All I'm left with is this scar tissue
Battle wounds after surviving you (oh)
I'm left with all the bruises, excuses
The truth is: trying to restart, that's the hardest part
The scar tissue
- Camila Cabello.
____________________________________________
"Are you going to eat that?" Carlos asked. His eyes flicked up to meet Camila's in the rearview mirror. Lights slipped intermittently over his features, much as they had Shawn's earlier, except Carlos's face, discoloured and slightly swollen on one side, was distressed, almost guilty. The bruising on his cheeks and the cut in his lips were darker and more pronounced in the shadows. "I got your favourite."
"Are you going to tell me what happened to your face?" Camila answered, voice colder than she'd intended.
Carlos's expression fell, and Camila could see the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. She felt a little bad for being such a bitch to him, but being with her mother and knowing that Carlos was on her side - whatever that was - felt like a betrayal in the worst way. In her irrational mind, Camila wanted Carlos to be with her on this, to feel the way she felt, to have had to witness the betrayal of being left for ... whatever it was their mother had left them for. Money? Escape? Prestige? She didn't know. But it didn't matter now anyway. Their mother had left right when Camila needed her the most, and Carlos had already been gone. He hadn't had to feel what that was like, to know that his needs weren't as important. To know he wasn't as important.
"Then no." Camila flicked her fingers against the brown paper sack sitting beside her on the seat and tore her gaze away from her brother's troubled one. The scent of grease and salt wafted up from the bag, and her stomach turned over uncomfortably. "I'm not hungry."
"Sweetheart," her mother said from the passenger seat. "Your stomach was growling loud enough for all of us to hear a few minutes ago. You need to eat. It's not good for you or the baby if you don't."
"Oh, so you care about what's good for me and the baby now?"
The shock from finding her mother and Carlos in her room had now faded and turned into the simmering anger Camila had held inside for months. Just being in her mother's presence, hearing her speak to Camila as a mother might: slightly scolding, caring, concerned - as if she had the right - was slowly driving Camila mad.
Sandra sighed in response and turned to Carlos. "You should pull over and get some gas. There aren't many stations between here and there once we get on the road."
Camila's pulse quickened. "Where are we going? Where are you taking me?" Her fingers closed around the buckle of the seatbelt, readying herself to bolt if she needed to.
Sandra turned around in her seat, her dark brown eyes meeting Camila's. "Not that far." Her gaze darted to Camila's hand. "Please don't run away. That won't help anyone."
"Who are you trying to help right now, Mama? Me? You? I don't get what this is all about. Why the hurry? Why sneak me out of the house? Who said I even wanted your help? And where the hell is Papa?"
Carlos pulled into the nearest gas station, turned off the engine, and swiveled around to face her. "Mila, would you just listen to Mama for a-"
"Why should I?" Camila said. She looked from one of them to the next. Why should I listen to either of you? I've been asking what was going on since you barged into my room, packed up my crap, and hauled me out of the house, but neither of you will answer."
"Come on, like you were even happy being back there? Just a few days ago you called me whining about how you had to leave the Mendes's and go back to him. We're just trying to make things better, baby sis."
"Oh yeah? How?" Camila retorted. "How is this making anything better?" Stealing me out of the house while Papa's not there? Taking me away? Really, Carlos, how does that help anything? Do you think he's really going to be okay with that?"
"I don't care, and ... well, you just have to trust us."
Camila threw her head back and laughed, an ironic, mocking sort of laugh. "Right. That's funny." She cut off the laughter and glared at her brother. "Again, why should I? Neither of you have given me any reason to. She," Camila pointed at their mother, "took off to fulfill her life's dream or whatever, only coming back once to spew some garbage about 'planning to come back to get me,' but then running away with her tail between her legs when I told her off about it. Then she didn't even try again after she learned I was knocked up." She gestured to her stomach. "She didn't even really care when I left home and moved in with the Mendes's -"
"You said you didn't want to come," her mother protested. "I tried to talk to you, but you said no-"
"I'm a child, Mama!" Camila said. "When are you going to stop trying so hard to be my friend and just be my mother? Yeah, of course I didn't want to go, and yeah, I would have fought you on it, probably doing things exactly the way I did them. But at least it would have felt like you cared enough to fight for me."
Camila knew she was contradicting herself, but she didn't care. These were her feelings, as screwed up and confusing as they were. Her mother said nothing; she just stared at Camila, her mouth agape and eyes wide. Camila blinked and turned back to her brother, the anger inside of her gearing up for another go.
"And you," she narrowed her eyes. "You couldn't even be bother to pick up the stupid phone and call me to see how things were going. I had to call you. I had to reach out to you. So tell me now, big brother, why should I trust either of you with anything?"
Carlos narrowed his eyes right back. "Everything just always has to be about you, doesn't it, Mila? Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you know to read through the lines of what I was saying? Why did you leave after I told you to go? After I pushed you away and said I hated you?" he mocked. "Nobody else ever has anything going on in their own lives. At least not when you need something from them, is that right?"
Camila didn't answer and crossed her arms over her chest. She knew he was right, but she wasn't going to admit it. She was still pissed, and she wanted to stay that way.
"Right." Carlos let out a forced laugh. "Of course that's right. It's always everyone else's fault that you're unhappy. That you aren't sitting on your pretty little princess throne having every single one of us at your beck and call. It's everyone who's selfish."
"I never said you didn't have anything going on or that any of this was your fault."
"Well, good!" Carlos's voice grew louder, angrier. "Because it certainly isn't my fault you screwed around and got yourself knocked up!"
"Maybe you should take a few science classes in your fancy university, because I didn't get myself knocked up either!" Camila quieted and picked at the hem of her shirt. "I had help."
Carlos cracked a small smile and bit his lip to try to contain it, before looking away. Camila glanced down and shook her head. This was always the way she and her brother fought as kids. They'd get all riled up over something, scream and shout for a few, then end up cracking up over it in the end. Not to say that it solved anything. Camila was still pissed, and she still felt abandoned by them both, but maybe this release of stress was something they both needed.
"Well, now that you two have gotten the attention of every customer in the lot," their mother gestured to the staring people outside and placed a hand on Carlos' shoulder. "Just go get some gas and give me a few minutes with your sister."
"But Mama, she's not going to-"
"Carlos."
He hesitated for a moment, then let out a huff and exited the vehicle with a slam of the door.
Their mother sighed and shook her head. "Such a drama queen."
Camila almost snickered before she caught herself, and they went back to scowling. She didn't want to laugh or smile or even entertain the idea of being amused by or around her mother. That was something she had to earn, and as far as Camila was concerned, she hadn't earned anything yet.
"Sweetheart, I know you must-"
"Don't say it." Camila held up a hand to ward off her mother's comment. "Don't say you know how I must be feeling or what I must be thinking, because you don't. None of you understand, what this is like, so I wish you'd all just stop." She paused. "And stop calling me that."
