And I've always lived like this
Keeping a comfortable, distance
And up until now I had sworn to myself
That I'm content with loneliness
Because none of it was ever worth the risk
But, you are, the only exception.
- Paramore.
____________________________________________
Shawn had seen pictures, had read all about Ohio State University online and had looked through all his brochures countless times, but none of it prepared him for how it felt to be there, to be standing on the cusp of all of his dreams and physically seeing what might be—and knowing in the back of his mind that it might not.
The imposing stone and glass administration building stretched five stories into the sky in the center, three on the outer, and surrounded Shawn on all four sides. Ornate archways provided a through-and-through to the outer academic buildings, and on the top of each, was an enclosed glass walkway that connected each wing to the next. In the middle of it all was a courtyard, where Shawn now stood, a gurgling fountain spitting water into the sky a mere five feet away from him, and book-clad students walking quickly past on the opposite side. Shawn was used to grandeur and pompous displays of wealth—hell, he lived in a mansion himself—but this was on a whole different scale.
As he followed the meandering students with his eyes, taking in their concentrated faces and confident-seeming steps, he couldn't help but wonder if they'd ever felt as overwhelmed and out-of-place as he did standing in that spot.
If they'd ever felt like as big of a hypocrite.
He knew how he would look to them: like he belonged, like he had a right to be there with them. His clothes were nice; he was good-looking. He had charisma. Or so they would think. Shawn had always been very good at playing any part thrown at him, and he knew he could play this one just as well. He could look put together and confident; he'd done that for more years than he could count. But for the first time in his life, he didn't seem to be able to make himself believe the lie as well.
He didn't feel put-together or confident. He felt lost, insecure, and unworthy.
A chilly breeze wafted through the space, and Shawn pulled his jacket tighter around him. Voices, busyness, and the promise of "future" exploded into Shawn's consciousness, and he had no idea how to feel about it all. Part of him wanted to be excited, to let himself hope and plan and want, but a bigger part of him needed to be cautious, needed to be realistic. Because this—this place, this dream—might not be a reality for him. That was something he had to keep reminding himself. And he did, over and over again.
He curled his fingers around the shoulder strap of his backpack and forced his feet to move in the direction of the athletics wing. His bag thumped against his back, and his feet crunched over dried twigs and grass. He felt various sets of eyes boring into his back and face. Their recognition washed over him. In the past, he'd always welcomed the notoriety that came along with being who he was—a high school football star and Roy Mendes's son—but the difference was, now he didn't know if the stares were because of that, or because his face was all over the papers for something else. Something he didn't want people looking at him for.
Heat traveled up his neck at the thought. He kept his eyes trained on his feet and continued on. Reaching down into his pocket, Shawn pulled out the paper on which he'd written Coach Harold's directions. He read over them quickly, but before he could fold them back up and shove them into his pocket, his eyes trained on a small note scrawled in the corner in Camila's hand. There were several messages written there, most notes of encouragement and strength: You deserve this. Everything will work out. Don't forget you're cocky for a reason .
Shawn couldn't help but grin at Camila's confidence and how much she thought of him—regardless of whether or not he deserved it. But there was one message, one tiny line written absently in her messy, artist handwriting that made his heart thud and his stomach squeeze more than any of the others.
You're my favorite first.
To anyone else who read that line, the meaning behind it wouldn't have been immediately apparent. But Shawn knew, and he smiled to himself at the memory.
It had all come about the week before, after he'd left the diner, his emotions and mind exhausted beyond anything he'd ever felt before. Meeting his little brother and hearing his biological father claim him as his own were never things Shawn had expected to happen. He hadn't known how to begin to understand and deal with the feelings both things brought. As he'd walked out to his car afterward, his brain a land mine of painful memories and insecurities, the only thing he'd wanted was Camila.
Not her words or her touch so much, but her presence. Just her presence. Of everything else in the world, she was the one thing that calmed him, quieted his mind. And, God, he needed some damn quiet.
He'd driven as quickly as the speed limit allowed, his thoughts straying back to the look on Jackson's face when Benedict had told him the truth of who Shawn was, the shock, followed by disbelief, followed by acceptance, followed by happiness. No one had ever looked at Shawn with that much . . . joy before. And Shawn had no damn idea how to process it. Not any of it.
When the old farmhouse with the address Camila had given him came in to view, Shawn had literally skidded his car to a stop and leaped from his vehicle, his feet sprinting toward the front door, needing to see her, needing her. His heart had nearly exploded in his chest when her mother tried to turn him away, claiming Camila wasn't feeling well and was asleep.
"Please," he'd said, his voice cracking like a twelve-year old's. "Please. Just let me see her for a minute. I won't wake her. I won't . . . Just please."
He knew he probably looked like a lunatic, like a crazy obsessed teenager begging to see his girlfriend. But he couldn't help it. He needed her. He needed her so damn much.
Finally, her mother relented, and Shawn had to restrain himself from sprinting up the stairs too. But all of his desperation dissipated when he'd stopped in front of the open door and saw her lying there, her body curled onto one side, hands positioned under her slightly flushed cheeks. His chest loosened and his mind lightened, and he couldn't stop himself from crawling into bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and pulling her light body against his. Her warmth and comfort seeped into him and calmed every single nerve that had just been on fire.
As she'd stirred from sleep, the peace that had washed over him was automatic and full. The heaviness that had clouded his mind dispersed and all there was left was nothing. Sweet, sweet nothing.
Shawn let her gather him up, hold his heart in her hands, brush away the pain and confusion, kiss away the guilt and uncertainty, and leave him empty and clean. It was relief in a way he couldn't describe.And in that relief, he'd drifted away into the most soundless sleep he'd ever had.
When he'd awoken sometime later—it could have been minutes or hours—he'd opened his eyes to the same dimly lit farmhouse room. Blinking rapidly and lifting his hand to rub his eyes, he'd looked around at his surroundings, his gaze landing on Camila, who sat against the headboard beside him, tears streaming down her face as she looked down at a small square paper in her hands.
Alarm panged in his chest, and Shawn sat up beside her. "Baby?" he'd said. "What's wrong?"
Camila glanced up at him, her tear-filled eyes red and sad, but her mouth lifted in a smile. "Do you believe in fate?"
Shawn furrowed his brow in confusion. "What?"
"Fate. Do you believe in it? Like, destiny and 'meant to be' and all that stuff."
"I didn't use to. Why? Do you?"
Camila shrugged and lowered her gaze back to the square in her hands. "I don't really think I did before. Like, I didn't dismiss it completely, but I never really thought about it, you know? But now . . . now I wonder if maybe it is true. If we are fated for certain things or . . . or people."
"What's this about?"
Camila handed the square over to Shawn. He plucked it from her fingers and realized instantly from the feel of it that it was a photograph. His eyes stayed trained on hers the whole time, a bit of confusion over the look on her face creeping into his mind.
"Look," was all she said.
After a moment, he allowed his eyes to lower, taking in the scene immortalized on film in front of him. He saw the dark-haired woman and the little boy, but his brain zeroed in on the scenery behind them. "It's the garden," he said.
"Mmhmm," Camila said.
Shawn frowned and looked up at her once more. There was a glint in her eyes and a knowing smile on her lips.
"I don't understand . . ."
Camila scooted closer to him, her leg brushing the length of his, and she reached in, carefully taking the photo from his fingers. "It is the garden," she said, and then pointed at the woman. "This is my mom. And this," she lowered her finger to the rounded protrusion in the woman's— Camila's mother's—shirt, "is me."
Shawn nodded like he understood, but he didn't have a damn clue as to what she was getting at. "Okay . . ."
Camila reached over with her other hand and grasped his, tugging slightly so he'd look up at her. When he did, another tear rolled over her cheek.
Shawn swiped it away with his thumb. "Why are you crying?"
