm picking up outside, the place was packed with patrons: some couples sitting alone, snuggled up together in the booths along the back wall, and some families with multiple children surrounding their table. It was unlike anything he'd ever been a part of, but had always wanted so desperately for himself.

A family of five descended on the door, and Shawn moved out of the way, as the father bent to scoop up his little boy before he could dart out into the snowy parking lot alone. The boy wrapped his mitten-covered hands around his dad's cheeks and gave him a big, wet kiss on the end of the nose. Shawn couldn't look away when the Dad's face pinched into a mock, grossed-out expression and he made a big show of wiping the slobber from his nose. The little boy nearly fell apart with giggles and curled into his father's embrace. The mom tried to give them a scolding look, but could not hold her smile back, as she grabbed the hands of two older girls and the family made their way out into the night.

Shawn stared after them. His chest heavy and full, almost like it ached, but not in a way he was used to.

"I didn't know if we'd see you again around here."

Shawn startled and peered toward where the voice had come from. Nana stood almost right next to him and stared out the door at the family too, her face fixed into a pleased smile. She looked exactly as she had the first time Shawn had met her: poofy gray hair done up in large curls, and eyes that nearly disappeared when she smiled. She even wore the same outfit, down to the red and white checkered apron covering her front.

After a moment, she peered up at Shawn, her grin widening. "Was it my pie? It was, wasn't it?"

Shawn frowned. "I'm sorry. I don't—"

"The reason you're here. It was my pie, right?"

"Oh. I—I don't know. I was just ... driving ... and found myself outside." He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at the ground.

"Just driving, huh?" She glanced at the snow swirling outside the window, then back at him, her brow raised in suspicion. "Where's your pretty little lady tonight? Having more sense than you to be out in this weather?"

Camila's words from earlier came back to him and he sighed, his brows coming together in the middle.

"Oh, dear," Nana said. "That isn't a very happy face, my boy. You look just like your mother when you make it."

Shawn's head snapped up and he stared at Nana. Hearing her mention his mother was like someone had poured cold water over his head. Blinking, he wet his lips, and spoke the question burning in his mind. "Did you know her very well? My—my mom?"

"Boy, oh, boy, you don't waste time on small talk, do you?" She sighed. "Well, come on." Nana grabbed his arm and pulled him across the diner to a booth near the back. "I'm going to need a sugar boost before we continue this conversation. Hot cocoa?"

"Oh. No. I just ... I should probably—"

She held up her finger at Shawn's protest. "Ah, ah, young man, nobody refuses my cocoa. It's almost as good as my pie. So, just sit your hind end down and humor an old lady, would you?" Shawn had no words. Nana nodded her head as if she knew silence would be his response all along. "Now, do you prefer marshmallows or whipped cream on top?"

"Do I have to choose just one?"

She whooped a laugh and reached out to lightly pinch his cheek. "Spoken like a true Rayes. Give me just a minute." She winked and turned away.

Shawn watched as Nana disappeared behind the counter and through the doors leading to what he assumed was the kitchen.

Rayes. She'd called him a Rayes. No matter how many times he repeated the name to himself inside his mind, it sounded foreign and wrong to his brain. It just wasn't who he was. Yeah, he knew Benedict Rayes was his birth father—he'd always known that. But he was Shawn Mendes. That's who he'd always been, who he'd always be.

Letting out a slow breath, he tried to settle himself in the seat. The old vinyl material crackled and squeaked under his weight, and he felt a little like he'd been run over by a semi.

Raucous laughter and squeals of delight echoed all around Shawn as he sat there, staring at the Formica tabletop and trying to figure out why the hell he was there. It didn't make any sense in his mind, especially since the loneliness he'd felt out in the car was magnified by a thousand in there. But for some reason, he could not bring himself to leave. Maybe it was because he would feel guilty walking out on a kind old woman offering him cocoa. Or maybe it was because he was just so damn tired of being alone, and there was something about this place that made him think he didn't have to be.

Shawn shifted uncomfortably and glanced around, his gaze falling to the wall of photos he'd looked at the first time he'd been there. His eyes zeroed in on the section that had housed his mother and father's photo and he frowned when he noticed it wasn't there.

"We rotate them out every few days," Nana said, as she set two steaming mugs of cocoa onto the table and slid into the booth across from Shawn.

"What?" he asked.

"The pictures." She gestured to the wall. "We have so many and we try to feature them all at one time or another, so we change them out."

"Oh," Shawn said, dropping his head and stirring the spoon in the hot cocoa sitting in front of him. Nana had given him both marshmallows and whipped cream. The strange ache inside of him panged.

Silence stretched between them for several minutes before Nana sighed. "It's very hard to not say the things I'm not supposed to, when you're sitting right there across from me."

Shawn glanced up, and Nana was looking at him intensely, her eyes gleaming.

"I've thought about this for so long," she continued. "What it would be like to look you in the eye and talk to you. What kind of a person you'd turn out to be. If you'd be blessed with the Rayes jaw." She leaned into him as if she had a secret to tell him, and whispered, "You were."

Shawn frowned. "If you thought about me so much, why didn't you ever try to contact me?"

"I did." She scowled and spoke gruffly. "Of course I did. But your mama thought it might confuse you. Make you ask more questions about your daddy." She sighed. "I couldn't rightly disagree with her. She was your mama."

"Oh," Shawn said. He didn't know how to feel about that.

"You asked if I knew your mama well, and the answer to that is complicated."

"How so?"

"Well," she started, pausing as if to think of the best way to put whatever she had to say. "Your mama wasn't the ... easiest person to get to know. She had these walls up around her, ones she never let anyone through." Her voice quieted. "No one but Ben."