"Calling you what?"
"You know what. I told you the last time you tried that I don't want you calling me that."
"But ..." her mother's face contorted, "but I've always called you sweetheart."
Camila swallowed, an inkling of remorse pushing its way up her throat. Stubbornly, she shoved it back down, refusing to feel the least bit guilty for her anger. "Yeah, well, it's a term of endearment, and I don't feel very endeared right now."
She thought back to the look on Shawn's face when she called him sweetheart, how it had taken his breath away, how it had given him a sense of how much he meant to her in that very moment. Hearing her mother call her the same thing did not give Camila any of those things, in a way, cheapened the sentiment in regards to Shawn.
"Fair enough," her mother said, and that only made Camila angrier. She wasn't supposed to agree; she was supposed to be an adult. A mother.
Camila felt her eyes start to well up, and she bit down hard on the inside of her bottom lip, until she tasted the coppery tinge of blood. She would not cry. She would not be weak. Not here. Not in front of this woman.
Her mother raised her hand to her forehead and rubbed as if she were trying to ease away a headache. "Look, swee—Camila, I'm not trying to make anything more difficult. I'm not trying to weasel my way back into your life as if nothing happened. I know what I did, and I know how it hurt you. I can never apologize enough. I can never explain away my actions. All I want is a chance to make it right. All I want is what's best for you ... and the baby."
"Why didn't you want that before? Before you knew I was pregnant. When you left me alone in the first place. Why now? I just—" Camila squeezed her eyes shut and fought against the tremble in her voice. "I just don't get why you're coming back now."
Her mother reached back and placed her hand on top of Camila's. Camila jerked away and brushed the back of her hand under her eye, in case any tears had managed to escape. They hadn't. Her mother pulled back and settled her hands in her lap. She looked down at them.
"I meant what I said to you in the diner all those months ago. I'd always planned to come back for you. It just—my living arrangements ... they just weren't conducive to a teenage girl."
"And the ones here were?"
Her mother's stare lifted. "You know I wanted you with me. I told you—"
"You may have told me but you didn't show me." Camila's chest squeezed and her eyes stung. "You left. You walked away just because I told you to. Just because I was angry and told you I didn't want to come with you, that I didn't want you. You gave up without fighting at all. But you're my Mama ... you're my Mama." Camila's eyes stung worse, her vision blurring as tears congregated along her bottom lid, but, still, she did not let them fall. All the hurt inside of her knotted up, twisting in on itself until it was almost unbearable. She didn't understand; she didn't know if she could ever understand. "That's supposed to mean something. You're supposed to put me first. You're supposed to ... you're ... you ... How could you leave me?" she said. "How could you? I don't even have my baby yet and I could never—" Her voice cut off mid-sentence. She swallowed against her tight throat and started again. "I could never leave him with someone that made me so miserable I had to run away."
Sandra wiped at her eyes and reached out once more. Camila didn't have the energy to pull away this time, and when her mother's hands engulfed hers, their warmth and softness brought her back to days long past. Days when her mother would sit behind her on her bed and braid her hair. Days when Camila would come inside, bruised and battered from trying to beat her brother in a bike race, and her mother would cover her knees with Band-Aids and kisses. Days when those same hands tucked her into bed at night, smoothed over her forehead before lips descended in a good-night kiss. Days when those hands meant love and comfort and safety.
Today, they just meant hurt. Betrayal.
"I'm sorry," her mother said, her voice rough and choked. "I'm truly sorry. When I first left, I didn't know you were ... I didn't know ..." She shook her head. "I know you don't think that matters, and maybe it really doesn't, but I really thought that ... I thought ..." She closed her eyes for a second and let out a slow breath. "I just thought if I were gone that we'd all be happier."
"How could you think that? You're my Mama. You're our Mama. How could you—"
"Because it's my fault your father is the way he is."
Camila's mouth dropped open, but she did not speak.
Her mother continued. "He wasn't always so angry, so bitter. Yes, his nature is to be competitive and a sore loser. He's always been driven, confident, and prideful. But those things don't necessarily make a person bad." She swallowed. "But I ... back then when I ... I shouldn't have gone against his wishes."
"Mama, what are you—"
"I should have just left things well enough alone," her mother continued, without acknowledging Camila had spoken at all. "But I didn't. I pushed and pushed and pushed. I didn't like this thing between him and Roy. I didn't like that I was the cause of it all, and I just wanted it to be better. But, instead, I made it worse. I continued to make it worse, and now we're left with this. All of this. So I just thought ... I thought if I left, if I just left, without the reminder of me day after day, then maybe he would go back to being the man he once was. The man who'd charmed his way into my heart, the one I agreed to marry and have children with. The one who could care for you and Carlos the way a father should. But I was wrong. I had no idea how badly I'd damaged him, how deep his rage, jealousy, and hurt cut into him, transformed him." Her gaze rose to Camila's. "I didn't know he'd take it out on you. On your child. I didn't know ..."
"But he did. He is. And he's taking it out on Shawn too."
"I know. I should have done it differently. I should have—"
"Stop," Camila said. She shook her head and bit down on her lower lip to stop it from trembling. "Just stop." All of the feelings swirling inside of her—loss, pain, betrayal, sadness, fear ... hope, need, yearning, love—tore at her heart, shredding it and pulling each strip in various directions. She placed her hand over her chest and tried to breathe through the tightness squeezing all of the air out of her.
"Camila ..."
She shook her head once more and reached for the door. "I just ... I need a minute. Please, just let me have a minute." And without waiting for her mother's reply, Camila pushed open the door and heaved herself out into the cold, night air.
Carlos's eyes widened in shock when he saw her exit the vehicle. His fingers twitched away from the pump and the flow of gas to the vehicle cut off with a click. "Mila? What are you—"
He went to move toward her, his hand outstretched, but Camila raised her palm to stop him. She couldn't handle him touching her right then. If he touched her, she wouldn't be able to think, and she needed to think. So many thoughts and feelings were building inside of her and none of them made sense. It was as if all she had were tiny pieces of a huge, important puzzle, and the people who were supposed to protect her and provide the answers were the ones withholding the most. There were too many things Carlos and her mother weren't telling her, too many secrets and lies she had to sift through, and she just couldn't deal with either of them touching her. She wanted answers first.
Lifting her gaze to meet her brother's, Camila's eyes lingering on the bruises along his cheekbone. She needed to know what had happened to him. She needed to know if it had been their father's hand that had caused him damage. "Tell me what happened to your face."
Her brother frowned and shook his head.
"Please." Camila felt herself losing the tenuous hold she had on her emotions. "Please, don't feed me any BS or tell me you'll explain everything later. Give me something now. I need—" Her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes against the growing sting. "I need something now. You just ... you don't understand. I'm freaking out. I mean ... it's ... everything. You and Mama showing up. Your face. The blood ... I just ... I can't take this crap right now, okay? So just give me something."