"The boy," she said, her voice strained.
Shawn nodded. "Your brother."
Camila closed her eyes, letting the rest of her tears fall, and whispered, "Not my brother."
Shawn frowned. "Then who—"
When Camila's eyes opened, he didn't need her to answer, because, suddenly, he knew. He saw the truth of it there in her swirl of brown eyes. Looking back down at the photo, he swallowed hard.
"Shut up," he whispered.
Camila rested her head on his shoulder. "You shut up."
"Seriously?" he asked, twisting his face to look down at hers.
She nodded and grinned at him once more.
"Shit. That's . . . kind of creepy."
Camila giggled and they both looked back at the photo. Shawn could see it now, the way the hair curled at the nape of the boy's neck, the way it was more gold than white. The boy was most definitely him, and not Carlos.
"Mama told me," Camila began, her thumb brushing over Shawn's hand as she spoke, the sensation causing goosebumps to rise on his arm, "that as soon as your mother snapped this picture, you leaned down and kissed her belly. You kissed me . And then you whispered something in your little two-year-old voice that was supposed to be for only me to hear. But of course she heard too."
Shawn glanced down at her once more. "What did I say?"
Camila looked up at him and smiled a smile that made his chest ache. "You said, 'mine'."
Shawn couldn't hold back his own grin. "So, you're saying I was a possessive bastard even back then?"
"I'm saying that maybe all the crap about fate and made-to-be is true. Maybe I was made for you, because God knows you've made me yours. Just like you declared way back then."
Shawn twisted his body toward her, placed his hands on her waist, and guided her over and onto his lap. Once she was seated, he stared up into her face, taking in the way she looked then: hair mussed from sleep, happy tear-tracks lining her cheeks, green eyes blazing with truth and love and belief in a power greater than themselves that had possibly given them, made them, specifically for each other, and the only thing he could think was that she was so damn beautiful. And so damn his.
"C'mere," he said, his eyes already on her mouth, his hand tucked around the back of her neck, and pulled her into him.
"You know what this means, right?" Camila asked before Shawn could kiss her.
He pulled back a little. "No, what?"
Her stare bore into his, and she was so close it almost made him dizzy. "That not only were you my first , but you were, technically, my first kiss too."
Shawn smiled and brushed a hand between the curtain of hair falling against her face and her cheek. "I'm not sure it counts when you're still in utero, baby."
"It counts to me."
He kissed her then, softly, barely even touching her lips. "But what about your other first kiss? I'd be jealous as shit if I'd been bumped because of a two-year-old's smooch through your mother's stomach."
"I don't care." Camila cupped his face in her hands, her eyes gleaming with a happiness Shawn wished he could keep there permanently. "You're my favorite first."
And as Shawn stood there in the middle of the college quad, his thumb brushing over the indentation of her words on the corner of the paper, the world going on around him, he could still feel the pressure of her against his thighs, the digging of her fingers into his jaw, taste the sweetness of her mouth as it moved over his. He closed his eyes and ran his tongue over his bottom lip, not able to taste her there any longer but pretending he could.
An intermittent buzz vibrated against his leg and he opened his eyes as he fished his phone out of his pocket.
Are you there yet? The message read.
Shawn smiled and quickly texted back. Hey. I was just thinking about you.
It only took a moment for Camila to reply. Oh, yeah? What were you thinking? About how much you miss me? About how you feel horrible that I have to go through the torture of another embarrassing doctor visit? Or maybe you pity me for having to go shopping with my mom after?
Nope. This time Shawn's grin was slow . I was thinking about how good you taste.
. . . Ooookay. Right. So, you know I'm in the waiting room at the doctor's office and my mom is sitting right next to me, right?
Your point is?
My POINT, Casanova, is that she just saw me turn about fifteen shades of red and gave me a look.
A look?
Yes! A look. You KNOW the look. Like she knows exactly what is going on in my head.
And what's going on in your head? Are you thinking about how you can't wait until the next time you're on my lap, your hand in my hair, and your tongue in my mouth too? Preferably with less clothing though.
Oh. My. God. You're horrible.
I think you know I'm not, baby.
Jdjgsfadgfkag! Okay, I'm gonna go now, jerk. Just tell me you're there and not texting me while driving. I'm gonna be pissed if you die before I can kill you for this.
Shawn laughed out loud at how flustered he knew she was. He'd seen the many shades of red she turned when he talked to her like that. He loved every one.
Yes, Mom , I'm here.
.
;)
. . .
Shawn smiled again, only this time softer. I miss you and your fifteen shades of red already.
You think your sweet talk is gonna get me to forget about the revenge I'm exacting in my head?
Yep.
*sigh*
He was about to write more, tease more, but heard his name being called from someplace behind him.
"Hey, Mendes!" the voice called. "Shawn Mendes?"
Gotta go, baby, I've been spotted. I'll see you later.
Shawn shoved his phone back into his pocket without waiting for a reply and turned toward the voice. Eyes from all around were trained on him, but he ignored them the best he could and focused on the approaching figure.
Moments later, a dark-haired boy with the brightest green eyes Shawn had ever seen, stopped in front of him. He looked familiar to Shawn, but he couldn't quite place him.
"Hey . . ." Shawn said. "I'm sorry, I think we've met but I don't remember—"
"Eric," the boy said, holding out his hand for Shawn to shake. "Eric Steinfeld. We met a while back outside the dean's office."
"Oh yeah, right," Shawn said, taking the offered hand. "Sorry."
Eric shrugged and gestured toward the athletics building just outside the opening in the administration archway. "Coach finally got you to give us a chance, huh?"
Shawn glanced through the opening, a chill of uncertainty skating up his spine. "Yeah, I guess." He chewed at his lip and thrust a hand into his hair. "I'm not—I haven't signed or anything. I don't really know if I'm gonna . . . Coach just . . . well—"
"Yeah, I know," Eric said.
Shawn raised a brow.
Eric offered a small, sort of sympathetic smile. "It's hard not to know."
Shawn nodded and looked away, the heaviness on his chest pressing even harder. This was stupid, being there was stupid. He knew better than to hope for this, to let himself think for even a moment that everything could be okay.
"In the spirit of full disclosure, you should probably know that my sister and Camila are best friends."
Shawn whipped his head back toward Eric, the name Steinfeld finally connecting in his mind. "Hailee's your sister?"
Eric nodded.
"Well, shit," Shawn said, scratching at the back of his neck. "This isn't awkward at all."
Eric laughed. "Don't worry, man. I do my best not to pay attention to the stuff Haiz and her friends talk about."
Shawn shrugged and looked away again. His cheeks were red hot. It was bad enough that this guy probably knew more about him and Camila than the average person, but now his blood was betraying him too. In that moment, he was glad Camila wasn't there to see his own "fifteen shades."
"So, should we get to it?" Eric asked.
Shawn eyed the boy. "Get to what?"
"The orientation." Eric raised a hand and scratched at his shaggy hair, a look of chagrin crossing his face. "You know, Coach asked us to keep an eye out for you." He nodded in the direction of four other guys who were huddled together near the athletics building, each watching their exchange with what looked like curiosity.
Shawn swallowed. "What for?"
"He wanted to speak to you privately before everything started."
"Why?"
"I don't know." Eric shook his head. "But I wouldn't be nervous. Coach seems to really like you. You're all he's talked about for the last few weeks."
Shawn readjusted the strap over his shoulder, his gaze drifting toward the looming building before him. He didn't understand this sudden interest from Coach Harold. Shawn had been hounded for the last two years by coaches and scouts from all over the state, and even several out of state as well, but he'd never even heard of this guy until very recently. His attention and persistence put Shawn's mind on alert. He felt like he was missing something, something very important.
