Help me,
it's like the walls are caving in
Sometimes I feel like giving up
No medicine is strong enough
Someone help me
I'm crawling in my skin
Sometimes I feel like giving up
But I just can't
It isn't in my blood.
____________________________________________
Shawn was early. He glanced down at the glowing green numbers on the radio in his dash.
10:47 A.M.
Blowing out a breath, he looked up at the grimy windows to Nana's diner, watching as the shadows from the breakfast rush moved behind the glass.
Lord, he was really early.
Shawn scratched at the back of his neck and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The parking lot was full, as usual, and there still seemed to be cars pulling in and looking for a spot.
He shouldn't have been there. God, what the hell was he doing there?
The meeting with Benedict was not supposed to be until noon, yet here he was at 10:47 A.M., staring up at the place like he was lost. Tires crunched through the gravel as several vehicles drove up and down the lanes. Shawn didn't have a God-damn clue what he was doing. He hadn't come to eat, he knew that much, as his stomach roiled uncomfortably at the thought of food.
A horn blared behind him, and Shawn jumped, his eyes catching sight of the other driver giving him the "are-you-going-to-move-douchebag?" look. Shawn cut the engine and the car moved on, probably cursing what an asshole he was, but Shawn didn't care. He didn't care about shit at the moment. The only things he could seem to focus on was the question of why the hell he was there so early, and how damn glad he was to be out of his house. It reeked in there. It reeked of abandonment and loss, and Shawn was sick and tired of smelling it.
He was sick and tired of being the cause of the stench.
Even after beating the shit out of a punching bag and then sparring with Alex for twenty minutes, Shawn still felt the anger and hurt coursing through his veins. It was as if it had become a permanent entity, a part of who he now was. And damn it all to hell, he didn't want it to be. He didn't want to be this bitter. This damaged.
Shawn curled his hand into a fist and banged it against the wheel a few times. God, he was so sick of this shit. Of thinking like this. Of feeling like this. His whole life his father had hammered into his head how men were not emotional, how they did not show vulnerability, but all Shawn seemed to do anymore was feel.
Feel angry.
Feel scared.
Feel lonely.
Feel weak.
Shawn had never been weak before. He'd never been this pathetic. Deep down, he knew this. But ever since this whole thing started, those were the only things he could be anymore.
Shawn's father was an asshole. But that asshole was the only example of a man Shawn had ever had. And as a man, Roy had never, ever shown an ounce of fear, of hurt. He was always an immovable rock—something Shawn had once thought was a strength.
Now, he didn't know what the hell to think.
Somehow, Shawn knew it wasn't quite right, that Roy had never really been right about the shit he'd spouted to him. But how was Shawn supposed unlearn the lessons he'd been taught? How could he think any differently? How could Shawn be anything other than the man Roy had raised him to be?
And how could he raise his own son to be any different, when this was all he knew?
The thought struck him so hard, it was like a punch to the stomach.
He didn't want his son to grow up like he had, without a real father, or with a father who made him feel the way Shawn had, like he was a disappointment, like he was a burden. But what if that's all Shawn could do? What if that was all he could be? Shawn felt sick, his stomach knotting up inside of him.
He couldn't do this. How the hell could he do this?
MJ wasn't even there yet, and Shawn was already failing him. That feeling, on top of everything else, was almost more than Shawn could bear. He could deal with people failing him, of disappointing him, because, in the end, they could only hurt him as much as he let them. But his son ... he couldn't stand the thought of being a source of any embarrassment or pain to his son. But how could he be anything else?
He had lost everything: his family, his scholarships, his football career, his reputation. Everything. What kind of example could he be?
Shawn lowered his head to the steering wheel and closed his eyes, breathing slowly in and out as his heart pounded against his chest. The hard ridges of the stitching of the wheel pressed uncomfortably into his forehead.
"Stop," he said to himself. "Just stop." He pressed a little harder and pain throbbed above his brow. He was feeling sorry for himself. He'd been feeling sorry for himself for a long time now. "Stop being such an asshole," he scolded. "You're not like him. You won't be like him. You won't be like either of them."
Shawn needed to stop the relentless negative thoughts overtaking his mind. None of this would help him. None of this would help any of them. What he needed, what Camila needed, what MJ needed was for Shawn to be a man, for him to pull his head out of his ass and act like he was strong enough to take this, even if, inside, he felt as helpless as a child. Even if the pieces of him that used to be confident, used to be strong, were slowly eroding away as this storm continued to rage over him.
He could rise above.
He would rise above.
He had to, because they were counting on him.
Drawing in another steadying breath, Shawn lifted his head and peered out at Nana's diner, realizing instantly that he'd been going about this the hard way this whole time. It didn't need to be this tough, and he didn't need to be this alone.
A sense of determination washed over him. This life wasn't just about him anymore. It was about all three of them, and as much as he knew Camila was on his side, he needed to prove to her that he could survive for her. For all of them. He told her he'd fight and, damn it, he was going to fight, not just her father, not just the legal issues looming ahead of him, but himself too.
Without him telling it to, Shawn's hand reached out and pushed open the car door. His feet, also working of their own accord, stepped outside onto the gravel lot. His heart pounded in even thuds, and nervousness laced the blood pumping through his veins.
He should not be there, he thought to himself. And then, shut the hell up and just do it.
Somewhere inside of him, some thing inside of him, wanted to be there, needed to be there.
Shawn thought back to the last time he'd come, to the way Nana had looked at him, to the way she'd touched him, the things she'd told him. And he knew exactly why he was there.
Moving faster toward the entrance, Shawn let himself ponder the revelation. This morning, as his father had told him without remorse how he was no longer interested in Shawn's life, Shawn had thought he was alone, that he had no one. But that wasn't true.
There was someone here who wanted him in her life, someone who had told him as much and was just waiting for him to say yes.
As Shawn's hand curled around the handle to the door, he decided that he wanted more than anything to say yes. He was so tired of being alone, of feeling so utterly and completely solitary. And he knew that the only person he had to blame was himself. He hadn't wanted to let anyone in, to let anyone have the opportunity to leave him again. So when they asked, he pushed them away. Again and again, over and over. But he also knew that the only person that could stop the cycle from repeating itself for the rest of his life was him.