Camila heard Carlos let out a shaky breath, and she opened her eyes.
"I got into a fight," he said.
Camila studied his expression, trying her hardest to read the truth she suspected in his eyes. But he revealed nothing. His face was stone.
"Was it Dad? Did he do this to you? Is that why you came for me tonight?"
"I thought you said 'give you something,' not everything."
"Come on, Carlos, don't be a dick. Not right now."
Carlos looked away from her, narrowing his eyes at something in the distance. A gust of cool air swirled around them, causing Camila to shiver and Carlos's pale hair to stick up on one side of his head. It made Camila's memory flash back to when they were very young and Carlos thought a side spike was a cool thing. And even though back then it just made her think he was a dork, now it made her miss that version of him, that version of them, even more.
"Do you think calling me a dick is going to get me to talk?"
"Just tell me what the hell is going on!"
"God, Mila!" Carlos said, his eyes wide and angry. "Why do you think you're entitled to know everything?"
"Because you just showed up and basically kidnapped me out of my own house, and you won't tell me anything! So, all I can do is assume that Dad hit you. I think I deserve to know if that's what happened."
Carlos let out an exasperated growl. "Well, that's not what happened, okay?"
"Then what did happen?"
"Can't you just leave it alone? It wasn't Dad."
"No."
"Lord, you're annoying." He laced his fingers behind his head. "It was nothing. I just ... I got into it with a teammate."
"A teammate? But ... the blood—"
"The blood is from when Dad slammed his hand down onto the table, not realizing his glass was still in it, after I told him I'd lost my scholarship and position to a walk on. Okay? Are you happy now?"
A million different words formed on Camila's tongue, but the only thing that came out was a nearly inaudible squeak.
"And before you ask," Carlos continued, "no, I don't have to tell you what happened. I don't need to explain any of this to you, because Not. Everything. Is. About. You. "
"Carlos, I—"
"God, just shut up, Mila, okay? Just shut up for a second and listen. None of us have it easy when it comes to Dad. Not you. Not Me. And definitely not Mama. But if you could just get over yourself for five damn seconds ..." He ran his hand through his hair. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but Camila could still hear the anger behind it. "If you could just stop and open your eyes, you'd see that everything Mama is saying about wanting to take you with her but not having a place for you is all true. She told me a long time ago. All those times you wouldn't talk to her, all those times you thought she was screwing around on Dad and wouldn't listen when you were told differently, I listened. I heard her."
"Carlos," Camila lifted her hand to her forehead and squeezed. The effort from holding back her tears had caused a headache to form. "I can't deal with this right now, okay?"
"Well, you need to!" His voice rose again. "I get that you're hurt and that you feel betrayed, but maybe it's time you stop concentrating on yourself and start looking at what's going on around you. Maybe then you'll stop acting like everything everyone does is some kind of slight on you. Maybe you'll realize that some of this shit that you think was the worst thing that could be done was actually done to try and protect you!"
"Well, maybe if you guys were talking to me instead of trying to protect me, I wouldn't need protecting! Did you ever think of that?" The swell inside of Camila was building and building, a tsunami getting ready to crash over her and pull her under. "You know, contrary to whatever you and Mama think, and what my age says, I'm capable of rational thought. I'm smart enough and strong enough to make my own decisions. To protect myself."
Carlos leaned into her, stopping only when his face was a couple of inches from her. "Then act like it, Mila." He closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head before looking at her once more. "I'm not trying to be an asshole, but you've got to stop the blame game, all right? Mama messed up. I get it. She gets it. But so did you. So. Did. You. And I think it's time we all just ... God ... gave each other a break."
Angry tears stung her eyes once more, and Camila pressed her lips together and averted her gaze, trying to hold them back. Her chest ached and her head hurt so much from fighting her emotions, she knew she wouldn't be able to fight it much longer.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked her brother. "Why are you helping her? Why are you letting her excuses be enough?"
"Because I understand why she did it. I understand why she left."
Camila whipped her head up. "What? How could you—"
"You don't know, Mila," he interrupted, his words soft but pained. "You don't know what it's like to live under his thumb. You may think you do, you may think he's been that way with you, but he hasn't. He's mostly ignored you. Yeah, he's bugged you about your clothes and whatever, but up until recently," he gestured to her stomach, "he never told you how to live your life. He never told you what to do." Carlos settled his dark eyes on hers. "He never demanded you continue to play through the pain of a busted collarbone. He never hand-picked your school, your future, and told you that he would disown you, take away everything including any chance at any school or future if you didn't bend to his will. He never told you to take any means necessary to rid your sister of her 'problem,' and then told you to get the hell out of his house when you refused." Camila gasped, but Carlos continued. "He's always just overlooked you. And if this baby were anyone's other than Shawn Mendes's, I'm pretty sure he'd have overlooked that too. And you should be grateful he did."
"Is this supposed to make me feel better? Knowing that my father never cared what I did, that I even existed?"
"Yes," Carlos said. And he made no apologies for his answer. Not in his words. Not in his eyes. "Because if he had ... well, I hate to think about how much worse your life would have been then."
Camila stepped away from her brother, blinking against the building sting in her eyes. She couldn't process all of this. She couldn't think it through, couldn't grasp what he was saying, what they'd both been saying. It had never been a secret that her father was ... a different sort of man. He'd never been particularly loving toward her, but he'd never acted outright hateful either—not until she'd done what she'd done. But the more she thought about it, the more she knew it was true. Her father had overlooked her. And the stupid thing was, she couldn't decide which hurt more: the fact that, now that she'd gotten knocked up by his mortal enemy's son, he was acting like maybe some of this was because he cared and not just because it was Shawn, or that before now she'd never even amounted to a piece of gum stuck to his shoe.
It should have been an easy decision. She should have been able to sift through the lies to get to the truth, and, in her mind, she knew exactly which truth that was. But in her heart ... well, her heart didn't want to acknowledge either.
Carlos reached out for her, his fingers wrapping carefully around her forearm, but Camila flinched and pushed away from him, holding her hands out to ward him off. "I'm sorry, baby sis. I shouldn't have yelled. I shouldn't have gotten angry. I'm just ... I'm sorry." His eyes filled with remorse and sadness, and Camila shook her head at him.
"I can't right now. I just ... I can't." Pushing past him, she headed toward the bathrooms near the back of the station.
She heard her brother calling out to her from behind, but she didn't look back, she didn't slow. All she knew was that she could feel it coming. All the hurt, frustration, and anger she'd been pushing back was coming.
Luckily, the one-stall bathroom was unoccupied when she reached it, and she closed herself inside, ignoring the mess of paper towels, toilet paper, and water covering the floor near the toilet. She stepped up to the sink and wrapped her hands around the edge of the Formica counter. Closing her eyes, she took in several deep breaths through her mouth so as to not subject herself to the disgusting aroma permeating the filthy room. When she looked up, her reflection stared back at her from the cracked, grime-covered mirror.