Shawn glanced back at Eric, taking in the kind smile and the honesty behind his green eyes. He knew he shouldn't have felt so cautious, so skeptical, but with everything that had happened as of late, he couldn't help feeling wary of everyone's intentions. Shawn narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the boy a little closer, looking for any shred of a clue as to what was really going on behind his smile. But there was nothing there. Nothing insincere anyway.
Eric's smile slipped. "What?"
"Nothing," Shawn said. "I just . . . Where was he when all the other coaches and scouts were all over me?"
Eric frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Shawn shrugged. "I just don't get why he's so interested now. Why he didn't get into it when all the others were."
Eric let out a sort of snort-laugh and shook his head.
"What?"
Eric shook his head again. "I just thought that with everything that's happened, you'd be less of an ass."
Shawn raised a brow. "Excuse me?"
Eric crossed his arms over his chest. "You heard me."
"Yeah, I heard you. I'm just wondering what the hell you mean by that."
"I mean exactly what I said. Everyone knows what happened with you. Everyone knows that every other school that had been on your radar has dropped you. Everyone knows this is your one and only shot. Yet, it seems like you don't think it's good enough."
Shawn's mouth dropped open, but no words came out. He had no idea what to even say to that anyway.
"Look," Eric continued. "I know this is just a state school and not someplace prestigious like MSU or other private schools, but this is a great place. The professors are great; the students are great. And our team is great. All we need is a strong leader to take it to that next level, but if you can't be that for us—if you don't want to—then maybe you should just go home now. We don't really need anymore ego and attitude messing up our team."
Shawn blinked a few times, shock pulsing through him at Eric's words. Eric stared at him for a few seconds, as if he expected Shawn to say something after that, but when he didn't respond, Eric shook his head and turned away, starting toward the other group of guys. Shawn opened and closed his mouth a few times, but his voice was stuck in his throat. He didn't want to start out this way with people who might potentially be his new teammates, but he honestly didn't know what to say. How could he convince them that he wanted this when he didn't even know if he'd be allowed the chance to have it?
When Eric got to about halfway between Shawn and the other guys, his words finally tumbled from his mouth. "Eric, wait."
Eric stopped and turned toward Shawn, his brows pulled together in the middle.
Shawn ran his fingers through his hair and drew in a slow breath. He still didn't know what to say, still didn't know how he felt about the whole thing, so he just said the first thing that came to mind. "Do you think we could stop at the field first before going to see Coach? I'd kind of like to get a feel for it."
Eric stared at Shawn for what seemed like forever, and slowly, very slowly, a small smile pulled at the edge of his mouth.
____________________________________________
The paper covering the small examination table crinkled and stuck to Camila's leg as she tried to get comfortable. Ever since her and Shawn's little exchange she'd been feeling a little . . . well, something she shouldn't have been feeling right before an exam from the doctor .
Ugh. Asshole.
Focusing her thoughts on anything other than his words, she pulled at the scratchy gown grazing her thighs, trying to stretch it down over her knees. It didn't matter how many times she'd been in this room, wearing the exact same type of paper dress, it never became more bearable to sit there half-naked in front of a virtual stranger.
Dr. Shelley scribbled something in illegible doctor scrawl onto the clipboard resting on her lap, before glancing back up to Camila. "How long has the headache been an issue?"
Camila thought back to when she'd first noticed the dull ache in her temples, which had now turned into a full blown pounding. "I don't know. Maybe a week?"
"Hmm." Dr. Shelley bent her head and wrote some more. "Any other symptoms?"
"Well, I had the flu or something for a day or two last week. You know, I was tired and had an upset stomach, was achy and dizzy, had a fever."
"Are you still having any of those symptoms?"
"Uh, yeah, some. But isn't it normal to be tired and feel sick when pregnant?" Anxiety skittered up Camila's spine.
Dr. Shelley smiled. "Yes, but we're just covering all the bases."
Camila swallowed. Although Dr. Shelley seemed calm and unworried, Camila sensed something going on behind her questions. Or maybe Camila was just being paranoid. She chewed at her bottom lip and tapped her heels against the metal platform holding up the examination table. The thudding, along with the scratching of Dr. Shelley's pen, covered the silence in the room. But it did nothing to calm Camila's racing heart.
After Dr. Shelley finished whatever it was she was writing, she pushed herself and her rolling chair back and stood. She stepped over to the small sink and proceeded to wash her hands, dry them, and slip on a pair of gloves. The snap of the latex against her wrist made Camila jump slightly.
Dr. Shelley gave Camila a reassuring smile. "Nervous?"
"I don't know," Camila said. "I guess maybe a little."
"There's nothing to be nervous about, Camila. There's no internal exam this time. We're just going to measure you, listen to the heartbeat, and do a couple of routine tests. Could you lie back for me?"
Camila lay back on the cold, hard table, while the doctor strapped a blood pressure cuff to her arm and proceeded to pull Camila's gown up over her stomach. Camila's face heated in response, but Dr. Shelley didn't seem to notice.
The cuff around her arm started to squeeze uncomfortably, when the doctor spoke. "Where's Shawn? I don't think he's missed a visit since the first."
Camila tried not to grimace as the cuff reached its tightest point, slowly letting a small puff of air out every few seconds. "He's got a college orientation this weekend. He felt bad about missing this. My mom came with me instead. She's in the waiting room."
"She could have come back with you."
Camila chewed on the inside of her mouth and shrugged weakly with the shoulder unoccupied by the pressure cuff.
Doctor Shelley's expression softened and she nodded slightly. The monitor at Camila's head beeped as the blood pressure cuff deflated completely, and the doctor glanced up at the numbers, frowning as she marked a few things on the clipboard lying on the small table beside them. "Other than the illness and the lingering headache, is there anything else you've noticed that doesn't seem to be normal?"She pulled out a measuring tape and pressed one end to the very bottom of Camila's stomach and the other to the very top.
"No, not really. Why?"
The doctor patted her hand and met her eye. "I'm just being thorough, honey. Your blood pressure is a little high, but that could be due to a number of things: stress, your recent illness, nerves. We both know that due to your situation any one of those could be the culprit. Pregnancy is unpredictable, especially with mothers as young as you. Sometimes what is considered "normal" is not normal at all for others."
"Okay. But what are you—"
A knock at the door cut off Camila's question. Dr. Shelley lowered Camila's gown and called for the person to enter. A nurse opened the door, apologized, and handed the doctor a paper. Camila watched as Dr. Shelley's eyebrows pinched together and a line formed in the center of her forehead. Camila swallowed and her stomach clenched a few times. After a moment, the line between the doctor's eyes smoothed and she met Camila's gaze.
"Urine is clean."
Camila frowned. "Oookay . . .?"
"That just means that, other than a slightly elevated blood pressure, everything looks good and on track. Baby is growing just fine, and you seem to be relatively healthy. Now," the doctor said with a kind smile, "how about we listen to the heartbeat and get you out of here?"
Camila relaxed a little, but there was something about the line that had adorned the doctor's forehead, something about the tone of her voice and the forced sound of her chuckle, that had Camila holding her breath. With a nod, she followed Dr. Shelley's hand with her eyes, jumped slightly when a dollop of cold gel landed on her stomach, and let the gust of shaky air pass her lips when the strong, musical thud, thud, thud, echoed throughout the room.
____________________________________________
Standing in the middle of Ohio State University's field brought back memories of the first time Shawn had ever set foot in a real football stadium. It was the day of his eighth birthday, and his father had agreed to let Shawn tag along on a meeting with the then-coach of MSU's football team. At the time, he'd thought it was the best birthday present ever—getting to run and play on a really real football field, but mostly, getting to spend the day with his increasingly busy and aloof father. Shawn had been so fascinated by the bright green of the AstroTurf covering the field and the stadium seating rising up all around them, he hadn't even realized the trip wasn't a present at all. He didn't learn until later that evening, when his father's meeting took so long both of them missed out on the party Shawn's mother had planned, that his father had forgotten completely that it was Shawn's birthday to begin with.