Shawn felt his heart catch when Nana mentioned Ben's name. He still was not ready for him, was not ready to acknowledge any feeling or desire to know anything about him. Seeing him earlier that day had been ... tough. He knew he had to deal with it better if he was going to get through this shit with the lawsuit, but every time he saw Ben all he wanted to do was turn in the opposite direction and hightail it out of there. Or else punch him in the face.

Nana studied him. "You have the same look about you. The one that warns anyone who is thinking about trying to get too close to beware. The one that lets me know you have your own walls."

He shook his head and went to speak, when something slid across the table toward him. His breath caught in his chest. It was the photo from the wall, the one of his mother and Ben, smiling and looking so much in love. He touched the edges of the frame and tried to breathe.

"Can you see it?" Nana asked quietly. "Can you see it in her eyes?"

Shawn squinted and focused on his mother's eyes, his eyes. For a long time he saw nothing but the crinkles at the edges and the way her mouth took up half her face when she smiled. But then—almost like one of those pictures where if you stare at it long enough, another image appears—he saw it, or the absence of it, rather. And then he switched and focused on Benedict Rayes, seeing the way his father's eyes shone with all the hope and promise and dreams of a seventeen-year-old-boy.

His mother's eyes did not sparkle. They did not shine.

They did not look happy and fulfilled and dreamy. They looked empty and lost. Just like him.

Shawn ran his finger over her face and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "She looks sad. And ... and lonely."

"I think she was," Nana said. "No matter how many people she surrounded herself with, she always seemed to be separate. Alone." Her eyes followed the lines of Shawn's face. "You have that too, Shawn. That look and feeling about you. It's not quite the same, but I see it there, hiding just below the surface of your eyes. Your mama's eyes."

Shawn let out a shuddering breath but didn't speak. He couldn't, because it was true. He felt that separateness, that loneliness. He always had, like it was a disease eating a hole through his heart.

Nana reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. Her skin was warm and soft, as were her eyes on his. "Now, I promised Ben I wouldn't push, but I have to say this just once while I have you here in front of me, because I fear you may not give me another chance."

Shawn let his gaze find hers, and he could see the sincerity in it.

"Regardless of what my grandson did when he was a young and stupid boy, and in spite of the fact that his decisions made it impossible for the rest of us to know you, does not mean we didn't want to."

Shawn's mouth dropped open to respond, but no words came out.

"You don't have to say anything, my dear." This time Nana's smile was sad and she squeezed his hand. "I didn't tell you that to get a reaction or some type of commitment from you. I can only imagine how things have been for you all these years. How many questions you must have and how many conflicting feelings come along with those questions. But I just wanted you to know that you hadn't been discarded and forgotten in our minds and hearts. You were here with us all along; you just didn't know it."

Shawn swallowed, trying to open his throat and say something, anything, but he had no idea what to say to that. No one had ever said those types of things to him before. No one but Camila. He'd never thought any of them wanted a thing to do with him as a child. And now he was being told they had, that they always had and it had been kept from him. That knowledge was almost too much for him now. He needed a moment, a second, a fraction of a second to get his thoughts straight, but he couldn't think. He couldn't do anything except relive Nana's last words.

You were here with us all along; you just didn't know it.

A tsunami of old memories and feelings crashed over him. Numerous times he'd wondered about his real father's family, wondered why they didn't want him. There were times when he'd gained enough courage to ask his mother who and where they were, and he always received the same answer: "They didn't want to be our family, baby. It's just you and me and Roy. We're all we need anyway."

Shawn had spent his whole life bitter and angry with people he never knew, thinking none of them cared what the hell happened to him, when all along, some of them had. Maybe all of them. Shawn loved his mother, loved her with every fiber of his being, but he was so pissed off at her in that moment he wanted to scream. She'd let him believe she and Roy were all he truly had, that that tiny corner of the world she'd constructed around the three of them was all he'd ever need. She was wrong. And then she'd left him anyway.

"I apologize," Nana said, her expression filled with chagrin. "I've said too much."

"No," Shawn said, finally finding his voice and trying to clear his face of the expression of shock and anger he was sure it held. "No, it's ... it's fine."

And that feeling Shawn had been having earlier, the one in his chest that felt sort of achy but sort of not, returned. Only this time it spread down to his stomach, his entire body becoming warmer and lighter. The sensation freaked him the hell out and he stood abruptly, his hand making its way to his hair. The noise around him became more apparent: the chatter, the laughter, the clanking of dishes and the scraping of utensils across plates. And suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to get out of there. He couldn't think in that noise, couldn't breathe.

Shawn's fingers tightened and pulled against the strands clenched in his fist. He didn't understand what this feeling was or why this little old woman gave it to him. He didn't understand why his mother had done what she'd done. And he didn't understand what had happened with Camila either. All of these things and emotions were piling up inside of him, filling him to the brim and threatening to explode. For as long as Shawn could remember, his life had consisted of three basic truths. One: his biological father and family wanted nothing to do with him. Two: he was going to be a football legend. Three: the Mendes and Cabello were mortal enemies and would remain so until the end of time.

That was it.

His entire life story broken down into three prongs of that proverbial fork.

And now he knew every single one of them was a lie.

Shawn's breath quickened and he could taste the grease and cinnamon in the air as it passed rapidly over his tongue. He was losing it. He was God-damn losing it.

Nana's brows came together and she pushed herself up from the booth. "Shawn? Are you all right?" She took a step toward him, which Shawn countered with one back.

He needed to get out of there. Now.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm ... I'm fine." He dropped his hand and backed up again. Nana's face fell. "I just ... I should probably ..." He gestured to the door behind him. "You know, before the storm gets worse."