She looked like crap. Like absolute crap.
Her hair was gathered into a messy ponytail, and her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Not a single ounce of the happiness she'd felt an hour earlier remained. None of the glow from being with Shawn was left in her cheeks, none of the sparkle in her eyes. There was nothing but dull, lifeless defeat etched in her features.
Everything Carlos had said about her was true. She was selfish. She was stubborn. And she hated every last inch of both of those traits. She wished she could scrub herself clean of them, to obliterate how dirty and useless they made her feel. But underneath the innocent looking freckles and cute, little upturned nose were layers and layers of venomous scum, infecting her with poison and shame. No matter how much she wanted it, she doubted she could ever be rid of it fully.
With shaking hands, Camila turned on the water in the sink, waiting a few moments for the cloudy liquid to clear, and splashed some onto her overheated face. Each drop felt like ice piercing her skin, but she continued to scoop handfuls of frigid water to her cheeks.
All she wanted was for it all to go away, for her life to be different than it was. She wished she had a better family: a mother who had stuck around and put the needs of her children first, a father who looked at her with adoring eyes and who'd given her piggyback rides through the park when she was younger, a brother who hadn't fallen victim to their father's whims and threats. She just wanted normal, and normal was what she'd never have.
After a few minutes of dousing her skin, Camila turned off the water and glanced back up at her reflection. Her eyes were still rimmed in red, her irises still dull, and her cheeks pale and lifeless, and she knew that no matter how much scrubbing and splashing she did, she would never be able to remove the evidence of how damaged she really was.
As Camila reached out for a paper towel to dry her cheeks, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Fumbling in her pants for a moment, she pulled it out, a strange stabbing pain piercing her chest when she saw his name illuminated on the screen. She took in a breath and held it.
She swiped her finger across the lock screen and held the phone up to her ear. "Hi," she said, swallowing against the tremble in her throat, so he wouldn't hear.
"Hi," Shawn said, his breath heavy in her ear. "I'm sorry I didn't call earlier, but I was out running and just got your message. What's up? Do you miss me already, baby?"
That was all it took: the gentle tenor of his voice on the other end of the line, how his words still sounded happy and intact from their afternoon together, and the way he called her "baby," how the word wrapped around her, providing her with all the tenderness and comfort in the world. But it wasn't enough. Or maybe it was just enough.
All of the cracks that had started to form inside of her grew wider, deeper, longer. She could feel herself falling, like Humpty Dumpty from his wall, and she knew that when she hit, she would shatter into a million pieces just like he had. She wanted to hang on, to be as strong as she used to be, but her fingers couldn't grasp the ledge any longer.
And down she came.
With her back against the wall beside the sink, Camila slid to the ground, one hand on the phone and the other in her hair. Her throat clenched so tight she could barely breathe, let alone get out a reply. The tears she'd been holding back spilled over her cheeks in a flood.
"Mila?" Shawn's voice, now devoid of the playfulness from moments ago, was urgent and concerned. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
She shook her head, trying to quell the anger and sadness and confusion spilling from her body long enough to speak, but she couldn't stop it. The only sound she could manage was a quiet gasp.
"You're scaring me, baby. What's going on?"
"Shawn ... I don't wanna ... Can you just ..." Camila looked up at the ceiling and blinked against the emotion threatening to drown her. "Can you just talk to me? I can't ... I need ... I need you to just talk to me." A small whine came involuntarily from her throat and she swallowed against it. "Please. Please, just talk to me."
And after a moment, after he paused, seemingly uncertain after her plea, after she assured him she wasn't hurt and wasn't in some kind of trouble, he did. He talked. He didn't ask any more questions or demand she speak in return, he just talked. And as he did, Camila closed her eyes and let it all consume her as she listened, not to his words or to the nonsense stories he was telling, but to his voice, to the lifts and dips and lulls that cocooned her. She could feel it all around: the warmth that wrapped her up and acted as a numbing salve to her pain, the care that picked up the pieces that had broken off and fit them back inside of her. Love emanated so strongly from this just-as-thoroughly-broken man-boy through the speaker of the phone that it lifted Camila's shattered humpty dumpty soul, still cracked and bleeding, but whole once more, and carefully set it back up on the wall.
____________________________________________
"Good Lord, Alex, what the hell did you put on this?" Shawn grunted with exertion as he pushed up on the bar, the metal cutting into his skin as the weight bench creaked beneath him.
"Quit whining, Sunshine, and give me three more sets. It's down twenty pounds from where you were at the end of the season."
"What did I tell you about calling me that?" Shawn lowered the bar to his chest and shoved against it once more, sweat dripping from his brow and down his temple. "Cut that shit out or I'm going to drop you on your ass. I mean it."
Alex laughed and leaned over Shawn. "No, you don't. You love it and you know it. You also know that threatening me and getting agitated about it is only going to make me want to do it more, Suuuuuuuuuunnnnshiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnne."
"You're an asshole." Shawn blew out a breath through his teeth and pushed the weights away from his body again, his arms trembling with exhaustion.
"Hey, takes a bitch to know a bitch." He flashed a wide, white smile, and Shawn wanted nothing more in that moment than to smash Alex's teeth in. Instead, he settled for unwrapping his middle finger from the bar and letting his friend know exactly what he could do with his "takes a bitch to know a bitch" bullshit.
Frustration washed over Shawn as he struggled with the weight Alex had added. It wasn't that it was too much; Shawn knew it wasn't. He'd seen every plate his friend had added, and Alex was right: Shawn wasn't lifting as much as he had before. He knew why, but there was no way in hell he was going to tell his friend that the reason he was lifting like a pansy-ass was because he hadn't slept in two nights, and the reason he hadn't slept was because of a girl. He'd never live that shit down. And today—dealing with the fact that he had to meet with Benedict again, and Camila was holed up somewhere with her mother and brother— Shawn didn't have the patience to deal with Alex's shit.
His arms felt like rubber as the cool bar touched his sternum, and even though he pushed with all of the strength he had, it stayed right there, pressing into his chest and cutting off his breath. Every ounce of blood rushed to his face and he saw stars, before the weight was miraculously lifted and he coughed out a breath.
"Damn it, Sunshine, why don't you just ask for help when you need it?"
Shawn sat up and lowered his head between his knees, breathing harshly as black spots tinged his vision. Alex's words repeated themselves inside his mind, and Shawn almost wanted to laugh at how ironic they were.
Once his head was clear, Shawn stood and walked over to where he'd set his water and picked up the bottle, chugging half of it before allowing himself another breath. Every inch of his skin prickled with anxious energy. It annoyed the hell out of him, and all he wanted was a few moments of peace. But nothing helped to calm it anymore, no matter what he did. Not running, not lifting.
Not even sex.
Not even mind-blowingly raw, uninhibited sex.
He couldn't seem to shrug past it or distract himself at all. The sense of foreboding was too strong, too in his face.