All it would take was this one step.
This one decision.
This one person.
This one.
Pulling against the handle, the door whooshed open, bringing with it the cacophony of happy voices and the clanking of silverware against dishes. The scent of apples and cinnamon and grease permeated every single inch, and Shawn didn't think he'd ever smelled anything better, anything—besides Camila—that made him feel so ... at home.
Stepping inside, he let the door close behind him, the little bell over top tinkling above the roar inside, and searched for the familiar gray head. Shawn stopped near the center of the entryway as he scanned the room. A sharp pain radiated up his elbow as a busboy came hurtling around a nearby table, his tub piled high with dirty dishes, and ran right into Shawn.
"Shit!" the boy said as a tower of plates tumbled to the ground, the sound of shattering glass echoing throughout the space. The roar quieted immediately as every eye turned toward them.
Shawn knelt beside the boy as he frantically tried to scoop up the broken shards spread across the tile floor. "Sorry, dude. I shouldn't have been standing there like an asshole. Let me help." He reached out to grab several of the broken pieces, but the boy shook his head.
"No, it's okay. It was my fault. I shouldn't have let it get so high." He glanced up at Shawn, and his face paled. "Shit," he whispered to himself.
Shawn frowned and started to ask what was wrong, when the boy bolted up with his tub full of dishes and hightailed it back to the kitchen area. Confused, Shawn stood and lifted his hand to his hair, scratching nervously at the back of his neck. Was it something he'd said?
The silence in the room had started to retreat, the emptiness slowly filling once again with voices and the irritating sound of metal scraping against glass. Shawn turned once more, his gaze sweeping over all the heads bent for conversation and food, when he found her. His eyes stopped on her gray head and their stares locked. Nana's mouth curved into a smile.
Shawn returned the gesture, warmth spreading through his chest at the sight of her. It was still there when she looked at him, that feeling of being wanted, of being cared for. He started forward, and she did the same, turning her back to the booth she'd been standing in front of. But when she did, something caught Shawn's vision that made him freeze in place. His chest tightened and his heart skipped a few beats.
Nana stood there for a few seconds, staring at Shawn with a look of confusion, and then, as if a light bulb had gone off in her mind, her expression changed. Her eyes went cautious, and, if Shawn weren't mistaken, a little bit sympathetic. She held his gaze for several moments, the look stern but comforting, before turning away from him and back to the booth. When she did, the entire line of sight to what Shawn was sure he'd seen, opened up before him.
Sitting in the booth behind Nana, holding a small kid-sized football in his still slightly-chubby hand, was a boy who, with his mess of curly dark brunette hair, small, straight nose, and full mouth, looked a hell of a lot like Shawn when he was a kid.
Shawn could not tear his stare away. He watched, unblinking, as the boy tossed the ball up in the air a few times, catching it each time in his hands, until the sandy-haired woman across from him reached out and took it from him, while shaking her head. The boy's brows pulled down and his lower lip jutted out as he crossed his arms over his chest in a classic pout.
Shawn could hear his heart pounding in his ears, could feel the blood as it rushed through his veins. He swallowed, trying to get a grip on himself, when the boy looked up. And it was like, in that moment, that something just clicked inside of Shawn. A need he'd never known he'd had. A longing.
Everything in the room disappeared. There were no other people, no more sound, no more smells, it was just him and the boy. A boy Shawn had seen in the small-framed photo in Benedict's office.
He knew exactly who this boy was to Benedict. And he knew exactly what that made the boy to him.
____________________________________________
Hideous faded-yellow roses stared out from the wallpapered walls of the kitchen as Camila tipped her head back and guzzled a glass of water. Each gulp burned colder and colder as it flowed down her throat but did nothing for the heat radiating from her face and neck. The hot flashes were worse than they had been earlier, and she felt like she was boiling alive inside her skin.
Camila swallowed the last drop and lowered the glass, her hands shaking as the bottom clinked against the counter. She felt like crap, not just physically but emotionally too. Her head pounded with pain and all of the thoughts bombarding her from every angle. It was getting to be too much: her parental situation, school, pregnancy, the lawsuit. She couldn't think, let alone sleep. And the last several nights were really starting to catch up to her. If she lay down, she was certain she'd sleep for a week. And God, did she ever want to sleep.
But she couldn't sleep. Not yet. Benedict was awaiting her answer, her agreement. She already knew what she was going to say, but she just needed a moment to collect herself, to calm the raging heat coursing through her, to rest her mind, even if only for a moment, and ease the relenting ache residing there.
Camila lifted her hand and had just started to rub her forehead when the door to the kitchen swung open and Carlos entered. The murmured voices of her mother and Benedict, barely discernible before, drifted through from the front room. But Camila heard enough to know they were still in disagreement over letting her do what Benedict had requested.
"She's only seventeen, Benedict. She doesn't need anything more to worry about," her mother said.
"I know that, Sandra, but if this goes to trial, she may be the thing that swings the vote in our favor. I know it traditionally wouldn't, but in this case ..."
"I know. But I just—"
The door swung shut, effectively drowning out the voices again. Camila blinked and shifted her stare toward her brother. Carlos's brows were drawn together and the corners of his mouth were pulled down into a frown.
"What?" Camila asked, returning his expression.
"You look like hell."
Turning around fully, she leaned up against the lip of the counter and rolled her eyes. "Thanks. Way to make the pregnant chick feel better."
Carlos shook his head and moved across the room toward her. Camila stiffened as he neared. An instinct she really wished she hadn't developed.
"No. That's not what I meant. You look sick. Are you okay?"
Camila closed her eyes and started to rub her head once more. "I just have a headache, that's all."
"A headache, huh?"
Camila felt the air beside her move, and then the warmth of her brother pressed against her arm. She opened her eyes and stared up at him. His brows were still pulled together, the black of his irises laced with concern.
She nodded. "Yeah. I've had one for a couple of days now. Probably from sleeping like crap."
"Among other things," Carlos said and glanced toward the door leading to some of those "other things."
Camila shrugged, and the silence between them grew thick and uncomfortable. There were so many things unsaid, so many things she wanted to ask and know and understand, but for the first time, Camila felt like she couldn't talk to her brother. Not like she wanted to. Not like she used to. But she didn't move to leave. Just standing there gave her a sense of closeness she hadn't felt from him in a while, and for the moment it was enough.