"Of course," she said, but her expression did not match her words.

"Thanks for the ... cocoa."

"Anytime. Don't be a stranger now, all right?"

"Sure," Shawn said, spinning toward the door and making his way across the diner, his heart beating a bit too hard and his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The warmth inside of him spread up into his face and he could feel his cheeks heating. What the hell was this? Just as he reached out for the door and wrapped his fingers around the handle, he heard his name.

"Shawn."

Closing his eyes, he drew in a calming breath and glanced over his shoulder, finding Nana standing just a few feet behind him. How the hell did she move so fast?

"Yeah?"

She paused for a moment, as if she were trying to figure out how to say what she wanted to say. "I meant what I said. Don't be a stranger." Her eyes held onto his. "Come back again."

The warmth crashed over him again, hot and relentless, making him almost shudder in response. His fingers tightened on the cool metal handle. "Yeah, I will."

Nana smiled, and as Shawn pulled open the door and stepped out into the relentless storm, he realized that his answer wasn't just words, even though he'd meant them to be. Despite everything, there was something here that tugged at him, that drew him in. Maybe it was Nana; maybe it was the memory of his mother. Maybe it was nothing at all.

Or maybe it was everything he'd ever wanted, but had never been given the chance to have.

____________________________________________

Camila's room still smelled faintly of the Hawaiian Breeze potpourri her mother had given her several months earlier. As she stepped inside, her hands laden with bags, she paused before the open closet door. Everything appeared as it had the last time she'd been in there. All of her drawings hung exactly in the same spots, and photos of her and Hailee and the other cheerleaders remained stuck between the wood and the glass of her mirror. It was as if she'd never left.

But on the other hand, it felt like she'd never lived there at all.

Bending down, she deposited the bags to the floor of the closet, and her eyes fell to the myriad of clothing hanging along the wall. Some of them were her regular, everyday wear, and some her party dress. Stepping forward, she fingered the edge of the skirt she'd worn the night she'd met Shawn. There were no new memories attached to the garment about that night, but seeing it there caused her chest to tighten and her eyes to sting.

Had that girl really been her? Had she been bold enough to wear that skirt and those boots, and to go upstairs with a virtual stranger to do the things she knew they'd done? It didn't seem possible now. She didn't know that girl anymore. Hell, she didn't know the girl she was now, either.

Camila caught her reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. Her eyes were red and lined with dark circles. She'd barely slept the night before, tossing and turning, as she'd replayed the things she'd said to Shawn over and over again. Her words had been horrible and mean, spiteful and prideful. Thinking back on them now sort of made her want to throw up.

Reaching down to her bag, she rummaged through the front pocket until her fingers closed around her cell phone. She pulled it out and pressed the circular button on the front, lighting up the screen.

No new messages.

Lowering her head to rest against her phone, she let out a sigh. Of course he hadn't called her. Why should he? She'd been a complete bitch. Her vision blurred and her finger hovered over the contact button. But she couldn't seem to find the will to press down.

If she called him, she'd have to explain; she'd have to tell him exactly what had happened last night. She'd have to admit to him her deepest, ugliest truths. Was she ready to admit to him that the reason she'd pushed him away, the reason she couldn't let herself be with him, the reason she was depriving him of what he seemed to need, was because she thought she was ugly? That just the thought of his eyes taking in the bright reddish-purple marks, the darkening of her nipples, the extra hairs sprouting in places they'd never sprouted before, that his fingers roaming over the skin of her belly, feeling the change in texture over the higher marks and the subtle indents of the lower ones, made her want to be sick. How could she tell him that?

Then again, how could she not?

She touched the icon for her contacts and found his name on the list. She pressed it and his picture came up—one she'd taken from the side as he drove. Wetness slid over her cheeks as her thumb lingered over the call button. He deserved to know—she knew he did—but it was all just so embarrassing. She should have been over this by now. It shouldn't have consumed her the way it did, but it had and she couldn't seem to make it stop.

A soft knock sounded and Camila startled. Her father stood inside the doorway, his body stiff and uncomfortable as he studied her. She wiped at her face hastily and turned her whole body toward where he stood.

His eyes narrowed. "Are you crying?"

Camila sniffed and blinked, her lashes wet against her skin. "No."

Her father's gaze drifted to the phone in her hand, and his eyes blazed. Camila glanced down and noticed Shawn's picture still lighting up the screen. She clicked the power button immediately and it went dark.

"What did that boy do now?"

"Don't start, Papa. He didn't do anything."

"I'm not 'starting' Camila. And don't speak to me that way. I'm still your father." He smoothed his hands over the front of his suit jacket—something he'd done for as long as Camila remembered. She used to think it was an odd, nervous gesture, but now it just seemed to be some sort of arrogant way to assert his importance, as if a suit could say that to her. "If he didn't do anything then why are you crying while looking at his picture?"

"Because I'm pregnant and hormonal and I cry about everything." Not exactly a lie, but not the truth either.

What else was she supposed to tell him, though? That they'd argued the night before because Camila hated her body and Shawn wanted to feel her up? No.

Her father's face pinched into an aggravated expression. She knew that look; it meant he didn't believe a single word she said. However, the awkwardness of her mentioning the pregnancy was enough for him to keep his mouth shut.

Camila sighed and rubbed her forehead. Not only had the lack of sleep made her eyes tired and itchy, but also a lingering headache was threatening to become a migraine. "What did you want, Papa? If it was just to come up here and start an argument about Shawn, then can we please just wait until tomorrow? I don't feel good and I just ... don't want to.