To everyone on the outside of things, they'd probably think his feelings were normal, that his nerves were completely understandable, considering he was facing possible jail time. But that wasn't it. He wasn't even thinking about that at all.
The problem was, Shawn didn't have a damn idea what it was.
All he knew was there was this feeling, this pestering, nagging feeling. Like he was focused on all the wrong things. Like there was something bigger and tougher and worse looming in front of him, and he just couldn't see it because it was too close. Too obvious.
It was driving him completely batshit crazy that he couldn't figure it out.
Alex stood several feet away, eyeing Shawn with suspicion and concern, and it pissed Shawn off. He didn't want that from anyone. He didn't want anyone feeling sorry for him. There were enough people watching him as if he were about to break, waiting for it—some relishing in the fact, and some fearing it. But what they didn't know was that he'd already broken, time and time again, over and over, until breaking was all he knew to do anymore. And he was extremely good at hiding it.
Shawn shook his head. "Don't."
Alex raised his brows. "Don't what?"
"You know what." Shawn finished the rest of the water and threw the bottle into the trashcan next to the weight bench. "Quit looking at me like you've got me all figured out. You don't."
"Maybe I don't have you all figured out, but if you'd just talk—"
"We aren't chicks. I don't want to talk."
Alex lifted a hand and cupped the back of his neck, scratching at the base of his skull. "Fine, but ... You need to talk to someone."
Shawn stopped and stared at his friend. "How do you know what I need?"
"Because it was what I needed."
Shawn frowned. "What? When?"
Alex continued to scratch at his head. "Look, dude, I don't know what it's like for you, and, honestly, I hope I never find out, but I get what it's like to feel like you have to figure shit out on your own."
Shawn looked down at the floor, not wanting to let a single emotion show in his eyes.
"You remember a couple of years ago when my sister went to stay with our grandparents?"
Shawn nodded.
"Yeah, well, I lied about that shit. She wasn't with my grandparents."
"Where was she?"
"Glenview," Alex said.
"The psychiatric center?"
Alex nodded. "She was depressed or something. Cutting herself and not eating and some other shit I don't even want to get into. But ... my point is ... I didn't say shit to anyone. Not anyone. And I think I should have, you know? I think I should have talked about it because it almost killed me not to. So, all I'm saying ..." He met Shawn's gaze. "All I'm saying is, if you need to talk ... if you want to ... I'm not going to think you're a pussy for it. Okay? I'm not going to think you're a weak-assed baby or some other bullshit. What you're going through? It's some seriously messed up shit and I'm not going to judge you if you need to get out your feelings and shit."
Shawn couldn't help but smile. "Do you realize you said 'shit' five times in that little speech?"
"Better than fuck. I'm trying to cut back. You know, to sound more sophisticated and shit for the ladies."
"Yeah? How's that working for you?"
Alex flipped Shawn off.
Shawn shook his head, his smile slowly fading from his lips. He wasn't going to open up, not yet, maybe not ever, but he did appreciate his friend's concern. "I actually really don't want to talk about it. But thanks. I'll remember the offer."
"Good." Alex nodded once. "Now let's get back to kicking your ass." He pointed to the punching bag and gloves in the corner.
"You wish you could kick my ass—" The gate buzzer rang, interrupting Shawn's response. He frowned and turned toward the doors leading to the rest of the house.
"You expecting someone? Shortcake?"
Shawn started toward the front door. "No. I'm supposed to go see her later." He made his way out into the hall, swiping the sweat off from his forehead with the back of his forearm.
When he reached the door, he pressed the call box button. "Hello?"
"Sir," a static-filled voice came through the speaker. "This is Jonah from Tri-County Movers. We're here with your truck."
Shawn frowned even deeper and looked back at Alex. His friend's brows were raised in surprise. "You moving, dude?"
He shook his head and spoke into the call box once more. "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong address."
"Isn't this," a rustling noise came through the speaker, then the voice again, "twenty-five, fifteen West Walnut Grove?"
"Yeah."
"And are you Mr. Mendes?"
"Yes, but—"
"Well, we have an order to bring a moving truck to twenty-five, fifteen West Walnut Grove, signed by a Mr. Roy Mendes, to pack up and move several specific rooms: the west study, the master bedroom, the downstairs library, the den, the—"
"Wait," Shawn said. "Just wait ... my father sent you to pack up his stuff? Why would he do that? He's just in Tampa for business. I don't—"
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know. All I know is that we've been sent to do this. Could you please open the gate so we can do our job?"
"Hold on." Shawn stepped away from the speaker and shoved his hand into his hair. He didn't understand what was going on. His father was away on business. Yes, he'd taken more and more trips lately, making it so that he was hardly ever home, but this wasn't so strange for the off-season. His father had always been a career driven man. Always.
"What the hell, dude?" Alex's voice broke into Shawn's thoughts.
Shawn held his hands up. "I don't know. But I'm going to find out." Striding into the kitchen, Shawn snatched his phone from the counter and found his father's name on his contact's list. It only took two rings before his father picked up.
"What is it, Shawn?"
Shawn bit down on his lip to keep himself from saying something rude to his father's annoyed tone. "There are some guys here, claiming you hired them to pack up your stuff."
"Oh, yes. Let them in." His voice was so nonchalant, so flippant, it was as if this didn't mean anything to him. As if it were just as though Shawn was telling him the paperboy was there to collect.
"What the hell, Dad?"
"What do you mean, 'What the hell?', Shawn?"
"I mean, what the hell? You're moving out?"
"I wasn't aware you wanted me to stay."
Shawn pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen. After a moment, he placed the receiver back to his head. "I wasn't aware you wanted to go."
His father sighed on the other end. "Who are we trying to fool, Shawn? This isn't working. I think it's time we went our separate ways."
Shawn blinked. "You're breaking up with me? Are you seriously breaking up with me?" He gripped his phone hard, the glass and metal digging into his palm. "You can't break up with me, I'm your kid!"
A loud crash sounded behind him, and Shawn whirled around, finding Alex bent over a broken fruit bowl on the floor. Glass littered the tile, glints of light reflecting off the scattered pieces. Alex glanced up and mouthed "Sorry," to Shawn, then turned back to the mess in front of him. Heat rushed up Shawn's neck and flooded his face. He'd completely forgotten his friend was there, and now Alex had heard everything. Now he knew for certain how screwed up Shawn's life was, how everyone left him. How he was nothing more than a piece of shit the fathers in his life seemed so intent to throw away.
Distractedly, he turned away when he heard his father's voice on the other end of the line.
"We've already had this discussion. I'm not your father; I never have been. Sure, I married your mother, and sure, I acted the part, but that's all it was: a part. I tried to live up to it; I tried to do right by you and your mom but we both know I'm not cut out for this. I'm not cut out to be anyone's father."
Shawn's heart beat harder in his chest. "But ... you're all I have left."