After a minute or two, Carlos cleared his throat and shifted beside her. "So," he said. "Are you gonna do it?"
Camila glanced up at him and frowned. "Do what?"
Carlos stared down at his feet, his hair hanging over his forehead and covering his brows. "What he asked you to do."
"Oh," Camila looked away from her brother and stared at the swaying trees outside the sliding glass door across from them. "Of course."
"Of course?"
"Yeah." Camila glanced back and was met once again with dark, worried eyes. "Why wouldn't I? It's just a letter."
"It's just a—Lord, Camila." Carlos thrust his hand into his hair and stepped away.
"What?"
"What do you mean 'what'? Did you listen to anything Benedict said? If you agree to do this, you're opening yourself up to having to go in and testify if there's a trial. The DA is not going to ask you to because your pregnancy is proof enough that he was with you. Why would you want to put yourself through possibly having to sit up there and be ripped apart when you don't have to?"
Camila stared back at her brother, not showing him an ounce of fear or regret, even though she felt it throbbing through her. "Yeah, I do, Carlos. I do have to."
"No, you—"
Camila held up her hand and saw the moment her brother noticed how it shook. "This is my fault as much as it is his. He's in this situation because of something we did together. Something private that no one should know anything about but us. But things didn't work out that way." She waved her hand in front of her stomach. "Now everyone knows, and everyone has made that one night their business. And everyone is taking it completely out on him."
"Because you were under the age of consent."
"Barely! And he was a minor too."
"Barely!" Carlos echoed. "And you can't even prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt."
"Maybe not," Camila said. "But neither can they."
Carlos scrubbed his hands over his face. "I just don't want to see you hurt anymore, okay? I don't want you to have to stand up there in front of a judge and lawyers and media and talk about what you did that night. Do you have any idea what it's like to watch you go through this? To see all the ways it's ruining you? It's not like I hate Shawn or anything, but I ... You're my priority, okay? You're the one I care about. I don't like seeing what this is doing to you. You don't deserve this."
"Neither does he, Carlos," Camila said, her voice quiet. Her head pounded harder and her throat ached, and she wanted nothing more than to lie down, but she needed her brother to understand. "You know, I could understand if Shawn had been, like, thirty, or even twenty-five or something. Or if he'd forced me. But he didn't and he's not. It was completely consensual—even through the drunken haze, I can remember that. And he's young too. Even if he'd been eighteen at the time, it still wouldn't feel fair to me, because none of it was malicious. We weren't thinking we were doing something this wrong." She quieted even further. "And I need him, J. I need him here with me and our son. I just ... I just need him."
Carlos reached out and grabbed her, pulling her into him. "I know. Damn it. As much as I hate it, I know."
Camila tucked her face into his neck and fisted the front of his shirt. "I have to do whatever I can. If writing a stupid letter will help, I'll do it. If standing up in front of everyone in town and giving them as many details as possible about the night I lost my virginity will help, I'll do it." Carlos groaned at that. "I'll do it for him, because he would do it for me. He is doing it for me."
Carlos sighed and placed a hand against her face as he held her. Camila wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed. His fingers stalled on her cheek and moved up to her forehead.
"You're hot," he said.
"I know. Stupid old lady hot flashes."
"No." He bent down and placed his lips against her temple. "No, I mean you're hot—like, really hot."
Camila reached up and placed her hand against her forehead. Carlos was right, she was hot. It was then she really took stock of how exhausted and run down she felt. Her head ached; her body ached. There was even a slight unease in her stomach.
"Oh," she said, as a wave of dizziness washed over her, and she swayed to one side. Carlos grabbed her by the arm and pulled her upright.
"Lord, Camila."
Camila clenched her eyes shut. "I really don't feel very good."
"We should go get Mama."
Camila shook her head and tried to pull away. "No. It's just stupid pregnancy stuff. I need to sit down." She tried once more to loosen her brother's grip from her arm in order to cross to the table near the window, but Carlos held tight.
"Camila, come on," he said. "Let's just go get Mama."
"I don't want her. I'll be fine. I just need to sit—"
"Damn it. Listen." Carlos took her shoulders and twisted her toward him. "This is not the time for pride, baby sis. You don't know shit about pregnancy or illness or anything, for that matter, but she does." He paused. "She does, and she's willing to help. So let's just go, okay? If you don't want to do it for you, do it for your baby. You really look like hell, and I don't think it's just pregnancy stuff. But what the hell do I know? I wasn't born with a uterus."
Camila rolled her eyes but didn't try to protest. She really was starting to feel like hell, and as much as she still didn't want to give her mother the impression she needed her, she could do it for her son. Despite her anger and stubbornness, she would.
Carlos wrapped his arm around her shoulders when she nodded her assent and guided her out of the kitchen, into the front room where Benedict and their mother were still talking.
Their mother stood with her arms crossed over her chest and her brows drawn together. Her posture was defiant and protective, whereas Benedict's was pleading. "I understand, Benedict, but she's my little girl," Camila's mother was saying as Camila and Carlos entered the room.
"I know, Sandra, but he's my—"
"Mama?" Carlos said, and Camila was a little bit miffed he'd interrupted. She wanted to hear Benedict say it. She wanted to hear him acknowledge Shawn with her own ears.
Their mother's head turned toward them, her eyes widening in alarm.
"I think she's sick," Carlos continued. "She feels really hot."
Their mother dropped her arms and started toward them. "Is it another hot flash?"
Camila shook her head. "I thought so at first, but I'm starting to feel pretty bad. Headache. Scratchy throat. And my back is killing me."
"Okay." Her mother took her from Carlos and led her over to the couch, fussing with some pillows and a blanket before settling Camila down into the soft cushions." Carlos, could you go up to the upstairs bathroom and look for the Tylenol in the small box on the counter?"
As her brother took off toward the stairs, Camila shook her head. "No. I can't take—"
"Shh," her mother said. "Tylenol is just fine during pregnancy. I promise." After she finished tucking Camila in on the couch, her mother stepped back toward the kitchen. "I'm just going to grab a cool compress. Benedict," she glanced over at Shawn's father, "I'll support whatever Camila wants to do, but I expect you to only use her if the current witness testimony does not sway things in your favor."