Now, as Shawn stood there, observing a different field, he felt just like he had as that eight-year-old, scrawny, mopped-haired kid. He stared up in awe at the seats surrounding him, at the announcer's box situated at the top of the stands, at the scoreboard with the university's mascot and name emblazoned across the bottom. And he was right back there again. He was that same little boy with all the hopes and dreams and plans pressing against the walls of his chest so hard it almost hurt.
Right then, his world wasn't falling apart. He wasn't a week away from standing in front of a judge who could take his entire future—or give it back to him. He wasn't three months away from becoming a teenage father. He wasn't all alone in a world bigger than he could handle.
In that moment, every possibility and every dream and every hope was alive and well, spread out and waiting within reach, begging him to grab hold it of.
Shawn dropped his bag from his shoulder and closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. The old, lingering scents of popcorn, cut grass, and sweat permeated the air.
And God, it was the best damn smell in the entire world.
His fingers twitched at his sides, and his palm ached to be wrapped around a ball. He could almost feel the laces between his fingers, the rough pebbled surface against his skin. Every muscle in his arm, shoulder, and back tingled in expectation, as if somehow they all knew exactly what he was supposed to do in this place. What he was dying to do.
"So, what do you think?" Eric's voice came from somewhere beside Shawn.
The spell broken, Shawn opened his eyes and let himself take in the surroundings once more. It was much like MSU's stadium, only this one was open to the sky, and the grass—mostly green with a few yellowing patches near the edges—was real.
"It's great," Shawn said. "It's . . ." His words failed to capture what he really felt. The fear of how much he could love it, how much he wanted to want it, made it impossible to say out loud. Especially to a virtual stranger. He glanced over at Eric, and the boy smiled.
"Yeah. It is."
"Steinfeld," one of the other boys called.
Shawn and Eric both turned toward the voice. The boy tapped at the watch on his wrist and jerked his head toward the building.
"It's almost time," he said. "If we're going to get him to Coach before everything starts, we need to go."
Eric nodded. "Yeah, all right. Why don't you two go ahead and we'll be there in a minute?"
The guys hesitated for a moment, eyeing Eric with an air of skepticism, before they turned and made their way toward the tunnel leading into the building. Eric let out a huff and shook his head, turning back to look out at the green expanse of the field.
Shawn raised a brow. "Animosity between teammates?"
"Nah," Eric said, still looking out in front of him. "They're just too cautious and impatient. Never taking the time to enjoy where they are." He glanced back at Shawn and smirked. "Maybe that's something you can work on with them during pre-season."
Shawn's mouth fell open, but no words came out.
Eric chuckled, slapped Shawn on the back, and bent to retrieve Shawn's backpack. "They were right though; it is almost time for orientation to start, and Coach did want to see you first. Come on."
He started toward the tunnel the other guys had disappeared into, and Shawn followed along, reaching out to take his bag on the way. Neither of them spoke as they entered the tunnel, cinderblock walls splattered with the school colors—red, gold, and white—surrounding them. Their footsteps echoed along the corridor, and Shawn could imagine how it would sound with cleats instead of tennis shoes.
The ache in his chest grew. In the past months he'd tried so hard to convince everyone—to convince himself—that this part of his life could be removed and he would be okay with it. But the longer he was here, the longer he thought about it even being a possibility, the more he realized that it couldn't, and he wouldn't. The game was a part of him—his father had made sure it would be a long time ago—and denying that fact only made it harder to breathe.
Near the end of the tunnel, Eric turned toward a large set of metal double doors. They seemed unassuming—not coated with colorful paint like the rest of the hallway—but when Eric pushed them open, Shawn was immediately reminded that there was nothing ordinary about them. The doors squealed in protest and the same scents that had lingered on the field were thick and unmistakable here. Bright red lockers lined the outer walls, and benches painted with gold and white stripes followed the length of them.
Shawn stepped into the locker room behind Eric, his feet shuffling over the giant ram's head painted onto the middle of the floor. He let his gaze wander and they fell to the cages below each locker. Red jerseys hung from every hook, names and numbers emblazoned in gold across the back. He let himself take it all in, to imagine what it would be like to see his name and number there.
And then he didn't have to imagine at all.
There, tucked in the corner to the far left, was the number seven. Big as life. Big as it had been in any dream. And just above it, his name. Mendes.
Shawn swallowed hard, and his feet carried him unconsciously toward the corner. When he reached it, he ran his fingers over the material, the shiny mesh slipping against his skin like silk. The stiff letters of his name made him pause, and something in his chest tightened up.
"Why is this here?" His voice was just above a whisper. "I'm not signed yet. Why is this here?"
"Coach has one for every prospective scout made up," Eric said. "He says it makes them feel more accepted, more at home, and even if they don't choose us, in the end they know they were wanted."
"And I believe that. It's not just something I say." A voice came from the hallway on the opposite side of the room.
Shawn turned toward it and paused. Coach Harold stood framed inside the corridor, his hair a mess and glasses slightly askew on his nose. He held a clipboard in one hand down at his side, and the metal clip on the top was snagged on the bottom of his shirt, pulling it out on one side. It was funny to Shawn to see how rumpled this guy looked, but feeling at the same time that he had it all together.
"Coach," Eric said. "We were just coming to see you. Shawn wanted to see the field, and I thought—"
Coach Harold held up his hand and glanced in the other boy's direction. "It's not a problem, Steinfeld. Why don't you join the others in the gymnasium to help corral the recruits," his gaze moved back to Shawn, "and give Mr. Mendes and I a moment?"
Eric nodded and reached out to clap Shawn on the shoulder. "See you around, Mendes."
"Yeah," Shawn offered with a nod of his own.
Once Eric was gone, Shawn let out a breath, dropped the jersey back to its hanging position, and turned fully toward the coach. He stared at Shawn expectantly, as if he were waiting for him to say something first. But Shawn had no idea what to say. It was the coach, after all, who'd wanted to speak to him. So Shawn wrapped his hands around the straps of his backpack and stared back.
Coach Harold cleared his throat and finally broke his stare, glancing around the locker room. "So, what do you think?"
"About?"
"This." The coach swept his hand in front of him. "Our little corner of the world."
Shawn let his gaze wander once more. This time his eyes caught more detailing in the painting on the floor and lockers. Little ram heads adorned every nameplate on every locker, past players' names were immortalized in a barely discernible off-white along the white stripes in the benches. It felt very much like everyone mattered here—both old and new. It was a feeling Shawn was not used to. He'd only ever mattered when he gave someone what he or she needed from him, and when they no longer needed anything, he became nothing once more.
"It's fine."
"Fine?" Coach Harold lifted a brow, and amusement shown on his face. "Just fine?"
Shawn shrugged. He wasn't about to give away how this place made his heart race, how he would give almost anything to one day see his name amongst the others on the bench. "Eric said you wanted to see me before everything started."
The coach ran his free hand around the back of his neck and held it there for a moment. "Right. Yeah, I did. There's something I wanted to discuss with you."
Shawn sighed. "Look," he ran a hand through his hair and tightened the other one around the strap of his bag, "there really isn't any need for you to talk up your school or program anymore. I don't need convincing. You're the only one who will have me anyway, at this point. But I still don't know what I'm going to do. I still don't know if—"
"It's not about the program, Shawn."
Shawn blinked. "It's not?"
"No."
"Then what . . .?"
Coach Harold took a step back and gestured to the hallway behind him. "Let's step into my office."
Shawn frowned, confused as hell, but still followed after the coach when he started down the corridor. When they neared the end, Coach twisted the knob on a doorway and pushed the door open, revealing a coach's office that was much more humble than his father's ever had been. Like his father's, there were trophies lined up on several shelves behind the large, metal desk, and there were pictures everywhere: pictures of the coach and various players, game photos, team photos. But unlike his father's, there were no photos of the coach alone, holding awards or meeting important people. This place felt very much like the office of a man that was proud to be a part of something, not the leader of it.