And then Shawn was a little pale-headed kid again, his face turned up to the man he called his father, asking him, begging him, to come play. Begging him to love him. Just a little bit. Just for a little while. And just like then, when his father glanced down at him, his eyes so void, so empty, his father answered:
"I need to go, Shawn."
"But ... Dad—"
"Goodbye, son."
"Dad—"
Shawn physically jerked when all he met was silence, and then his phone beeped in his ear, telling him the call had ended. He closed his eyes and squeezed his phone even harder. His chest was tight and growing tighter by the second.
"So ..." Alex said, his voice quiet and unsure.
Shawn didn't bother to turn around. He knew if he did, not only would Alex have heard that mortifying conversation but also would have seen how red Shawn's face had become. "Sorry you had to hear that." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Listen, uh ... you don't have to hang out here. I'm not ..." Shawn drew in a breath and let it out slowly, willing the clenching in his chest to loosen. "I'm not really in the mood to work out anymore."
Without looking in his friend's direction, Shawn started for the stairs. The anxious energy that had been there before magnified. There was a buzz radiating through him that did not bode well for anyone or anything that crossed his path, and he did not want that thing to be his best friend.
"Well, do you still feel like hitting some shit?"
Shawn froze on the bottom step and turned back to Alex. "What?"
Alex shifted from one foot to the other, his discomfort evident in the stiff way he held himself. This was just as hard for him as it was for Shawn. Guys didn't do this kind of thing. They didn't comfort each other. Yet, it seemed like that was exactly what Alex was trying to do, in his own way. Shawn didn't know whether to tell him to get the hell out or to let him continue to try. There was no entry for this situation in the Guide To Being A Man book.
"It's just ... I don't really know what happened there—I mean, I can guess from the part I heard, but ... I'm assuming you still don't want to talk, because we're guys and guys don't really talk about feelings and shit. But, I mean, we can if you want ..."
"Alex." Shawn sighed and rubbed his head, an ache in his temple making him want to close his eyes. "I don't really want—"
"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Alex said. "I just thought ... if it were me ... I mean, I think maybe I'd want to hit some shit, you know? I'm not even pissed off at anyone and I still kind of want to hit some shit."
As bad as Shawn felt in that moment, he couldn't help the way the corners of his mouth curled upward. "Hit some shit?"
"Yeah, you know." Alex shrugged, but his eyes stayed on the floor in front of him. "Shit hitting relieves stress and whatever."
Shawn smiled wider. "Yeah, all right. Hitting shit sounds good."
At that, Alex glanced up, his eyes narrowing. "You making fun of my shit hitting therapy, asshole?"
Shawn couldn't hold back his laugh any longer. "Of course not. Hitting shit is totally the shit."
Alex smiled in return. "You're a serious douche. I'm trying to be all sensitive and shit, and you're laughing."
Shawn cracked up even harder and came back down the stairs. "Thanks, man."
Alex shrugged. "Don't mention it." He paused. "You know, I meant it when I said we could talk—"
"Yeah, that's enough now," Shawn said, as he pushed past Alex and moved toward the door leading into the gym.
"Oh, thank God," Alex said, the relief evident in his voice. "But ... what about the movers?"
Shawn stopped and glanced over his shoulder toward the door. A cold shiver of insolence moved over him. This was his house now, had technically always been his house, but he'd be damned if he let his father or his hired help have the run of it now. Roy wanted nothing to do with him? Fine, he didn't have to. But if he couldn't even be a man about it, he wasn't getting any of his stuff either.
"If Roy wants any of his shit, he can come here and ask me for it himself."
____________________________________________
Camila was going insane. It had only been twelve hours since her mother and brother had stolen her away, and already she needed a break. From them. From this place. From everything.
Ever since they'd arrived, her mother had been following her around like a puppy, worrying over every one of Camila's groans and winces. It would have been bad enough had Camila not still been untrusting of her mother's actions, but with that, it was almost too much to bear, and it was taking all of Camila's strength not to scream at her again. Carlos, well, he'd always been a little on the moody side, but this was ridiculous. Neither Camila nor their mother could even talk to him without pretty much getting their heads bitten off. Everyone was uncomfortable and on edge, and Camila didn't see it getting better any time soon.
Stepping out onto the front porch, she lifted her face to peer up at the thick gray clouds that hid the morning sun. She closed her eyes and tried to find her happy place: Shawn's bed the day before, his voice on the phone as she sat huddled on the floor of a dirty gas station bathroom and again later that night when she'd arrived here. It worked somewhat, but not enough to loosen the ever-present knot in her stomach.
Opening her eyes, Camila crossed to the front of the porch and placed her hands on the railing, careful not to slide them across it in order to avoid the rough, protruding slivers of wood and peeling paint from becoming stuck in her flesh. After she made sure her grip wouldn't slip, she leaned into the rail, groaning when the shift took some of the weight off from her back and feet. Her body ached everywhere. Some of the pain, Camila knew, was from the tension and worry she'd harbored all night long, but most of it was her normal, everyday pregnancy stuff, her muscles and bones still refusing to acclimate to carrying the baby's extra weight. She reached back and pressed one of her fists into a particularly sore spot in her lower back and glanced back out at the yard as she rubbed small circles into her spine. Other than the movement of brown, dried up leaves and tufts of dead grass in the wind, everything was silent and still.
Everything but Camila's mind. There was nothing silent about the storm raging in there.
A loud, slow creak drew Camila's attention to the other end of the porch. Her eyes settled on an old wooden swing that hung from rusted chains attached to hooks in the overhanging roof. It moved gently in the breeze, the creak repeating every time it came forward. Moving carefully across the worn floorboards, Camila stopped in front of it, and then sat slowly. The swing groaned under her weight.
She bit her lip as the now familiar feeling of shame crept up into her cheeks. Deep down, she knew it was mostly because the swing was old and unused, but the inconveniently self-conscious part of her was reminded once again about how much heavier she was now than she had been six months ago. Fifteen pounds, to be exact. The heaviest she'd been in her entire life. She was trying very hard not to dwell on her looks or the changes to her body anymore, but what could she say? Old habits.
Rolling her eyes at herself, she fanned a hand in front of her face as a flash of heat consumed her. Apparently, hot flashes were not just for old ladies anymore. A chilly breeze brushed through the slats of the covered porch and hit her sweaty flesh. Camila sighed in relief and laid her head against the back of the seat as beads of sweat rolled down her temple.
God, being pregnant was really kind of gross. And annoying.
Camila blew out a slow puff of air as the heat started to fade and focused back on the foreign landscape around her.
All her life, Camila had been surrounded by other homes, cars, people. Tree-lined streets, fire hydrants on the corner, neighbors walking their dogs, and her best friend's house just across the road. It was noisy and full of life, of other people. Those were the things she was used to. Not this. Not the barrenness of harvested fields and dirt.
Lots and lots of dirt.
Of all the things she'd expected to change in her life—her body, her friends, her priorities—this wasn't one of them. She'd never even considered what it would be like to move away from all that was familiar and ... home.