Benedict nodded. "Of course." And then Camila's mother disappeared into the kitchen.
Camila stared over at the man standing just inside the door, watching as he shifted nervously from one foot to the other. She continued to watch and wait, until his blue eyes flicked up to hers. MJ kicked her three times, and she laid her hand against the spot, pressing down just as her mother had shown her.
"I'll do it," she said after a moment.
"I figured you would." Benedict smiled and tipped his head toward her in acknowledgement of what she was doing. "Well, I should probably get going then. He's expecting me in a little over an hour."
Camila nodded and rubbed her stomach some more, inching downward slowly as MJ followed the path of her fingers. She wondered if the throbbing sound she heard in her head was as annoying to MJ as it was to her. "Okay."
Benedict turned and twisted the knob, but there was something more Camila needed to say.
"Benedict?"
He looked back at her over his shoulder. "Yes, Camila?"
She bit her lip and tried to think of the best way to say what she had to say, but couldn't for the life of her make it sound good. So she just went with it. "Don't screw with him."
Benedict blinked and turned back toward her. "I'm sorry?"
"If you want him," she said, "then don't waste your time tip-toeing around it. Just tell him. Make sure he knows, because he deserves at least that much. But if you don't ... if you don't want him, then don't screw with him."
Benedict's mouth dropped open as if he were about to say something, but then it closed again, and his brows drew together. Camila watched him, trying to discern what the expression on his face meant.
"Do you?" she asked.
"Do I what?"
"Do you want him?"
Benedict closed his eyes and breathed in and out deeply. On the exhale, he said, "I shouldn't."
"Why not?" Camila asked, tipping her head to the side and peering up at this man who looked so much like the one she loved. She could not get over the similarities, not just in physical appearance, but mannerisms and personality too. "He's amazing."
Benedict opened his eyes, and Camila could see the pain and longing inside them. She recognized it as being the exact same thing she saw in Shawn's whenever he talked about his biological family. He was too proud to admit it most of the time, but Camila was sure if this man told him he wanted him, if he even hinted, that Shawn would be all in. He'd be ready, so she wanted to make sure that Benedict understood that, and he didn't make promises he couldn't keep.
"Because I don't deserve him," he said.
"No," Camila said in agreement, and Benedict's face fell at her word. But it was the truth. The absolute, unequivocally hard truth. And then she gave him another. "But he deserves you."
And by the light that flashed in Benedict's eyes, by the way the defeated look on his face turned to one of hope, Camila knew, without any doubt, that he knew she was right.
"Don't hurt him," she said, her gaze locked on his. "Or I'll hurt you. And don't think that just because I'm pregnant that I can't do it, or that I won't. Because I can, and I will."
When he smiled, Camila could have been looking at Shawn. Benedict's mouth lifted in the same way: one side higher than the other and just a flash of teeth between full, rosy lips. He, like his son, gave the impression that he was a little bit angel and a little bit devil all at the same time.
"I don't doubt that in the least, Miss Cabello."
"Good," she said. "Don't."
Benedict nodded and turned toward the door, but just as his hand grasped the handle, he paused and peered at her over his shoulder. "Thank you, Camila."
She raised a brow. "You don't have to thank me. I'd do anything for him."
"I know you would, but that's not what I was thanking you for."
"Then what?"
Benedict paused and a bit of light went out of his eyes, and in them Camila could see the regret and shame he hid deep inside himself. "For caring about my son enough to want to."
____________________________________________
From the first time Benedict had accidentally mentioned Jackson, Shawn had never really let himself think about the boy in any terms other than "Benedict's other son." He hadn't wanted to think about what that meant or how it made him feel—other than the obvious pissed off. He'd wanted to stay in his bubble of pain and anger and resentment because it was easier than letting himself feel anything that may lead to more pain. So he'd pushed aside the notion of the boy. He'd averted his gaze from the photo in Benedict's office. It was easier to ignore it, to pretend the situation wasn't what it was and the boy wasn't who he was.
But as Shawn locked eyes with him, as he watched the boy's widen in some sort of recognition and his mouth part in a toothless smile, Shawn could not ignore it any longer. There were too many similarities, too many feelings bubbling up inside of him to push past any longer.
This boy was biologically Shawn's brother.
His blood.
Shawn swallowed and fought the urge to turn around and walk out the door. He'd come to the realization that he wanted to try to let Nana in, but he had no idea what to do with this. What was he supposed to think? To feel? The kid had to be no older than seven or eight-years-old, and by the way he was looking at Shawn and bouncing up and down in his seat, he seemed to know exactly who Shawn was.
Lord. Did he know? Did he really know?
The boy said something to the woman across the booth from him, his pointer finger stretched out in Shawn's direction, and stood up on the booth seat. The woman turned and the blood drained from her cheeks, before she glanced up at Nana. Shawn watched Nana shake her head and look back at him, her lips forming words Shawn couldn't make out.
The longer he stood there the more out of place he felt. Maybe he should have left. Maybe he never should have come in the first place. He didn't belong there with them.
But it didn't matter how many times that thought flitted through his head, he couldn't move. The little boy's stare had him stuck there by some invisible force, like a butterfly pinned to a cork board by only its wings. His body functioned as it always had, but his only means of escape were immobilized. Shawn could feel his heart wanting to retreat, his hands scratching roughly at his jean-covered thighs, but his feet were planted right where he'd stopped. Stuck. Immovable. As if they knew something he didn't. As if they had a clue what could possibly happen if they stayed.
Before Shawn's feet could relent to the begging in his mind, Nana turned from the booth once more and started toward him. Shawn's hands clenched at his sides and his stomach flip-flopped inside. It seemed to take forever for Nana to cross the distance between them, but once she was there, standing before him, it was as if she had always been there.
A soft smile graced her lips, but a sliver of worry dulled her eyes. "Hello, Shawn."
Shawn's eyes flicked to the booth where the boy and his mother sat, then back to Nana's face. "I'm s-sorry," he stuttered. "I shouldn't have come. I just ... I wanted ... I'm sorry. I should go." He started to turn back toward the door, when Nana reached out and grasped his forearm.