Without asking permission, Shawn let his feet carry him to the back of the room to take in the photos more clearly. The atmosphere in this place—the whole school, not just this room—was foreign and unnatural to him. He'd never experienced this kind of camaraderie. In the past, his football career had focused around what his father said, what his father wanted, and what he'd wanted was for his son to be the star. The only star. Shawn was used to being the only one in the spotlight, the only one anyone watched. He could tell already that being here would change that considerably. He'd no longer be the star, but instead, one of many.
The thought of that made him feel lighter than he'd felt in a long time. No more eyes just on him, no more watching and waiting for him to fail time and time again. The season could be lost or won by a whole team, not just him.
" Shawn . . ." Coach Harold said, his voice slightly apprehensive. "I think we should talk . . ."
Shawn turned toward him, a question on his lips, when he was distracted by the image of a familiar red-headed woman framed on Coach Harold's desk. Eyes almost identical to Camila's stared out at him from a face that was not quite her, and years older, but very familiar all the same. She stood next to a giant canvas, a paintbrush in her hand, and paint smeared across her shirt and cheek. She grinned a sly grin very reminiscent of Camila's as well, and next to her, stood the coach, same crooked glasses, same disheveled hair.
Another question formed on Shawn's lips, but died in his throat, when his eyes caught sight of another photo, partially hidden behind a stack of folders on the opposite side of the desk. He'd only seen the very top corner of the head, but it was enough to recognize the mop of brunette curls and the playful glint of clear blue eyes.
With a shaky exhale, Shawn reached out, his fingers closing around the cold, hard frame, his breath catching all together when he freed the photo from behind the mountain of papers. Jackson's contagious smile spread across the portrait's face, his unruly curls—so similar to Shawn's own—forming a halo around his head, seemingly making him glow like an angel. Shawn gripped the photo tighter, his breaths becoming shallower as his confusion mounted.
Why did the coach have these pictures? How did he know Camila's mother? His brother? What the hell was going on?
Shawn glanced up at the coach, who was watching him warily now, and flipped the picture around. "Why do you have this?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly, as his gaze moved to the picture of Sandra Cabello. "How do you know Camila's mom?"
The coach held his hands out in a calming gesture. "Okay, just . . . this is part of what I wanted to talk to you about. Why don't you sit—"
"No!" Shawn said, his voice trembling with anger now. "I don't want to sit. I want to know why the hell you have a picture of my brother."
Coach Harold rubbed at the back of his neck once more and breathed out in what seemed like resignation. "I know Camila's mother from the city. We met there years ago and have become great friends over time. As for," he gestured to the photo in Shawn's hand, "as for Jackson. . ."
Shawn's chest squeezed at his brother's name.
"Well, I have that picture because . . . because he's my nephew."
All of the air in Shawn's lungs escaped in one breath.
Coach Harold took a step toward him, but Shawn held out a hand in warning. Coach stopped, but never removed his gaze from Shawn's face. It was full of sadness, of remorse, of hope. Shawn wanted to rip the expression from his being.
"Jackson's mother," Coach began. "Helena . . . is my sister."
At the sound of her name, irrational anger flowed over Shawn, in a way that made him unable to think clearly. There was a part of him that could not see Helena Rayes as anything other than the woman who'd had his father for all the years he and his mother hadn't. He didn't know the real reason behind his parents' split, and he honestly didn't care. All he knew was she'd had him. She'd had him, and Shawn had had a depressed, suicidal mother and a pseudo-father who cared more about making Shawn into a legend than a son.
"I see," he said, as he set the photo back on the desk. Years of hurt coiled around his nerves, squeezing them until they were as numb as his heart.
"No," Coach said, "I don't think you do."
"No," Shawn replied. "I do. I get it. I get it all." He started to move around the desk, but Coach Harold stepped in his way.
" Shawn, please, let me finish."
"Get out of my way. I'd like to leave now."
"Please, Shawn," Coach pleaded again. "Don't do this."
Shawn glared at the man, the fury he had kept contained in the pit of his stomach for so many years raged hotter and hotter. "Don't do what? Don't stop people from playing with me? Don't stop the lies from happening over and over and over again? Don't let myself be free from all of this bullshit once and for all? Don't do that to myself?"
"No," Coach's eyes grew hard. "Don't let the Mendes pride stop you from taking what you deserve."
"This isn't Mendes pride!" Shawn said. "This is about all of you assholes keeping shit from me, thinking you know best, thinking you can manipulate me into doing things that will make all of your sorry asses feel better about the past! Did your sister put you up to this? Is that why you've been hounding me so hard? It's not about my playing at all, is it? It's all about making her feel less guilty!"
Coach Harold frowned. "Shawn, I don't know what you're talking about. Why would Helena feel guilty?"
There was nothing but rage now. None of Shawn's thoughts made sense, none of his feelings, but his brain spewed forth the only thing it could. "For stealing my dad away!"
Shawn gasped when the words left his lips. He staggered back a few steps as if he'd been struck. Thoughts and feeling swirled in a jumbled mess inside of him, and he couldn't make out any of it. He didn't know where that thought had come from, but he could feel it deep inside of him, like a cancer that had hidden away for years and years, that in the scope of his feelings, it was completely true. The only truth.
" Shawn . . ."
Shawn shook his head and turned away, his eyes stinging and throat burning. He felt like such a God-damn fool. Like such a pussy. "Just let me leave," he whispered.
"Listen to me first." Coach Harold's voice was closer, as if he were standing directly behind Shawn.
Shawn closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the ceiling.
"First of all, you are not here because of Helena or Ben or Sandra or Camila. You're here because of you, because of what I see in you when you play football. That's it." He paused. "I would be lying if I said I didn't have feelings about you on a personal level, but those have nothing to do with why I want you to play for me. Do you understand?"
Shawn drew in a shaky breath but did not respond. His shoulders ached with how tightly his muscles were coiled.
"As for my sister stealing your dad away . . ."
Shawn's muscles clenched tighter. He felt stupid for his outburst, but he wasn't about to take it back.
"I can understand how you might feel that way. I do. But it's just not true. Helena didn't even know Ben at the time he separated from your mom. I don't know what facilitated that, but it wasn't her."
"She kept him from coming back," Shawn said, his voice so quiet he could barely hear it himself.
"No, Shawn."
"Yes," he said, turning to face Coach once more. "She gave him someone else to focus on; she gave him a new family, a new son. She insured he'd never come back to me."
Coach Harold shook his head and took another step forward. "I think you know that's not true. Your father didn't come back because of himself. No one else."
Shawn closed his eyes and lowered his head. He did. But blaming her was easier than blaming him. He didn't give a shit what she thought of him, if she'd been the one to not want him, but even after eighteen years, the fact that it was him was still more than Shawn could bear.
"Look, son, I love Ben as a brother-in-law, as the father to my only nephew, but he was a damn coward back then. And don't think for a second he doesn't know and regret that. But for your own sake, you need to either put it into your past and move on without him, or forgive him. You call Jackson your brother, so I'm thinking you'd really like to do the latter."
"I don't know how," Shawn said.
"Yeah, well, none of us do. Forgiveness is a tricky, almost impossible thing, but I think you can do it."
Shawn glanced up. "You don't even know me."
"True, but I know what kind of man you are." Shawn furrowed his brows, and Coach Harold nodded toward the picture of Camila's mother. "You've made quite an impression on my friend Sandra. And, according to her, you've been incredibly brave and selfless in caring for her daughter."
"It was my mistake," Shawn said, staring at the photo. "My responsibility."