She thought back to the night before, after she'd first arrived at their destination and had set her eyes upon her new life. It wasn't anything close to what she'd pictured. She'd been sure her mother was going to take her to some sort of apartment or condo in a town or city somewhere. But this was out in the middle of nowhere, with no traffic or neighbors anywhere.
"Well," her mother had said, stepping up next to her and staring up at the seemingly dilapidated house. "What do you think?"
Camila couldn't speak as her gaze traveled over the old farmhouse, with its peeling white paint and huge covered porch on the front. Massive, overgrown oak trees grew out of the ground, their branches spanning the entire yard and creating a canopy that was sure to drown out any sunlight. Broken branches, dead leaves, and exposed roots littered the ground around it, and a rusted silo sat near the back of the property, tucked behind a faded red barn.
"I know it doesn't look like much on the outside, but the inside is really fantastic. I think we can make something out of it. Something good." Her mother paused and her voice dropped. "Just give it a chance, okay? All I'm asking for is a chance."
Camila knew, somehow, that her mother didn't just mean a chance for the house. But she didn't know what to think or how to feel about anything anymore. And she definitely didn't know if she had any chances left in her to give. And so she hadn't said anything. In fact, she didn't say anything to her mother or Carlos for the rest of the night. She'd just allowed them to direct her inside, give her the grand tour, and then disappeared into "her" room, where she'd promptly shut them out and called Shawn back to give him the skinny on everything.
She'd expected him to be upset that she'd gone, that he'd agree with her about how stupid this "bullshit" was, and then he'd promise to come and get her. But, to her surprise, he hadn't reacted that way at all.
"I think this could be good, Mila," Shawn had said. "I'm actually kind of relieved."
"What? Why?" Camila said, sitting up against the headboard of her new bed. The room smelled of damp wood and cleanser and looked like something out of Little House on the Prairie with its exposed wood, antique furniture, and yellowed curtains. "You're glad I left town?"
"No, that's not what I meant. I just ..." Shawn trailed off, his voice lowering with a sigh. "I'm just glad you're not there with him anymore. It killed me having to drop you off there last night. I know he's your father, but I don't trust him with you."
"I don't trust her any more than him."
"She's got to be the better option, baby."
"But I don't want to be with her." Camila closed her eyes. "I want to go back to this afternoon, when we were together. When I felt ... happy. Safe. When everything was good and like ... like it could all be okay. Now it all feels bad again. I just want it to be good."
"I know. You don't know how badly I want that too. But ... we can't have that right now. If we could, I would do anything to give it to you." He paused. "But maybe give it a chance, okay? Give her a chance."
"Why should I? She left me, Shawn. She left me all alone. I can't just ..."
"Yes, you can. You can, " he said. "Yeah, she messed shit up, but she came back. She came back for you, and now she wants to do right by you. Not everyone gets that, and you shouldn't ignore the possibility of getting your family back just because you're pissed off. I get it, I do ... But if I had the chance to do that ... to go back in time and make my mom happy and grow up with my real dad wanting me ... I would take it."
"You would?"
"Yeah, I would."
"What if your real dad decides he wants you now?" Camila lay down and snuggled into her blankets, her head hurting with all the thoughts circling through it. "Would you take that now?"
Shawn was silent for a few moments. "I don't know. But I think about it all the time. What it would have been like to know him all my life. What it would be like if I decided to let him know me now. But I still just ... don't know."
A lump formed in Camila's throat and she tried to swallow past it. Their situations were not the same—similar, but not the same. She was being stupid, stubborn, and selfish, whereas he was dealing with a man he'd never even known, with feelings she couldn't possibly even touch; she knew that. But she couldn't help how she felt any more than he could, couldn't stop her soul from remembering all the hurt and disappointment she'd felt from her mother over the past several months. She wanted it all to just go away. Her mom, her feelings, this choice. All of it.
"I wish you were here," she said. "I miss you. Which is stupid, since I just saw you a couple of hours ago, but I still miss you."
Shawn's voice was quiet when he replied, "I can be there in thirty minutes if you need me to. Just say the word."
She almost said it. She almost caved and asked him to come now, because just the thought of his arms around her, of his legs tangled with hers, of his breath against her neck, made her feel safer and steadier than anything else. With him she had never been stronger. There was something about them together that made them invincible, as if it didn't matter what anyone threw at them, they could overcome it. But apart ... Camila didn't know if she was strong enough, if she had enough guts to forgive and forget. Having Shawn there, holding his hand, may have given her just what she needed to entertain the possibility, to look her mother in the eye and open herself up. But then she remembered about Shawn's meeting with Benedict the next day, and she couldn't ask him. She couldn't put her selfish needs above his. "No. I'll be okay. I just need to get over myself," she said, wondering if she was telling him a lie. "You have a big day tomorrow. You need your rest."
"I don't need anything but you."
Camila fought hard against the tremble in her voice. "Goodnight, Shawn."
"Goodnight, baby."
Camila leaned back in the swing and let Shawn's words ruminate in her mind once more. Was this a second chance at having her family back? Would she be stupid and stubborn to waste it? Or was it just another way for karma to screw with her?
Her emotions concerning her mother and brother were torn. On one hand, she wanted the relationships she'd had with them back, but on the other, she didn't trust either of them to be there when she needed them. She was still too angry, too hurt. Sometimes she wondered if those feelings would ever pass, or if she even wanted them to. There was power in anger, in hurt. To give that up, to let her family back in, was relinquishing the tiny hold she had left over her life. And because of that, she wasn't willing to let that go. At least she hadn't been.
Camila didn't know how long she'd sat there, letting the cool breeze wash over her and her thoughts tumble around and around inside her head, before she heard the door to the house open. Glancing over, she watched as her mother stepped out onto the porch, her red hair whipping around her face in the wind, a concerned expression transforming her features.
A pang tightened in Camila's throat.
It always struck her so hard, the first few moments she caught sight of her mother. It was like seeing an older, wiser ghost of herself, standing there in front of her. A ghost she couldn't speak to or touch, because for so long the ghost had been nothing more than an apparition made from her own mind.
Camila wanted so badly for her mother to be more than that, more than just a whisper of hope in the dark. But she couldn't trust that she was; she couldn't trust that she'd stay.
After a few moments, Camila's mother turned, and when she saw Camila, the concern was replaced with relief. The lines around her eyes smoothed, and her mouth curved into a small smile.
It hurt to even look at her.
"There you are," she said, closing the door behind her and wrapping her arms around her waist, a shiver making her tremble in the chill. "I was worried when I couldn't find you."
Camila huffed and glanced back out at the field. The wind had picked up and was now carrying swirls of dirt and leftover snow through the air. "Where else would I go? It's not like I'm not practically your prisoner here."
Apparently, bitterness won again.