"No, that's not ..." Her father ran his hands over his suit again and drew in a breath. She was trying his patience and she could see the proof of that in the way the vein above his eye twitched. "Look, I know being back here is a bit ... uncomfortable for you."

"A bit?"

He ignored her sarcastic tone. "Regardless of how we left things, I really think this is the best thing for all of us. You shouldn't be living with people who aren't your family. You're going to need all the support you can get right now."

"Support?" Camila said. "I wasn't aware you knew the meaning of the word."

"We've all made mistakes, Camila, and it would do you well to remember whose mistake it was that brought us to this point in the first place." His eyes zeroed in on her stomach. And then suddenly, his expression changed, almost as if he'd caught himself doing something he wasn't supposed to. He cleared his throat. "But this isn't the time for pointing fingers."

Camila crossed her arms over her chest. "Then what is it the time for? I mean, really. I don't understand what this is. Since you got called into my school you've been going out of your way to ... I don't even know what." She flicked her hand toward the shopping bags on the floor. "What's this all about?"

"I wasn't aware I needed a reason to buy my daughter clothes. You used to appreciate spending my money."

"They're maternity clothes."

"You're pregnant."

"A fact you wanted to do everything in your power to change a few months ago."

"Camila." Her father closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I never tried—"

"You told me if you'd had your way I would have gotten rid of this thing already. What am I supposed to think you meant by that?" Anger coursed through her veins like gasoline and lit a flame that had only smoldered up until now. "You tried to make me give him up. You had my baby's father brought up on charges of rape! You've tried everything!"

"You're damn right I've tried everything!" he shouted, finally losing the cool exterior and showing Camila exactly what lay underneath. "What would you expect me to do? You're seventeen-years-old. You're too young to have a child. You're too young to know the first thing about what you've gotten yourself into. And that boy deserves everything he gets. He stole your innocence. He stole your childhood, your life!"

"And that gave you the right to steal his? That gave you the right to potentially steal my child's father away from him for a few years?"

Her father went to speak, but snapped his mouth shut instead.

"I thought so," she said.

Silence engulfed the room for many moments. After awhile, Camila's father cleared his throat again. "It's been a trying several days, perhaps we should save this conversation for another time when ... emotions ... aren't running quite so high."

"Maybe we just shouldn't have this conversation at all."

"Camila—"

"No, Papa." Camila held her hand up, then let it drop to her side. "I mean, what's the point? We're never going to agree, so why bother talking about it at all? I already know how you feel about this whole situation, about me, about Shawn. We really don't need to rehash it. You've made yourself perfectly clear. I know the stupid school says I have to live here with you to "oversee" my education or whatever, so we're just going to have to live with this arrangement for awhile."

Camila's father was quiet for a long time. She had no idea what he was thinking, and honestly, she didn't want to know. She was done, just ... done. In an attempt to get her father to leave by making herself look busy, she turned toward the closet and grasped the handles of one of the shopping bags, taking it over to the bed and dumping the contents onto the comforter.

"I never wanted this for you," her father said, his voice softer and so unlike the one he usually reserved for her.

She sighed and turned back toward him. "I don't think any parent wants their teenager to get knocked up. If they do, there's something seriously wrong with them."

"Not that," he said. "Everything else. I never wanted you involved in my issues with the Mendes. I never meant for you to be hurt by them."

"I'm not involved in your 'issues', Papa. That still completely belongs to you." She paused. "And to be honest, it hasn't seemed like you've cared much about how any of this has affected me at all. It's seemed like all you've cared about is how it made you look."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?"

Before her father had a chance to answer, a knock sounded at the door downstairs and he turned his head toward the noise, a loud sigh coming from him before he looked back at her. "I know you won't believe me, but I am sorry for hurting you. That was never my intention in any of this."

Camila swallowed against the tightening in her throat and had no idea what to say to that. But she needn't have worried, since, after a moment of pause, he walked away without waiting for a reply.

Closing her eyes, Camila lowered herself to the edge of her bed and covered her face with her hands. Her entire being was tired and tight: her chest, her throat, her stomach, her soul. Everything from the night before, and what had just happened between her and her father, mixed together and created so many different emotions, she wasn't sure exactly what was happening. Confusion clouded her mind. About Shawn, but even more so about her father. She wasn't used to this confliction regarding him. For the past weeks, she'd been so sure of where he stood, that he didn't care about her, that he only had one thing that mattered to him—his revenge on the Mendes's. But now ... now she wasn't sure.

A spark of ... something ... flared up inside of her.

Camila recognized the emotion building, the one multiplying, twisting, and warming her from the inside out: hope. She'd been telling herself for months now that there was no hope left for her family. The moment she'd slept with Shawn was the moment she'd lost them all. God, she was so confused, so torn on what was right and what was true. Or maybe she was just uncertain about what she wanted to be right and what she wanted to be true.

There were parts of her that wanted to turn her back on all of them: her mother, her father, sometimes even her brother, and never look back. They'd all hurt her in their own ways, more than she was sure any of them imagined. But then there was a part of her, a very small part, that just wanted them back, regardless of what any of them had done. Camila hated this part. It was weak and cowardly, and she despised feeling weak.

Camila couldn't seem to reconcile her feelings with the thoughts in her head. Logically, she knew what her father had done, knew it and hated him for it. She didn't think she would ever be a big enough person to forgive him for that. But she couldn't deny the part of her that wanted her daddy back. Her family. Her life.

But maybe that was all that mattered. Maybe the hatred and the refusal to forgive was what was dragging her down to the depths she'd found herself in lately. There were enough things she had no control over: the changes to her body, the hormones racing through her with reckless abandon, the consequences she and Shawn were both facing because of their actions, but this—her willingness to open herself up to the possibility of moving forward—she could.