"Well, I've always been a fan of the concept that making a baby takes two people." He eyed Shawn. "And two makes it a shared responsibility. Don't you think?"
Shawn shrugged.
Coach Harold reached out and cupped Shawn's shoulder, looking him dead in the eye. "Let Camila accept her part, and let yourself off the hook a little bit. Also . . ." he paused. "Why not let those of us who want to be there for you, be there. It isn't pity. It isn't guilt. It's just a desire to help someone who deserves a little compassion. And Shawn, you deserve a little."
Shawn ran his hand up into his hair and pulled slightly. He didn't necessarily believe the sentiment, but he wanted to. God, he wanted to.
"Well, now that that's out in the open . . ." Coach Harold slapped Shawn on his back and turned toward his desk. "How about we talk football now, hmm?" And across the table top, he slid a packet of papers, the title on the top one reading: Ohio State University Football Program, Letter of Intent.
Shawn glanced up at the coach, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
____________________________________________
"What do you think of a jungle theme, Karla? Or . . . maybe just shades of blue and gray? Do you have a preference?"
Camila glanced up from her phone to the two crib bedding sets her mother held in her hands. "Blue," she offered, not really caring in the slightest.
"Oh." Her mother frowned and hesitantly placed the colorful jungle set back on the shelf. "Okay."
"Or jungle. I really don't care, Mama."
"No." Her mother shook her head and clutched the blue set to her chest. "Sometimes less is more. You're right. Besides, we can do a lot with blue." Walking over to the cart, her mother placed the bedding set on top of the towering pile of accessories, clothing, and other baby-ish items Camila had no idea what to do with. Her mother paused for a moment, her finger tapping her bottom lip. "I wonder if we have enough onesies? It's been sixteen years, but I remember how much newborns poop—and not just poop, but poop everywhere ." She absently walked over to the clothing section once more.
Camila shook her head, leaned back against the wall to take some weight off her aching feet, and glanced back down at Hailee's text.
Is it horrible?
Kinda. Camila typed back . Mama is talking about poop.
Ewwwwww!
Right?! It's mostly weird though.
Weird how?
I don't know. I keep expecting her to give me scolding looks or lectures still, but she's just acting like this is all normal. Like buying baby stuff with her teenage daughter is an every day thing.
It's not like she hasn't had 6 months to get used to it.
I guess. It's just—
"Sweetheart look!" Her mother's excited voice came from a few aisles over. Camila peered up and found her mother holding up a package containing a red and gold blanket. "Whitecastle's colour!"
Camila bit her lip and nodded hesitantly. She checked the time on her screen. It had only been a few hours since Shawn had last texted her while she was at the doctor's office, but she couldn't help but wonder if he was doing okay. As much as he tried to put on a brave face, she could tell he was worried about this meeting. Under normal circumstances, she would have told him he was crazy for being nervous at all. He was a really gifted athlete, and any school would be crazy not to take him.
But these weren't normal circumstances, and it may not matter what the university wanted at all, in the long run. A shiver shot down Camila's spine, and her phone buzzed once more in her hand.
It's just WHAT?
Camila?
HELLO?
WHERE DID YOU GO?!
Sorry. Camila typed back, pushing the feelings of uncertainty and guilt back down. Mama needed me to look at something. I should probably go and at least act grateful.
You know you are grateful, even if you do act like a little snot about it.
Camila shook her head and typed out her last reply, BYE, HAIZ, before shoving her phone back into her pocket. It buzzed once more against her thigh, but she ignored it this time. Slowly, she made her way back to where her mother was still browsing the itty bitty clothing. It was the strangest thing, being there with her mother and looking at all of this baby stuff—let alone knowing it was for her baby.
Every day the realization that this was her life was becoming more and more profound. She still had moments of disbelief—of denial, more like it—but for the most part, she'd accepted that this was happening. To her. To Shawn. Nothing was ever going to be the way it once was. She was no longer going to be a rebellious teen cheerleader, who snuck out her bedroom window in thigh-high boots to go to a party with her best friend. She wasn't going to kiss random boys in a drunken stupor. She wasn't going to wonder how she would be spending the next Friday night. She was going to be the girl sitting up with a screaming, crying, peeing, and apparently, pooping, baby boy.
This was her life now.
"Sweetheart?" her mother's voice came from right next to her.
Camila jerked and met her mother's concerned gaze.
"You okay?"
Camila blinked and shook her head, trying to dispel the thoughts bombarding her. "Yeah. Just tired."
Her mother stared at her for a moment, disbelief clear in her eyes, but she didn't voice it, and for that, Camila was glad. She didn't want to have another discussion about her feelings. It was hard enough, still, being with her mom again after so much time apart, she really didn't need to get into the personal stuff again right then.
Reaching out, Sandra wrapped a finger around a rogue curl hanging near Camila's temple that had escaped the low ponytail in the back. "How about we break for lunch, then check out that art supply store you like before heading home? We can get the rest of the stuff we need for the nursery later." She tugged lightly on the curl, then tucked it behind Camila's ear.
Camila nodded and chewed at her bottom lip. "Yeah, okay."
Her mother gave her a smile and guided her toward the front of the store where they, as quickly as was possible with a cart as full as theirs, checked out and then made their way out into the bustling throng of the mall. Their arms laden in bags, they stopped in the food court. Camila thought her arms were going to fall off with the excess weight.
"Why don't we park it here," Camila's mother gestured to a table close to where they stood on the outskirts of the court, "and I'll go get us food. Chinese?"
Camila nodded and let the bags slip from her arms onto the floor, her veins tingling and burning as blood started to flow unencumbered once more. "Sounds good."
As her mother pushed her way through the crowd, Camila dropped into the nearest chair and let out a deep sigh. Her feet, back, and head throbbed, and all she really wanted to do was go home and sleep.But, even though she'd never been so tired in her entire life, she was sick to death of lying in her bed. She wanted to go out and do something, anything, but her body fought her at every turn. Camila was convinced that pregnancy was God's ultimate punishment to women. Not only were their bodies now slaves to the life growing inside them, but their emotions, hormones, and functions no longer belonged to them either. Camila was constantly hungry and nauseated, tired and antsy, bored and anxious, weepy and giggly, all at the same time. Her muscles ached, her skin itched, and she was so damn horny it wasn't funny.
It sucked. All of it.
But then MJ would kick—sometimes a soft brush, like a caress against the side of her stomach, or an impatient tap, tap, tap to her bladder—and Shawn would put his hand over the spot, his fingers answering the knock or swipe, and at the smile that would light his face, she would remember why it would all someday be worth it.
Camila reached down and brushed her hand over the swell of her stomach. Soft, sleepy flutterings danced underneath, as if just that barely-there touch had wakened him. Her mouth pulled up in one corner, and she pressed lightly against the spot she could feel the brushes, and he pressed back, as if he wanted to touch her as much as she did him at that moment. Her smile grew bigger, and she was about to tap to see what he'd do, when she heard a voice she'd hoped she wouldn't have to hear again for a while, off to the side of where she sat.
"Well, isn't that sweet. Look guys, it's our very own teen mom."
Camila rolled her eyes and sighed as the giggles of her former classmates tittered around her. Looking up, she fixed her face into a nonchalant expression. "How original, Ailee, I'm surprised you were able to think of that all on your own."
Ailee crossed her arms over her chest. "I've got to say, you are the last person I expected to see here this weekend."
Camila raised a brow. "Well, I'm shopping. And," Camila gestured to the shopping center surrounding her, "this is a mall. You know, a place where people . . . shop."
Ailee narrowed her eyes. "I'm just surprised to see you here this weekend."
Camila just stared at the girl, not having the foggiest idea what she was going on about.
"I wouldn't have taken you for a prom sort of girl normally, but even more so now—what with your . . . state . . . and all." She cocked her head to the side and peered at Camila. "Do they even sell prom dresses at Motherhood?"