"Don't be silly, Shawn. You are welcome here anytime. No appointment necessary." The sparkle was back in her eyes, but Shawn could not relax. He couldn't keep himself from sneaking looks behind her. When he finally managed to tear his gaze away and focus back on Nana, her expression was soft, understanding. And when she spoke, Shawn was sure he'd misheard her. "Would you like to meet him?"
Shawn sucked in a breath and took an involuntary step back. "What?"
"Would you like to meet him?"
"I—No, I ... I shouldn't—"
"Because he'd very much like to meet you."
Shawn fought against the panic rising in his throat. "Why?"
Nana grinned and patted Shawn's arm before letting go. Shawn felt the absence of her touch immediately, as if he'd been starving for some sort of contact, some sort of closeness, and now it was gone, leaving him to flail and stumble alone in his hunger. "It seems he's a bit of a fan—no, excuse me, 'Your biggest, bestest fan.' Or so he says." She smiled again, and Shawn was speechless. "Apparently, my grandson has been bringing Jackson to your games since he was a toddler."
Shawn didn't know what to do with that information. Benedict had been coming to his games? And he'd been bringing Jackson? Why?
"I don't understand."
"I think you do," Nana answered, but Shawn still couldn't verbalize what he was thinking. He had no idea. Nana took pity on him, her face contorting softly. "My grandson is not a bad man, Shawn. He made a horrific mistake—one he's acknowledged and suffered with for a long, long time. But that doesn't mean he ever forgot, that he ever stopped claiming you in his heart."
Shawn looked over Nana's shoulder once more. Jackson sat, literally, on the edge of his seat, his legs swinging back and forth and clanging against the wooden bottom of the booth, not yet long enough to touch the floor. He still held the small football in his hands, and his eyes were trained on Shawn. So excited. So hopeful. Shawn didn't deserve that look, didn't belong in the same vicinity as that look.
"Does he," Shawn started, his throat closing up on the last word. He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and then opened them and started again. "Does he know? Who I am? Who I really am?"
Nana gave him a small, sad smile. "No. He doesn't know."
Shawn nodded and let his gaze fall to the floor. Something inside of him hurt at the admission. He wasn't sure why. He didn't want this complication, did he? It was easier for the boy not to know who Shawn really was, wasn't it?
"Benedict has been very cautious when it comes to you," Nana said. "Of how he acknowledges you."
Shawn clenched his jaw, a spark of old anger igniting once more inside of him. "I understand."
"No," Nana said, reaching out for him once more. "No, I don't think you do."
"Sure, I do. He gave me up," Shawn said, rejection tingeing the words. "He didn't want me, and he never intended his real son to know about me, about the other child. It's really not that complicated a concept to get. So, I get it."
"No," Nana said quietly. "That wasn't why."
"Then why?" Shawn could hear the hurt in his voice, and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to be strong enough to hide it.
Nana rubbed her thumb over his forearm, but the motion did little to soothe him. "He thought maybe that decision should be up to you."
Shawn met her gaze, sure the confusion he felt was evident there.
"Benedict is very aware that he gave any right to you away a long time ago, but your rights to him? To Jackson? Those are yours to do with as you please. If you'd like that boy over there to continue thinking you are just his favorite quarterback and nothing more, then that's your decision to make. But if you want more ..." Her voice softened. "If you want more, then that's yours to choose too."
His to choose.
His choice.
Shawn had never been given a choice like this before. In the past, people had just chosen for him, whether or not they would be in his life, whether or not he was allowed in someone else's. His birth father had never been there, had decided early on not to be there, and Shawn had no say in that. He hadn't even been given a chance. His mother had chosen her swan song, had chosen to leave him for eternity, and still, Shawn had no say. His dad had chosen his grand exit as well. It had never been up to Shawn, not a single one of those instances had he even been a consideration. And now that it was, he had no idea how to even go about choosing, didn't even really believe he could. The concept was foreign and scary, and Shawn wasn't sure he had the ability to do it.
"Shawn?" Nana said, her voice drawing him out of his thoughts. "You don't have to decide today. You don't even have to meet him today. I can tell him something. I can come up with an excuse—"
"No," Shawn said, his voice hoarse with indecision and trepidation. But this was not the time to be scared, to be a coward. He was tired of letting his fears and insecurities rule him. Tired of letting them take away his chances to turn things around. This was the time to be strong. He cleared his throat. "No. I'll meet him. I'd ... I'd like to meet him."
Nana eyed him carefully. "Are you sure? It's okay if you're not."
Shawn swallowed and thought about the implications of his words. Was he sure? No, but why the hell not? Without another thought, he nodded. "I'm sure."
"Okay then." She reached into the apron slung around her waist, rummaged for a moment, then pulled her hand out, a black Sharpie marker grasped inside. She held it out to him.
Shawn frowned at her hand.
"He's going to want you to sign that ball," she said in explanation.
"Oh," Shawn said, reaching out slowly for the marker. "Okay."
Nana gave him an encouraging smile and then turned toward the booth in the back. She nodded at the boy and the woman with him. The boy leapt from his seat, and the woman across from him just managed to catch him as he tried to dart past her. Her gaze met Shawn's and her mouth turned up slightly in the corners. It made him uncomfortable, so he looked away.
Slowly, as if time had nearly stopped, they made their way toward the front of the restaurant where Shawn and Nana stood.
Shawn felt his breath speed and his hands grow damp. Lord. What the hell was he doing? Heat rushed up his neck and pooled into his cheeks, as his chest tightened. The closer they got, the more Shawn's body revolted. He was a mess, inside and out, his mind racing. A million thoughts, good and bad, flew through his head, alternately building him up and tearing him down, telling him this was no big deal, telling him it was the biggest thing he'd ever done.
He couldn't concentrate, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. But before his panic became too far-gone, they were there. Right there. Shawn held his breath.
The boy moved from his mother's side to Nana's. He looked up at Shawn and there was none of the fear and nervousness that Shawn felt present in the boy's eyes. He was all confidence, all unrestrained, giddy joy. It was disconcerting to Shawn to see a child like this, especially a child that was looking at him. It didn't seem natural, and Shawn couldn't fathom why he looked at him that way.