Her mother sighed and sat down beside her. "Are you cold? You have to be cold. I brought a blanket, just in case." In her hand she held a quilt similar to the one on Camila's bed, but instead of the blues and purples, this was green and yellow.
"No. I'm hot."
"Ah. So you've hit the hot flashes stage. I remember that." Her mother laughed. "I remember this one time when I was pregnant for Carlos—" She cut off when she saw Camila's look. Clearing her throat, she turned to watch what Camila was watching. "I know it doesn't seem like much, but I thought it would be nice for you to get away from ... everything."
"Who said I wanted to get away?"
Camila fought not to wince at her own words. She knew how they sounded and how they felt as they left her throat, like a set of razor blades against her flesh. But she couldn't seem to stop herself. It was as if every time her mother came around, this monstrous bitch rose up inside of her and took over.
"You couldn't have been happy, living there under those circumstances. It ... it wasn't good for you or the baby."
"And this is?" Camila finally turned and met her mother's gaze. Green, and so like her own. "Is being here with you any better?" She rose from the bench and walked over to the railing, placing her hands on top and leaning into it.
A few moments later, the swing creaked, and her mother moved up beside her. "I'd like it to be. I'd really like it to be." She reached over and brushed an errant strand of Camila's hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Camila didn't move to stop her. As much as she wanted to remain strong and stubborn, there was a part of her that would always crave her mother's touch. "I want to make it up to you. I want to at least try. Would you please let me try?"
Camila looked up into her mother's eyes and saw the pleading there. She opened her mouth to answer, to deny her, but gasped instead when the baby leveled a sharp kick to the bottom of her ribs. Her hand flew up and pressed against the spot, her breaths coming in short pants as she tried to breathe through the pain.
"Camila?" her mother said, alarm lacing her tone. "Are you all right?"
She nodded and tipped her head back, closing her eyes and continuing to breathe. "He likes to kick this one spot."
Her mother was silent for a moment, and Camila opened her lids to look at her. A deep crease cut through the skin between her eyes. "Could I ... could I show you something?"
Camila frowned, and her body tensed. "Like what?"
"Just something that might help."
Camila swallowed her discomfort and nodded reluctantly. "Okay."
Her mother moved toward her slowly, her arm outstretched and tentative, as if Camila were a scared cat. "I need to touch you, okay?"
Camila nodded again, and then her mother was behind her, her hands on Camila's stomach, one at the bottom and one over Camila's own on the top. Camila's entire body locked up, but her mother ignored it.
"Spread your legs a little and rock."
Camila turned her head and frowned. "What?"
"Stand with your legs a little apart. About a foot. And then sway side-to-side slowly."
Camila stared at her mother for a moment as if she had two heads, then shook her head in disbelief. "Okay." She parted her legs and started to sway. Her mother swayed with her. It was uncomfortable, and Camila fought against the instinct to pull away.
As they moved, Camila's mother pressed her fingers into Camila's flesh and kneaded softly. Slowly, one by one, her muscles started to relax, and she leaned back into her mother's body. She was warm and familiar and, for some reason, the realization of that made Camila's throat tighten.
MJ kicked a few more times, but they were less intense and seemed to be a bit further down.
"Your brother liked to lodge his foot up under my ribs when I was about this far along." Her mother's voice was quiet, soothing. "There were times I thought he was trying to break through them. I used to rock and rub just like this, and it always helped."
Camila didn't say anything in return, but she didn't stop letting her mother help her either. As angry as she still was, this was one thing she'd craved: her mother helping her through this stuff, teaching her what it was like to be pregnant and to have a child. To show her what she was supposed to do to be a mother herself. Because, for as crappy as her mother had been in the last several months, before that she'd been the best.
"The rocking helps lull them to sleep, and the massaging encourages them to move. They like to feel you touching them, so they'll seek out your hand, your warmth." She took Camila's hand and moved it down from the top of her stomach and around to the side, using her fingers to push into her flesh. After a few moments, she felt MJ thump against her there. "See?" her mother said, her voice tight and shaky. "He looks for you."
Camila's throat clenched more, and she nodded. "Yeah."
They continued for a few minutes more, no words, no sound passing between them. It was just them and the rocking and kneading and the wind and MJ's softening kicks. And for the first time in a long time, Camila felt that connection to her mother again. The one that had been missing for what seemed like forever. It wasn't whole and it wasn't untainted, but there was a spark of it there.
The ice around Camila's heart started to soften, and she could feel herself wanting it to melt away completely. But the feeling didn't last long enough to accomplish much, as the sound of tire on gravel brought her attention to a car pulling up the driveway. It wasn't a familiar vehicle.
Camila dropped her hands and moved away, her mother's falling to her side. They watched as the car came to a stop, and a dark-headed male stepped out into the wind. For a second, Camila's pulse skipped in excited anticipation, but then steadied when she realized it wasn't the brunette her heart wanted. Though he looked a lot like him.
Benedict started toward the porch, his hands thrust into his pockets and his head down. He looked so much like Shawn in that moment, that it almost stole Camila's breath. When he reached the steps, he paused and glanced up at Camila and her mother.
"Benedict?" her mother said, moving toward him. "What are you doing here?"
His eyes flicked from her mother to Camila, and he cleared his throat. "I was wondering if I might have a word with your daughter."
"My ..." Her mother's eyes darted from his face to Camila's. "Mila?"
"Yes, ma'am. If I may."
Surprise rippled through Camila, and she moved toward the stairs. "Me? Why? Is it Shawn? Is something wrong?"
Benedict shook his head. "No. Nothing's wrong, but I ... Well, it does concern Shawn, but not in that way." He looked away, his face contorting into an uncomfortably nervous expression. Just seeing him that way made Camila anxious as well. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't be here. I know he wouldn't want me to be here ..."
Camila's mom glanced over at her, worry evident in the lines of her face.
Camila blinked and moved forward. "What's going on?" she asked, when she stood at the edge of the stairs, looking down at Shawn's biological father.
He glanced up, his eyes completely different from his son's but everything else was the same. Even the broken expression he leveled at her. "I know Shawn doesn't want me around. I know it. But I ... I can't just watch from the sidelines while this happens to him. I can't." He drew in a breath and tugged at the unruly strands of his hair. Camila's chest clenched at another similarity between him and his son. "I want ... no, I need to get him out of this. I need to give him the chance to be the father he wants to be." His eyes darted to Camila's stomach, and her cheeks burned at his perusal. "He deserves that much from me." His gaze met Camila's once more, their blue boring into her dark brown. "But I know how precarious these cases can be. There is so much left up to interpretation and discretion in regards to the judge. I know what he's up against, and I just want to give him the absolute best shot I can."
"What do you mean?" she asked. "And what does talking to me help with that?"
His gaze moved back and forth between her eyes, as if he were looking for something there. "There's something I need you to do."
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Hello lovelies.
Yes, I've returned to finish this once and for all. Till then, much love.
xoxo
Bloomsbelle.