For a fraction of a second, Camila frowned in confusion, but it was enough for Ailee to see, and she squealed in glee.
"Oh, this is too precious. Don't you think so, girls?" She turned to her friends, and they all nodded like the followers they were. Ailee turned her gaze back to Camila, her eyes glowing in what seemed like triumph. She batted her lashes, as if even that cliché movement could ever make her look innocent. "You didn't know?"
"Why would I care?" Camila said. "I'm not old enough, and I don't even go to school there anymore."
Ailee leaned in, her face aglow as if she held the world's best secret. "True," she said. "But your baby daddy is a senior and, oh! What do you know?" She produced a gaudy looking purple flyer from her bag and thrust it into Camila's face. It didn't take her long to realize it was an advertisement for the prom, which was taking place the very next weekend.
Camila swallowed and met Ailee's gaze.
Ailee grinned wider. "So, the only thing I'm wondering is, did he finally grow a brain and dump your ass? Or," she lowered her voice to a stage whisper, "was he too embarrassed to show up with a fat loser like you?"
Camila did her best to keep her facial expression neutral, as her heart thudded away in her chest and her hands clenched at her sides. "Better be careful, Ailee, one might think you're actually curious about my life."
Ailee snorted and pulled away. "Yeah," she said, eyeing Camila before turning away and tossing her final words and the crumpled up purple flyer over her shoulder, "that's what I thought."
The ball of paper rolled to a stop at Camila's feet, and she glared at it. Not because she wanted to go, and not because Shawn hadn't mentioned it to her at all. But because Ailee had gotten exactly what she'd been trying to: she'd rattled Camila, surprised her, made her question—even if it was only for a fraction of a second, even though she knew deep down that it was stupid, and he'd be super pissed that she'd even considered it—if Shawn really was too embarrassed to take her.
____________________________________________
All the way home from Ohio, Shawn had been a bundle of anxious energy. His thoughts and emotions were still all over the place from the things he'd seen, heard, and experienced while on campus, and while having his "heart-to-heart" with Coach Harold. He still didn't know what to think about everything that had transpired or how he felt about his father and step-mother's closeness in seemingly every aspect of his life. He found it damn near impossible to believe that their relationships to the coach had nothing to do with where Shawn found himself in that moment in time, but there was no way he could prove it. And, truth-be-told, he didn't know if he wanted to. He was damn tired of obsessing over all of this shit all the time.
Maybe it was about time he just let something good happen to him, without all the damn questions.
The one thing he did know, the one absolute truth in this entire confusion, was that the one person he knew he could and wanted to talk about it with, was Camila. As always. Shawn had pressed the speed limit as far—as had become the norm—as he could as he made his way out to her new home, but he'd known by the weak smile she gave and the slump in her shoulders as she'd made her way out to his car, that she was not all there at the moment. It became more and more obvious and, honestly, concerning, when he took her to the diner for some of Nana's famous apple pie, and she just picked at it with a fork. She told him she was just in a mood, but Shawn could tell that wasn't it. Something was definitely wrong.
She'd listened and had tried to muster the appropriate smiles and congratulations when he'd told her the news: that he'd signed the letter of intent, and if all went well the next week, he'd be joining the ranks as a Ohio State University in the fall.
Shawn hadn't felt bad about her less-than-usual excitement, because she had congratulated him. She had flung her arms around him and kissed every inch of his face, telling him in soft whispers how she knew he could do it, how she'd never doubted him for a second. There was just this undercurrent flowing through her, this out-of-place sadness and irritation that Shawn couldn't seem to break through.
After the fiftieth scrape of her fork against the still-full plate, Shawn reached out and put his hand over hers. She glanced up at him as the utensil clattered to the table.
"So, are we going to talk about what's bothering you, or are we going to continue to sit here and pretend you're eating?" he asked.
Camila sat back in her seat. "I guess I'm just not hungry."
"You? Not hungry for Nana's pie? How can that be?" he said with a smile. But Camila didn't return it, she just shrugged and hunched lower in the booth. Shawn sighed and pushed his plate out of the way, reaching out for her once more. "Come on," he said. "What is it?"
"It's . . ." She blew out a frustrated breath, momentarily displacing a piece of hair that hung in her face. "It's really nothing. I'm just in a mood, like I said."
"Mila . . ."
"Ugh!" she said, and crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Shawn. "Why can't you just leave it alone? Maybe I don't want to talk."
"Well, maybe I do, and whatever this is," he gestured at her standoffish posture, "is making that difficult."
She sighed. "What do you want to talk about, Shawn?"
"Nuh uh." He shook his head. "You first. I can't do this with you all . . . holding yourself in like that."
Camila growled in irritation and tossed her napkin at him. "You can be so annoying sometimes."
"You haven't seen anything yet. Now, come on." Shawn threaded his fingers through hers and brought her hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips against her knuckles and peering up at her from under his lashes.
Her expression softened, and he hid his grin behind her hand. Worked every time.
"You know, I can see you smirking behind there."
Shawn smiled wider and let her see it. "Don't change the subject."
Camila rolled her eyes and tugged her hand back. "Fine, but I'm warning you, it's really, really stupid and all kinds of hormonal teenage girl crazy."
"Okaaay," he said, raising a brow.
Camila tried to blow the rogue curl out of her face once more, but it flopped right back against her cheek. She chewed at her lip and rolled her eyes again—this time seemingly at herself. "Why didn't you tell me about your prom?"
Shawn frowned. That was definitely not what he'd expected her to say. "What?"
She sighed. "See? Just never mind—"
"No! No . . . I just . . . didn't expect that to be what this was about."
Camila's cheeks turned bright red. "I told you it was stupid . . ." she mumbled and glanced away from him.
Shawn got up from his seat across from her and slid into the bench beside her. He reached out and tucked his finger under her chin, lifting until her gaze met his. "No it's not," he said, his voice soft. "I just . . ." He struggled to put his answer into words. "Mila—"
"Wait," she said, standing. "Can we go someplace else?"
Shawn blinked up at her. "Why?"
"I just . . ." She scratched at her arm and looked around the crowded room. "Just can we?"
"Uh, sure." Shawn stood from his position at the booth, reached into his pocket for his wallet, and pulled out a ten, throwing it down onto the table. Picking up his jacket, he shrugged it on and reached out for Camila. His fingers splayed across the small of her back as he motioned toward the door. "Let's go."
Camila didn't speak and nodded her head as she started forward. They reached the front door after a few awkward squeezes through tables and around people, and Shawn caught Nana's eye as he reached out and wrapped his hand around the cold, metal bar. He noticed the concerned look in her eye as she watched them, but Shawn gave her a nod that said many things: goodbye, thank you, and every thing's okay, all in one gesture.
Spring-laced winter air swirled in gentle gusts as they made their way across the parking lot. Shawn opened Camila's door and held her hand as she carefully maneuvered herself inside. It took longer and longer the further along she got, but Shawn stayed by her side as she struggled to bend down, to swing her leg over the bottom of the door opening, to settle herself comfortably in the seat below. When she was finally inside and buckled, he closed her door and walked around to the other side, fishing into his pocket for the keys.
Once he settled down beside her, he started the car and turned to look at her. "Where do you want to go?"
"The garden," she said without hesitation and without even glancing his way. She kept her eyes peeled to the darkening sky around them.
"The garden? Won't you be cold?"
"I'm pregnant and hotter than crap most of the time. I'll be fine. I want to go there."
"Okay." Shawn shook his head, but started driving in the direction of the garden anyway.
Camila didn't say another word as they drove. Shawn wasn't quite sure what was happening. Was she mad at him? Hurt? Usually he could read her every expression, but there was something different this time, something he wasn't quite sure what to make of.