The boy moved forward and Shawn started, involuntarily moving back a step. A slight frown marred the boy's innocent face, and Shawn cleared his throat, his uncertain gaze flitting to Nana's. Understanding flashed in her eyes, and she grasped the boy by the shoulders, pulling him back against her.
"Don't be rude now, Jackson. Why don't you introduce yourself before you attack him?" She winked at Shawn, and he tried to regulate his breathing.
"Sorry, Nana," the boy said, his voice high, but lower than Shawn had expected for a child this young. Slowly, and with deliberation, the boy offered his hand and peered up at Shawn from under thick, dark lashes. "Hi. I'm Jackson. I'm very glad to meet you, Shawn Mendes." Jackson blinked a few times, then looked up at Nana and whispered loudly, "Did I say it right?"
She chuckled. "Yes. You said it perfectly."
Jackson grinned and turned back to Shawn expectantly.
Shawn stared down at the boy, his hands shaking slightly at his sides. He was not prepared for this, for him. When he'd come into the diner, he'd been expecting Nana. He was ready for Nana, not him. Not him.
Glancing up, Shawn caught Nana's eye once more. Her grip slipped from where she was holding the boy back, and she nodded in encouragement. Shawn lowered his gaze to the boy, to the outstretched offering of his hand. The way he stood there, bouncing on his heels, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement and a major case of hero worship, the way his dark brunette hair hung into his eyes, gave Shawn the strangest feeling. It wasn't pride, like he'd been used to for so many years when people fawned over him and his abilities, but more ... acceptance. Belonging.
This little boy made him feel like he belonged. With just a smile, just a reach of his hand, Shawn belonged.
Swallowing against the hesitancy crawling up his throat, Shawn reached out and took the boy's hand. His larger one engulfed the boy's smaller, stickier one.
"Hi," he said, his voice uneven and rough. "It's nice to meet you too, Jackson."
"I'm your biggest, bestest fan," Jackson said. "I've seen all your games! Well, the ones you play here." Jackson frowned. "My dad made me stay home for the far away ones."
Shawn fought against every innate instinct to run away and knelt down, so he would be at Jackson's eye level. It was the strangest thing, looking into a face that was so similar, but eyes that were completely different. The nerves he'd felt before were still there, crackling and sparking inside, but there was also an unexpected calm washing over him. "That's what I hear," he said, his voice finally normal.
Jackson nodded. "I can't wait to tell Kadar—that's my best friend—that I met you. He thinks he's your biggest, bestest fan, but I told him noooooooo. That's me. Then he said we could share, but I said noooooo again because there can only be one biggest, bestest, right?"
Shawn bit his lip and grinned. He couldn't help it; the child's excitement was infectious. "Yeah. Only one."
"See! I told him." He turned to his mother. "See, Mama? I told him, and I was right."
"You were, honey," she said, and when Jackson turned back to Shawn, she mouthed "thank you" to him.
Shawn averted his gaze once more. With Jackson, he could take the gratitude, but not from her. He didn't know her, didn't want her. She was the woman his father had chosen over his mother. This was the family he'd chosen, and that knowledge would never leave Shawn. It would never hurt less. No matter how much he allowed himself to open to Nana or possibly even Jackson.
Jackson shifted the small football in his hands. "Can you sign my ball?" he asked. "I need proof that I met you. Kadar will call me a liar. Oh, and can you make sure it says I'm your biggest bestest? Because he needs to know that too."
Shawn smiled, and he could feel his earlier discomfort growing weaker and weaker. "Yeah, I can do that."
He reached out for the little ball, and Jackson practically shoved it into Shawn's hand. His eyes shown bright with excitement, and it took Shawn several seconds to tear his stare away. Never in his life had anyone looked at him that way, like he was the "biggest, bestest." Camila's gaze was the closest, but it was still entirely different. She looked at him like a man, like her man, like she loved and wanted every single part of him, good, bad, and ugly. Jackson looked at him like there were no bad or ugly places. Like he was shiny and happy and perfect, when Shawn knew he was anything but. It was an indescribable feeling.
Shawn turned the ball until the laces were up and lifted the marker to his mouth, biting down on the cap and pulling it off with his teeth, then pushing it onto the opposite end. He touched the tip to the ball and wrote exactly what Jackson had asked him to, and then a little bit more.
To Jackson, my biggest, bestest fan. Thanks for letting me be your favorite.
~ Shawn Mendes #7
The bell to the diner tinkled in the background, as Shawn capped the marker and handed the ball over to the boy. Jackson took it, his hands handling it so carefully, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. When he looked up, his eyes gleamed, and for just a moment, they were trained completely and totally on Shawn. All of the admiration and gratitude in them showered down on him, and it was nothing like anything Shawn had ever felt before. And then, the look was gone, shifted to somewhere beyond Shawn's shoulder, where it became even more intense, even more focused.
"Daddy!" Jackson cried, and Shawn's back stiffened. "Look what I got!" He held the ball out as he ran to what Shawn could only guess were his father's waiting arms.
Slowly, Shawn stood and turned toward the door to the diner. His heart felt as if it had jumped into his throat, and he was sure it had, when his gaze landed on Jackson hoisted up in Benedict's arms.
Benedict's stare bore into Shawn for a moment, an unrecognizable expression affixed to his face. And then he focused on Jackson, a smile morphing his features as he took the ball and indulged in the little boy's excitement.
"Wow," he said. "That was really nice of Shawn. Did you say thank you?"
Jackson faced him once more and said, "Thank you. I'm going to put it up on my shelf by my bed."
Shawn held out his fist for the boy to bump. "That's cool, buddy."
Jackson bumped Shawn's fist and turned back to his dad, his mouth open as if he were going to say something, but before he did, his brows pulled together in confusion, and his gaze moved from Benedict to Shawn.
"Dad," Jackson said. "You wanna know something weird?"
"You know I do. I'm always up for something weird."
Jackson looked again from Shawn to Benedict, and the strangest feeling came over Shawn. The way Jackson's eyes seemed to see everything, see through everything, like none of the bullshit even registered and all he saw was truth. People often dismissed children's intuition because they had no reason to be so knowledgeable, but they often saw far more than anyone ever gave them credit for. Shawn saw the instant that Jackson's brain recognized what was going on there, even if he didn't know it yet.