With determination, she stood from the bed, moving toward the door and exiting into the hall. Despite all the conflicting reasons going on inside of her, she could at least try. She could give a little if her father was willing to as well. It didn't mean she was over the things he'd said and done, but she had to at least try.

When Camila reached the top of the stairs, she paused as voices floated up from the floor below.

"... can't believe it's so soon. When did you hear?" her father's low baritone rang out. He sounded a little nervous and unsure.

Another, much higher, male voice responded, but Camila was having a hard time making out his words. As quietly as she could, she tip-toed down the stairs to try and hear better what was going on.

" ... got her to agree to come home?" the other man said. "How did you manage that?"

"I didn't," her father said. "The school did that for me. They threatened to discount her entire last semester if she didn't comply with their rules, which included her being under the supervision of a legal parent or guardian. And since her mother is still wherever the hell she is, that leaves me."

"Lucky break. We couldn't have hoped for anything better at this point than if we'd planned it. Have you been doing the things I suggested?"

"Yes," her father said, the word slightly unsure. "But I don't know how much good it's done. She still hates me."

"She's a teenager, they all hate their parents. But it doesn't take much too bribe them into your good graces. Just keep it up and she'll come around. Hopefully before the hearing."

Camila's stomach dropped. She reached out and curled her fingers around the corner and peeked out. Her father stood with his back to her, and the other man—who she couldn't make out properly, only that he was portly and short, dressed in a gray suit—leaned against the door. He looked like a lawyer: arrogant, creepy, immoral. By the way they were talking, Camila deduced that's exactly who he was.

"I doubt it's going to be enough," her father said. "She thinks she's in love with the boy. Though I believe they may be fighting right now. She ... she was crying earlier, and I'm pretty sure it was over him."

"It's like they're playing right into this without having a clue," the other man said. "Keep reaching out to her by being caring and supportive. The closer you get, the further she'll grow from him. And the better it'll look for you. Trust me, this is the edge we've been looking for."

Camila gasped and drew back as to not be seen. Her face heated and her eyes stung in anger. Was this really happening? Was this all just a game to him? To both of them?

"I don't know ..."

"Trust me, Alejandro. Everything is falling into place. This is our game now."

The heat from Camila's cheeks traveled down to her chest, making her feel like she was on fire. Fury throbbed through her veins, filling her to overflowing. So that was what this was all about: the clothes, the sticking up for her, the awkward half-apology. It wasn't sincere. He didn't feel bad. She was just a damn pawn. This was all still about "besting a Mendes". About winning.

How could she have been so incredibly stupid, almost falling for his lies?

The click of the door closing made Camila's heart skip, and she moved as quickly as she could back up the stairs and into her room. Closing the door behind her, she took in a few calming breaths, before pulling her phone from her pocket, turning it on, and pressing the call button under Shawn's name. She didn't care what had happened the night before, didn't care that she now felt awkward and embarrassed, she needed to hear his voice, to be with him, because since this all began he'd been the only person she could trust with everything. She'd been so stupid last night, so incredibly stupid. If she'd just told him how she was feeling—regardless of how petty and vain it sounded—he would have at least tried to understand. But no, she'd let her humiliation get the best of her and had pushed him away instead. God, when would she figure out that he was the one person who wouldn't judge her? Why did she have to continue to test his limits?

She was such an idiot.

Without even realizing it, her insecurity was driving a wedge between her and Shawn, just when they needed each other most. And her father and his sleazy lawyer-dude were poised to milk it for all they could.

Panic started to rise up inside of Camila, as the phone rang and rang. Why wasn't he answering? He never ignored her calls—no matter how hurt or pissed he was. And then his voicemail picked up.

"Damn it," she said, her fingers fumbling to call again.

Voicemail.

She felt like throwing her phone.

Lifting her hand to her hair, she pulled slightly as she tried to think. What if he was ignoring her? What if this had been the last straw? She had to tell him what that was all about last night, but how could she if he wouldn't pick up his damn phone?

Without another thought, she clicked back to her contacts list. When she found the person she wanted, she pressed call. It rang twice, before someone picked up.

"Hello?"

Camila exhaled in relief. "Niall. Thank God."

"Wow, I can't say that you thanking God for my answering the phone isn't incredibly flattering. What's up?" he said. "Are you back now?"

"Yeah, um, listen." Camila grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, patting her pockets for her phone, realizing moments later that she was talking into it. "Are you home?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Do you have your mom's keys?"

"I have a feeling I know where this is going. Not even a conversation of pleasantries first? I feel so used. I'm more than just a car floozy, you know."

"Niall," Camila said, exasperated. "Please?"

"Fine." He sighed. "Meet me outside in five."

Camila smiled for the first time since last night. "Thanks. I owe you."

"Yeah, and don't think I'll be forgetting that anytime soon." His voice was teasing.

"I won't," Camila said, meaning every word.

____________________________________________

The water was cool as it beat against Shawn's heated skin. He'd awoken that morning with such an overwhelming feeling of anxiousness he'd done the only thing that had ever worked for him in the past. He'd worked out until he felt like he might pass out. Alex often bitched at him for pushing himself so hard, but he didn't know how else to work out the stress he was feeling. His father had always told him exercise was better than anything for whatever ailed you, but this time, nothing he did seemed to help at all. Not the forty-five minutes of repetitious lifting, not the five miles he'd run through the snowy woods, and not the twenty laps he'd done in the pool. Not a single thing made the squeezing in his chest lessen.

The shower cascaded over his head and he closed his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face. Every part of his body ached from his workout, and normally, Shawn loved that feeling. But today it just added to the already crushing pain on the inside. He didn't know what the hell to do to relieve it. The one thing he wanted, the one person, he felt like he couldn't have—at least not right then. This shit was so messed up he didn't know what to do.