Before long, Shawn was parking in the small lot just outside the woods and walking around the car to help Camila out. Once they were both standing in the twilight, the cool air swirling around them, Camila started to walk. Shawn easily kept up with her, but he let her lead. This was her deal tonight, and if he wanted answers to what was up with her, he knew to wait for her to speak first.
It was almost fully dark when they broke through into the circle of the garden. The soft glow of the moon cast a strange blue light on the face of the cupid statue, and dim solar lights shone from all around the stone floor. Shawn couldn't decide whether he liked it there better at night or during the day.
Camila came to a standstill just in front of the statue, her face upturned as if she were speaking to it. "I think I love it here more now than before."
Shawn stuck his hands into his pockets and moved in close behind her. He could feel the heat of her body through her coat and his. He wanted to wrap his arms around her waist and hold her against him, but she seemed so far away, like if he even tried to touch her, she would consistently be out of his reach.
"Why?" he asked, his breath shifting the small hairs against the back of her neck.
She shivered noticeably. "Because it feels like it belongs to us. Like it always belonged to us, but we just didn't know it."
"Mila . . ."
She sighed and turned back to him. He was stunned to see that shame was the most prominent emotion on her face. "I ran into Ailee at the mall today. She . . . said some stuff. About prom. And you. And me. And I . . . it just made me wonder."
"Wonder what?"
"Why you didn't say anything." She peered up at him. "Why you don't want to take me."
He let his gaze move from one of her eyes to the other, searching. "Is that what you think?"
"No," she said. "I just . . . no. It isn't."
"Then why would you ask me that?"
She let out a flabbergasted sigh and lifted her arms, letting them drop loudly to her thighs. "Because I'm stupid!"
"You're not stupid—"
"Yes, I am. I am," she said. "I let her get to me. I knew that's what she wanted, but I let her do it anyway."
"Why?"
"Because . . ." She looked at him pleadingly, like she was imploring him to understand the female psyche without her having to explain. As if that shit was ever going to happen. "Because I'm still a teenage girl, Shawn. I still find myself wondering why you like me sometimes, wondering how I can ever be enough for you. For anyone. Because that's just how girls think sometimes. We're never fully confident. Always guessing. Always wondering. And even though I know you love me, that you want me, sometimes I still wonder why. Maybe that will never change. I don't know."
This time Shawn could not stop himself from reaching out to her. His hands closed over her hips and he tugged her forward. She resisted at first, the embarrassment clear on her face, but after a bit, she gave in and let him pull her into him. He laced his fingers behind her back and bent forward, touching his forehead to hers.
"Do you wanna know why I didn't say anything about prom?"
She nodded and pulled back. "Yeah."
"Well, two reasons, the first being . . . Honestly? I just really didn't want to go." She tried to pull away further, but he held tight. "And it had nothing to do with you and everything to do with . . . me . . . with them. The Ailees and Keiras and any other idiot who think high school is the end-all, be-all of existence. I don't feel the need to prove myself to any of them anymore, Mila. I don't feel like I need this "right of passage" or other bullshit people call stuff like this. I just didn't feel like it was something important for me. And . . ." He wasn't sure he wanted to tell her the second part.
"And . . .?" she hedged.
Shawn sighed. "And . . . I wasn't even sure I'd get the chance to go anyway." He met her gaze.
Her expression softened almost immediately. " Shawn —"
He lifted his hand and touched his finger to her lips. "Shh," he said with a shake of his head. "I don't think of it in a 'pity me' sort of way, so don't you either. It's just the way shit is." Shawn pulled her tighter against him. "I'm okay with it now, baby. I am. None of this other shit—high school dances, graduation, college football—none of it matters anymore to me. I have bigger things to worry about, bigger things to think about and wish for, you know?"
"Yeah," she whispered, sadness lacing her tone.
"It's almost over," he whispered back, leaning into her. "Next week the waiting and wondering and worrying will all be over. We'll know which way it's going to swing then, and we'll deal with whatever it is together. Okay?"
Camila closed her eyes and nodded her head. "I'm scared."
"Me too," he admitted.
Shawn felt her hand fist into the back of his jacket, and the warm puff of her breath against his cheeks when she breathed out.
"What are we going to do if it doesn't go our way next week? If they send you—" Her voice broke. "What are we going to do?"
Shawn took her face into his hands and looked into her eyes. "We're going to be all right. Both of us, regardless of what happens."
"But how—"
"Remember when you were asking me about what I thought about fate? If I believed in destiny or soul mates or whatever?"
She nodded.
"I said I didn't really know, because, honestly, I don't. But I feel . . . something . . . different with you. I always have. I feel it here." He lowered one hand and held it in a fist over his stomach. "I feel it here," he whispered, raising his hand to touch his fingertips to the skin over his heart. "I don't know if it's fate that we met. I don't know if we're destined to be. I just know that we are . I can't explain how or why, and I'm not sure I even want to. I just know what is. Right now."
"Me too," she said. "I feel it too."
"So, how about we let fate or destiny or whoever it is that may hold the strings to our future, know how we want it to go. What we say is right."
Camila gazed up at him. "How do we do that?"
Shawn grinned and took a step back, looking up at the cupid statue towering above them. "Remember the night we met—well, the second time? When you told me about the baby?"
"Yeah?"
He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Do you remember what you did when we got here?"
Camila frowned. "Um, you mean besides ruining your night?"
He grinned and hopped up onto the small wall surrounding the fountain. "Yes, besides that."
"Then no."
Shawn smiled again and turned back to the statue. Its expression was fierce and stern, not at all what a chubby baby was supposed to look like. But it wasn't like cupid was an actual baby; he was an angel, and angels were not fluffy and cute and sweet. They were warriors. Warriors of whatever task they were given. Cupid's was love.
If Cupid was real and shot real arrows, he'd gotten Shawn straight through the heart months ago, as he'd engaged the amazing girl that now stood before him. Reaching up, Shawn took the symbolism of cupid's arrow and made it more tangible, more real, and pressed the pad of his finger to the sharp tip, just as Camila had all those months earlier.
A piercing sting bit at his finger, and a warm slide of liquid flowed down his skin. When he was finished, he wrapped his hand around the cold steel of the arrow and wrenched it free from the seat of the bow.
He hopped down from the fountain wall and slowly made his way back to Camila. She stared up at him, her eyes large and bright in the moonlight. Every time Shawn saw her like this—open and honest and pure—he never thought she looked more beautiful. He stretched out his hand, the arrow nestled safely in his palm, and offered it to her.
"There," he said. "I'm taking back our destiny. Now no one, no force, no entity, no anything, controls it but us. Not my father or yours. Not the little shits that think they run our schools. Not the judge next week. No one but us."
Camila smiled and stepped forward. She didn't take the arrow from him as he'd intended. Instead, she wrapped her hand around his, leaving it pressed between them.
"I like that," she said, as she pulled him closer, her lips only centimeters from his.
"Me too," he answered, just before he kissed her, his lips brushing hers softly, and it was like a seal, a protectant over the proclamation he'd just made.
Next week, Shawn would stand before a judge who didn't know him, who didn't care, personally, one way or another what happened to him, but for tonight, he was standing before no one. It was just him and his girl, in their garden under the soft rays of moonlight, and the symbol of a destiny so many thought had already decided what was to come, trapped between their hands, between their bodies, where only they had the power to wield it.
____________________________________________
Author's Note:
This is it, my fellow Senorita and Senor, we are officially down to our couple last chapters. I am glad, truly glad, that there are still you lovelies out there reading my piece. I love you all, really.
PS:
I'mma continue to embarrass ya'all and keep calling their lil' precious fetus MJ, take it or leave it. Yes, I lurk on Twitter.
PPS:
It's SHAMILA. Dear Lord, can we stop using Shawmila hshshssdjk.
Until next time,
Bloomsbelle xoxo