Jackson bit down on his lip, seemingly hesitant to share his thought, but then he just let it go. "Shawn has our same hair."
Shawn's breath caught in his throat, and Benedict gave him a worried look.
"You think so?" he asked, trying to downplay it to Jackson, but his eyes spoke volumes to Shawn. They were asking him the question. They were asking him to choose.
Right now. Not later. Now.
"Uh huh," Jackson said. "He has those funny curls by his ears too. You know, the ones Mummy likes to twirl?"
Benedict didn't move his gaze from Shawn's. He was still asking, and Shawn still had no answer. The misgivings were still there, festering inside of him and trying to take him over like cancer. Nana's words came back to him and they were both soothing and more confusing.
... but your rights to him? To Jackson? Those are yours to do with as you please.
Shawn had never considered he'd had rights to anything before, let alone this man and this boy. Benedict had always been a nonentity, a fable, a ghost, and Shawn had been perfectly willing to leave him that way. But now it wasn't just Benedict. It wasn't just a dead-beat father. It was a brother too. A brother who was as innocent in all of this as Shawn had been.
If you'd like that boy over there to continue thinking you are just his favorite quarterback and nothing more, then that's your decision to make.
That would have been the easier choice. To say no. To do nothing. To let Jackson go on hero-worshiping Shawn from afar. To let him go on believing Shawn was more than what he really was.
But if you want more ... If you want more, then that's yours to choose too.
And part of him wanted it, wanted it so much he could barely breathe. And then Shawn realized that it wasn't just about what he wanted. It was about what Jackson wanted too. Because if Shawn deserved a choice, so did Jackson. Jackson deserved to have all the facts, so his choice could be made fairly. Shawn could give him that. He would give him that.
Lifting his eyes to Benedict's, Shawn thought through the implications of what he was about to do. Jackson could reject him too. He could, and that would be okay, because it was his right, but he deserved the chance to do it.
Shawn thought there would be some fear, some panic, some hesitation, but, surprisingly, there was none. There was only determination, resolve.
The question continued to radiate from Benedict: Do I tell him? Or do I let it go?
And Shawn, with a short nod of his head, gave the only answer he could: Yes.
Benedict's eyes widened slightly and he drew in a sharp breath, so Shawn nodded again: Yes.
Turning to his younger son, Benedict smiled slightly, hesitantly. "You're right, Jackson. He does have the same hair as us. He also has the same nose and mouth. Not the eyes though." Benedict looked up at Shawn, his expression filled with so much emotion it was almost too much. "Those are his mother's."
Shawn clenched his fists harder, but he didn't look away. He let it happen, let himself see it, feel it all.
Jackson turned toward him and frowned, his little mind trying to work out exactly what his father was telling him. "Yeah," he said, drawing the word out. "But how do you know he has his mama's eyes? Do you know her?"
"Yes, Jackson, I knew Shawn's mama."
Shawn's throat tightened at the mention of his mother. A hand settled itself on his shoulder, and the small squeeze it gave let him know it was Nana's.
"Remember when Mama and I told you about Daddy's first wife when he was younger?"
Jackson nodded.
"Well, when I was married to her, we had a little boy together."
"You mean like me? A little boy like me?" Jackson asked.
"Yes, just like you."
Jackson frowned again. "Well, where is he? Why isn't he here?"
Benedict hesitated for a fraction of a moment, and Shawn held his breath. He could feel the hurricane of emotion building inside of him, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could contain it. It wasn't bad and it wasn't good. It just ... was.
Benedict's eyes rested on Shawn's face, a sort of resolve of his own settling there. Jackson's gaze followed his father's and a spark of understanding way beyond his years crossed the blue of his irises.
"He is. He's right there," Benedict whispered, his stare never wavering from Shawn's. It was steady, strong, and claiming. And Shawn could feel it everywhere: his head, his heart, his soul. The broken boy Shawn had been born as started to mend, slowly, and just a little, but the effect was unmistakable. "Right there, Jackson. Daddy's other little boy is right there."
____________________________________________
Camila had just begun to pull herself out of the trenches of fever-induced sleep, when the bed shifted beneath her. She opened her eyes, squinting against the harsh glow of afternoon light filtering in through the window and the dull headache still throbbing in her temples. Blinking a few times, she realized she no longer felt hot, and the muscle aches from earlier had quieted as well. With a sigh of relief, she stretched her arms above her head, just as another set wrapped around her waist and pulled her back into a warm, firm body.
"Hey," Shawn said, his voice vibrating against her neck as his lips brushed the sensitive skin below her ear. Camila shivered. "Your mom said you were sick. Are you okay?"
"Yeah." She dropped her hands to his, interlaced their fingers, and wiggled back into him. He squeezed her hands and nuzzled his face into the back of her neck. "I think I was just over tired. I feel a lot better now." And she did, especially now that he was there. "What about you? How did things go for you today?"
"Shitty," Shawn mumbled into her hair.
"What? Why?" Camila loosened his grip from around her and half-turned, finding him lying on the pillow next to her, his eyes half-open and ringed in shadows. "What happened?"
Shawn sighed but didn't say a word. Camila frowned and flipped over the rest of the way to face him. He looked so tired, so physically and mentally exhausted that just looking at him made her want to go back to sleep.
"Shawn?" she said, lifting one hand to lie against his cheek.
He closed his eyes briefly at her touch and then met her stare. The usual vibrant brown was dull, the color of dark sand. His hand splayed across the small of her back and his arm tensed as he pulled her closer, their noses brushing momentarily as he leaned in to kiss her. His mouth remained closed, his lips soft but a little dry. When he pulled back, it was only enough to rest his forehead against hers. Camila's unease grew as so many foreign emotions radiated off from him. She couldn't place a single one, couldn't decide whether they were bad, good, or something in between.
"I'm tired," he said, and his eyes slipped shut once more.
Camila moved her hand from his cheek and ran her fingers through the hair at his temples, eliciting a pleased hum from his throat. "Is that your way of saying you don't want to talk about it?"