After a few more minutes, he shut off the water, but didn't move to leave the shower. Leaning his head against the wall, he breathed in the humid air, his lungs pinching and clenching with each inhale. He groaned at the sensation, wanting it all to just go away. He pounded his fist against the wall a few times, but still, nothing lessened any of what was happening inside of him.

Finally, he climbed out of the shower and hastily dried himself off before wrapping the towel loosely around his waist. He exited into his room and dropped the towel to the floor, grabbing the first things he found in his dresser, and dressed quickly. Crossing to his desk, he picked up his phone, his fingers itching to call her. He held the rectangular device in his palm, staring at it, willing it to ring on its own. When it actually did, it startled him so completely he nearly dropped it, juggling it a few times before settling it once more.

Anxiously, he glanced down at the screen, his stomach twisting into a knot when he spied the name displayed. He did not want to talk to him.

Shawn considered not answering at all, but something inside told him he should. With a sigh, he answered and raised the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Shawn?" Ben cleared his throat. "This is Ben."

He fought back an eye roll. "Yeah, I know, I have your number saved."

"Oh, right ... well ... I'm sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I'm afraid there's been a development we need to discuss."

Shawn frowned and walked out of his room into the hall and started toward the stairs, his mouth suddenly dry and begging for water. "What happened? Is something wrong? Was it Jennifer's statement? Do you need her to come back and—"

"No, no," Ben assured. "It's nothing like that. I actually presented her statement yesterday after we talked."

Shawn froze at the bottom of the stairs, his fingers digging into the wood. "And?"

"And ... well ..."

Frustration twisted inside him and Shawn squeezed the bannister harder. "Just spit it out. What the hell is it?"

Ben sighed. "After reading through the statement, the judge assigned to the case asked for a rush preliminary hearing."

Shawn sucked in a breath and held it for several seconds. He had no clue what that meant. "Okay ... so, is that bad, or ..."

"Not necessarily."

Shawn heard the rustling of papers through the phone. As much as he didn't want to, he found himself picturing Ben behind the large wooden desk, stacks of folders piled on both ends, and loose pens and paper clips scattered over the surface. And of course there was the small gold picture frame that sat next to his phone. The one Shawn had tried desperately to ignore when he'd been there the day before. But no matter how hard he'd tried to avert his gaze, he'd seen anyway. And no matter what he did now, he could not get the little boy's eyes out of his head. They were so different from his, yet so similar at the same time.

It took Shawn a moment to realize Ben was still talking.

"... It could be good—it could be great. But we have to prepare ourselves for the possibility that it might not. These types of cases are so touchy and so much can be left up to the discretion of the judge."

Shawn thrust his hand into his hair and closed his eyes. "Okay," he said, his voice trembling a little. "When?"

Ben was silent for several seconds. "Two weeks from Monday."

Shawn's breath left him in a whoosh. "That soon? But ... Is that enough time to—"

"It'll have to be. We don't have a choice."

"Okay," Shawn said again, his mind spinning, oscillating between hope and fear. Hope that soon this would all just be over and all right, and fear that this could be the end of every dream he'd ever had for himself. "So, what now?"

"Now it's crunch time. There are a lot of things we still need to go over, questions we need to prepare you for ... Can you meet me? Either at my office, or, if you're more comfortable, at the diner?"

Shawn opened his mouth to speak, when a soft knock sounded at the door. He frowned. He wasn't expecting anyone, especially not someone that would knock that lightly, like it was only a courtesy instead of actually needing to in order to be let in.

"Hold on a sec," he said into the phone, before starting toward the door.

Just as he reached out, the knob turned on its own and the door opened, revealing to him a sight that made him freeze.

Camila stood there in the opening, her body swathed in Hailee's black coat, one hand in her pocket and one on the knob, her feet covered in large winter boots. She stared up at him, her dark brown eyes revealing to him the thing she didn't have to say aloud: I'm sorry.

His breath stuttered in his chest.

Strands of dark hair floated free around her face, quickly moving away as she exhaled. Just the sight of her standing there, looking at him the way she did, shouldn't have made him breathless, but it did. She always did.

His hand tightened around the phone, as he heard Ben ask, "Shawn?" But he didn't answer. He couldn't. He couldn't do anything but look at her. It had only been a day, but the distance he'd felt between them in that time had made it feel more like weeks. He lowered the phone.

Nervously, Camila bit down on her bottom lip and dropped her gaze to the ground, before raising it once again. Shawn could see her mind working behind her eyes, and he wanted to tell her to stop, to just stop thinking and come here. But he still didn't speak.

Camila let out a trembling breath and said, "I'm ready."

Shawn didn't need an explanation as to what she meant, he already knew. Without moving his gaze from hers—unable to, really—he lifted the phone back to his ear. "I'm gonna have to call you back."

"What? But ... Shawn, I don't think you realize how important this is. We need to—"

"And I know you don't realize how important this is," he said, his voice quiet and his eyes staying on Camila. Hers widened with his words. "I'll call you later."

And then he pressed the end button, tucking his phone into his pocket. He wanted so badly to reach out to her, to pull her into him, to hold her and kiss her and tell her all the things that had been going through his mind since last night. But as he stood there, he realized he couldn't move, couldn't speak at all. Because she'd come. All on her own, she'd come.

She was ready.

Shawn stepped aside and swept his hand in front of him, welcoming her in, because so was he.

____________________________________________

Camila stood near the doorway of Shawn's room, her hands twisting together in front of her nervously. She didn't know why she felt like this. This was Shawn; she had no reason to. But then again, she did.