The corner of his mouth lifted, and he leaned in once more, capturing her lips with his, this time opening a little and prodding hers apart with the tip of his tongue. Camila let him kiss her for a few minutes, allowing herself to drown in his taste, in the feel of him partially wrapped around her. But after a bit, she pulled back, kissing the tip of his nose in her retreat.
"You're trying to distract me."
Shawn smiled wider, his eyes still closed. "Is it working?"
"It always works." She sighed and played with the curls just behind his ear. "You just want me to drop it?"
Shawn shook his head. "Not forever. Just right now. I don't want to talk right now."
"Then what do you want to do?"
His arm tightened around her, and she let him pull her body the rest of the way flush with his. "I want to do this. Just this." He paused. "And maybe a little of this." He kissed her again: short, chaste, sweet. "And then I want to sleep. I really want to sleep."
"Okay," Camila said, her fingers still threading through his soft brown locks at the side of his head. "We can sleep. I need to go use the bathroom, then we'll sleep."
Shawn nodded, and Camila could see that he was already mostly there. Carefully, she untangled herself from him and scooted awkwardly out from under his arm. She'd just managed to heave herself off the bed, when she heard Shawn's quiet, sleep-filled voice behind her.
"I met my brother today."
She froze and turned toward him. He was lying exactly as he had been, his head resting at the edge of the pillow, his pale lids closed over what she knew were tired, dull-brown eyes, dark lashes fanning over his cheeks. "You did?" she asked, wanting so badly for him to sit up and tell her all about it.
"Mmhmm," was all he gave her in return. And then his breathing evened out, his shoulders rising and falling in perfect intervals against the comforter.
"I'm glad," she answered, even though she knew he could no longer hear her. She looked at him for a few more seconds, marveling in how beautiful he still was. It never grew old, looking at him, studying him, memorizing him. If she let herself, she could do nothing but that for hours upon hours. But at the moment her bladder had different ideas.
Forcing herself to turn away from him, Camila stole out into the hall and into the bathroom. After she was finished, she made her way as quickly as she could back down the corridor toward her room and was just about to turn into the doorway, when she heard a throat clear behind her. She spun around to find her Mama standing at the top of the stairs, her concerned gaze on Camila.
"I'm glad to see you up and around. You look better," she said.
"I feel better."
Her mother nodded. "Good. I debated letting him see you tonight, but he seemed so ..." she trailed off.
"He's asleep," Camila offered, and her mother gave her another concerned look. "It's been a crappy couple of days, weeks, months, really, for both of us. I think we just need to ... sleep." She shrugged, and then paused. "Are you going to make me tell him to leave? Is that why you're up here? To check up on us?"
Her mother looked conflicted, as if that was exactly what she was going to do.
"Please don't make me, Mama. We're not going to do anything, I swear. We just ... I need him right now, okay? And I'm pretty sure he needs me."
Their eyes locked. "I don't doubt that. What with what he went through today and all."
Camila frowned. "What do you know about it?"
"Nothing. I just knew Benedict was meeting with him about trial stuff, and I'm sure that can't be easy on him. On either of them." She sighed and looked down at her hand. It was then that Camila realized her mother was clutching something. "And that's not why I came up here, by the way."
"Then why?"
Her mother stared at the small paper square in her hand for a few more seconds before raising her eyes to Camila's once more. "I wanted to give you this."
"What is it?"
"An old picture I found from when I was pregnant with you in one of the boxes downstairs." A hesitant smile pulled at her lips. "I thought you might like it."
Camila didn't say anything in response, and her mother seemed to take that as an okay to proceed. Crossing the space between them, her mother stopped a couple of steps in front of her and held out the photo. Camila paused for a few seconds before reaching out to take it. When she had it firmly in her palm, she looked down, her eyes devouring every detail of her young, very pregnant mother.
She sat on a stone bench-like structure, her gaze focused down on the dark head of a little boy, who held a fistful of white flowers in one chubby hand and touched Camila's mother's stomach with the other. Behind them was a statue Camila was very familiar with, the cupid's bow directed right at her mother and the little boy.
"I know this place," she whispered, running her finger over the rounded curve of her mother's stomach, knowing it was her inside. "Shawn took me there."
"Mmm," her mother said. "It used to be one of my friend's favorite spots. We used to meet there and let our boys play together."
Camila nodded, not really registering her mother's words. Her gaze had moved to the little boy in front of her mother, to the way he touched her so carefully, so gently, to the way his hair curled slightly around his ears. She didn't remember Carlos's hair ever curling that way before, not in any photo she'd seen of him anyway. She frowned.
"What is it?" her mother asked, and Camila could have sworn she heard something in her voice.
"Nothing," Camila said, pausing with her finger over the sliver of face showing on the boy, her stare darting from him to the cupid statue and back to him. "It's just ... I don't know. Carlos looks different. Smaller, or something. And his hair ..." Camila shook her head, what she needed to know lingering just out of her mind's reach.
Her mother was quiet, not offering a single word, until Camila looked up at her, shocked to see tears brimming her eyes. "That's because that's not Carlos."
Camila frowned again and glanced down at the photo. The answer was right there, right within her sights, but she just could not see it. But then she did, she did, and it was nothing she'd have ever dreamed possible.
" Mama ... is this your friend's son?"
"Yes."
Camila swallowed, the impossible becoming more and more probable. "What was her name?" she whispered. "Your friend. What was her name?"
Her mother was silent for a few moments, and when her whispered voice came, Camila couldn't hold back the tears stinging at the back of her eyes. "Serene. Her name was Serene. And her little boy was—"
"Shawn," Camila said, his name a half-whisper, half-sob. "His name is Shawn." The little boy in the picture was Shawn, her Shawn. She glanced up at her mother, the tears falling from her eyes and flowing over her cheeks. Her mother nodded, and Camila didn't think before she flung her arms around her mother's neck and squeezed. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for this."
Her mother didn't hesitate to wrap Camila up in her arms, squeezing her as tightly as she dared before answering. "You're welcome, sweetheart."
And this time, as she buried her face into the soft collar of her mother's shirt, as she let the arms surrounding her hold her the way she'd been needing, as she submitted to the desire to just let it all go, even if only for a moment, Camila didn't object to the endearment.
____________________________________________
Until next time,
Bloomsbelle.