Shawn walked ahead of her and sat on the edge of the bed. He had yet to say a single word to her, and that alone was enough to make her squirm. A silent Shawn was never a good thing. It always meant he was thinking too much, feeling too much. And this time she knew a lot of that had to do with her.

Clenching her fists and biting her bottom lip, she took a few steps further into the room and closed the door behind her, pausing for a moment before asking, "Is your dad here?"

Shawn shook his head, and Camila nodded, pushing the door completely shut. While her back was turned, she closed her eyes and inhaled a few, calming breaths. Once she felt better, she faced him, and he was sitting the exact same way, just on the very edge of the bed, his hands clasped together between his knees, his eyes on her. She let her gaze travel over him, taking in the questions and concern swirling in his light brown irises, the wet curls tightening around his ears, and the creases in his brow. He looked hurt, but he didn't look mad. It was a start.

"I—I tried to call a few times, but ..." She stopped talking entirely and looked down at the floor, squeezing her lids shut, while trying to put her feelings into words. After a few moments, she looked up, blew out a breath, and took a couple of steps toward him. "I don't know how to start."

Shawn didn't say anything as Camila struggled to formulate whatever it was in her mind, and his silence made everything feel so much worse. He wasn't going to make this easy on her, and she didn't blame him. He shouldn't.

"Would it be completely cliché of me to claim temporary insanity due to pregnancy hormones?" Her brows rose in hope.

Shawn gave her a look of his own and her "hope" crumbled.

"Okay," she said. "I had to give it a shot."

"Mila ..."

Her name on his tongue made goosebumps rise on her skin.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her throat tight. "I—I don't know why I ... why I feel like this."

Shawn's brows drew together. "Feel like what?"

"Like ..." Camila's eyes stung and her throat throbbed. She tried to swallow it all back, but she couldn't and her voice trembled when she spoke. "Like I'm so ... so ... disgusting." She lifted her hands and then let them fall to her sides. "Yes, it's still that. I know it's stupid. I just ... I can't make it stop."

Shawn stood and moved over to her. She gazed up at him, feeling the wetness of her tears fall over her cheeks.

"It's not stupid," he said, reaching out for her, but stopping before he touched her, seemingly unsure if he should. His hand lowered back to his side, and Camila's heart ached. She'd caused the uncertainty in his hand, in his eyes.

"Yes, it is. I'm ruining everything because I can't stand how I look. It is stupid. And pathetic." She turned away from him and wiped her face. "I can't stand it. I can't stand feeling like this, like I don't want you to look at me or touch me, because I know if you do, you'll see it too."

"See what, Mila? I don't understand—"

"I know you don't!" Camila spun back around, her voice raising and her face heating. She clenched her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. Shawn rocked back slightly on his heels. "How could you? I mean, look at you!" She thrust her hand toward him. "How could you understand?"

Something flashed in Shawn's eyes then. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Camila let out a sigh and shook her head. "Nothing. God, just ... just never mind. I shouldn't have come here like this. I'm sorry." She went to turn away again, but stopped when he grabbed her arm.

"No." His voice was rough, angry. "Just stop it."

"I can't," she whispered. "I just wanted to apologize and make it right, but I still feel this, so how can I?"

Shawn let out a frustrated growl, walking back toward the bed a few steps and reaching up to pull at his wet hair, before turning back to her. "Do you think you're the only one who feels like that? That you're the only one who ever looks at themselves in the mirror and wants more than anything to punch their reflection?"

Camila blinked. "What?"

Shawn held his hands out to his sides. "What do you see when you look at me, Camila?"

"Wh—what? I don't understand—"

"Just humor me. What do you see?" With his hands still out to his sides, he tweaked his fingers in a gesture that said "give it to me."

Camila swallowed and let her eyes roam over him, taking in the way his plain white t-shirt clung to his perfectly sculpted body and how his gym shorts hung just right on his hips. He was so beautiful, always so beautiful, but more than anything, she saw Shawn. Just Shawn.

"I see ... you. Just you."

Shawn strolled over to the mirror hanging on the back of his closet door. "You know what I see?" he asked, not waiting for her to answer before continuing. "I see him." And Camila knew he meant Benedict Rayes. Shawn scowled at his reflection. "I see his hair and nose and mouth and ears. I see him in my build, the color of my skin, and the God-damn shape of my hands. I see him in every conceivable part." He turned back to her. "You look at me and see me, but the only thing I see is him. The almost perfect shadow of a man I've hated my entire life." He took a few steps toward her and his voice softened. "But when you look at me, when you want me, you make me forget all of that. When you look at me ..." He stood right before her now and raised his hand to tuck a few pieces of flyaway hair behind her ear, and his touch flew through her like an electric shock. "When you look at me, I feel like everything you see, like only me." His thumb brushed her cheek, warm wetness spreading over her skin with the movement. "Why can't you let me do the same for you?"

Camila closed her eyes and more tears trailed down her face.

"You said before that you were having a hard time remembering who you were before all of this. But I know who you are. I've always known who you are. And I know all this shit happening to your body bothers you, but none of it matters to me. Because when I look at you, I don't see any of that. The only thing I see is you." His voice lowered to a whisper. "You're all I see too. Please, baby, let me show you. Let me show you, you."

Camila opened her eyes, blinked away the tears, and let her gaze fall on his. And he was looking at her, not at all the imperfections and flaws she saw, but at her. All the words she wanted to say choked in her throat, so she did the only thing she could think of to tell him "yes." Lifting her hands, her eyes never moving from his, she slipped the buttons from her coat open with trembling fingers. As it loosened around her, it felt like she was not just opening a piece of outerwear, but her whole self. It was scary and hard, and part of her wanted to clench it tighter against her, but she wanted to have those pieces of her back again. She wanted to feel like the Camila she'd once been, and she believed Shawn when he said he could show her.

Once the coat was open, she shrugged it from her shoulders, pausing for just a moment at the hem of her t-shirt, before pulling it up over her head. Her body shook as the shirt fell from her fingers to the floor. Everything inside of her screamed to cover up, to not let him see, to not let anyone see, but she refused to listen and kept her stare trained on Shawn's.

"Show me," she said, her words barely making a sound as they crossed her lips. "Please."

Shawn took another step toward her, but instead of kissing her like she thought he would, he knelt down in front of her, bringing his hands to the band of the pants covering her belly, and pulled it down. Camila's breath caught as the expanse of reddish-purple marks were revealed to them both. Tears burned in her eyes and she held back a sob, as he leaned in, still looking up at her, and kissed her right over the most horribly scarred part.

She closed her eyes, fighting back the panic that was still there, and just let herself feel his mouth and his fingers as they trailed over her, over every mark, loving her in spite of all the ugliness in front of him. Reaching forward, she threaded her fingers through his hair, but he grabbed her hand and placed it on her stomach. With his on top, he guided her over the minute dips in her skin.

"Open your eyes," he said.

A small sob escaped from her lips, but she did as he asked and looked down. He was still staring up at her.

"Do you see?" he whispered. "Do you see it now?"

And as she gazed down at him, her eyes moving from one of his to the other, she saw.

She saw it all.

A cry rose from her throat, and she dropped down to him, her knees straddling his thighs. Her hands came up to his face and she just held it there, looking and seeing again exactly what she needed.

"I see," Camila whispered. "I see."

She leaned into him, touching her lips to his softly, feeling how he wanted more, needed more, in the way he tensed under her, but also how he held back and let her do what she needed instead. Her hands slipped from his face to his neck, and his pulse thrummed hard and steady against her palms. And then something broke inside of her, a dam of sorts that had been keeping her from feeling this, from feeling like she could hold and touch him and he could hold and touch her without shame or embarrassment. She felt it all again: the way she wanted him, the way she needed him too.

Shawn's hands rested on her thighs, his fingers tense but not pulling at or digging into her. He was holding back. Camila tightened her grip on his neck and pulled him harder against her, opening her mouth and letting him know with a swipe of her tongue that he didn't have to hold back any longer. Shawn's breath came out in a relieved rush and his fingers dug into her legs, tugging her closer. Camila's heart pounded hard in her chest, but this time it was not in panic or fear, this time it was all want.

Shawn didn't say a word, not a single word in protest or encouragement as Camila's fingers trailed over his shoulders and down his chest to the hem of his shirt. He didn't speak with more than accelerated breaths when she tugged his shirt over his head, lowered her mouth to his bared flesh, and let her fingers fall even further to the band of his shorts. And he didn't offer a sound when she removed every last stitch of clothing from both of their bodies and lowered herself onto him, joining them together in a way they hadn't been in so long. He simply closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath as one of his hands grasped her hip and the other trailed up her neck, cupping the back of her head gently as he held her against him.

The combination of want and love that emanated from him nearly crippled Camila once again. She'd forgotten how good this was, how good they were. She'd forgotten how well they fit and how close she felt to him when they were together this way. And she'd forgotten how much she needed him, how much they needed each other.

"Shawn," she said, his name coming out breathless and shaky, as she moved above him, letting him have her, letting him feel all of her. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, and in them she saw everything he'd promised her. She saw her. She saw them. She saw it all. "You make me remember."

He pulled her face down to his and kissed her again, lightly, so lightly she barely felt it. "And you," he said, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to hers, trying to breathe as she continued to move. "You devastate me. In every way possible: good, bad, and everything in between. You completely devastate me."

Camila wrapped her arms around his neck, not caring when her belly got in the way of her holding him as close as she used to, not caring that he could see and feel every imperfect inch of her marred flesh, and he wrapped his around her. And together, as they kissed and touched and gave and took, they totally and wholly devastated each other.

____________________________________________

Author's Note:

Hello lovelies, I hope all of you're doing well today! I'm doing well too, thank you for asking (cause I know y'all will lol).

I know, I know. Camila is being quite bitchy, but hey, that's how pregnancy can do to your emotion; uncertainty for no reason which can lead to sadness, anger, frustration etc. Hormonal and bodily changes do a lot of things okay. Bear with her, or I'll wank you with a spatula! Okay kidding.

SPOILERS:

Anyway, has anyone watch The Kingsman: The Golden Circle? I just watched it today. Lets just say, I would love it so much if I can strangle whoever wrote the script for killing off my favourite agent! How dare they kill off Roxy Morton?

I know for a fact that the actress Sophie Cookson was actually shooting for a Netflix drama called Gypsy before TGC started theirs, so might be a conflict in schedule? BUT MUST THEY KILL HER OFF LIKE THAT? Matthew Vaughn, you did Roxy dirty like that. You did us fans dirty as well for pulling such stunt!

Roxy's death made me so bitter, I couldn't enjoy the movie as much as I'd like to. Hell, and what is with Eggsy and Princess Tilde? No offence, but that no chemistry relationship should go. It felt forced, and it was shoved down us fans throat. Whatever was that for? They could have build Roxy's character more instead of that shit. Ugh, I'm highly pissed. 

This got me really tempted to write a Reggsy (Roxy + Eggsy = Reggsy) fanfic, just so I can mend my shattered heart over my sunken ship. Yes, I ship these two but  ...... *cries.

xoxo

Bloomsbelle.