There’s a sliver of disappointment, and I look down at my lap. “It’s your house,” I say.
“You’re being so defensive,” Cameron says. “I’m not the enemy. You don’t have to fight with me.” The bed shifts next to me, and although he’s not touching me, I can feel the warmth from his body. I swallow hard.
“Maybe I only know how to fight.”
“And maybe I’m fighting on the same side as you.”
I like him. I do. And even though he’s giving off the vibe that he likes me back, it doesn’t mean anything. Patrick used to tell me that he loved me in one breath and then tell me to “not look so poor” in the next. He’d whisper sweet words into my ear and put his hand down my pants, only to make me walk home because he was going out with his friends. I wasn’t exactly the best judge of character back then. I can’t be stupid like that again. Even though I know Cameron is cool, sweet even, I’m the one who will end up getting hurt. I’m the one with too much to lose.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Cameron says, sounding amused. Can he tell he makes me nervous?
“That’s because you talk too much,” I say.
“Only to you.”
My face tingles. I can feel myself beginning to completely overanalyze the situation. Why does he talk to me? Whyme?
“You’re quiet again,” Cameron says.
I have to say something to break this tension. He’s within touching distance. “So . . .” I start. “You’re super rich.” It comes out like an accusation rather than a statement.
“No,” he says. “But my parents are.”
I turn and find him smiling down at his expensive-looking rug.
“Are they assholes?” I ask.
“Who?” He laughs. “My parents?” He sounds surprised by the question.
I guess they’re not. “Never mind,” I say quickly.
“No, it’s okay,” Cameron says, touching my hand. It’s an innocent gesture, but I can’t help pulling away and folding my hands on my lap.
“They’re good people,” Cameron adds. “Especially my mom.”
I don’t know why, but this makes me even more attracted to him. Something about the way his voice softens when he mentions his mom. I wish I could feel like that about my mom.
I want to know more about him. I want to understand him the way I do my friends. “Cameron,” I say, looking sideways at him. “Why did you really trash the school?”
“It’s a long, tragic story—”
“I’m serious. I want to know.”
He turns suddenly to me, running his gaze over my face. I lick my lips as if anticipating him kissing me.
“I was mad,” he says instead. “I was . . . pissed off and mad.”
“Why?”
“Because I hated them. Langston Prep,” he says. “I didn’t belong there.”
“You do drive a BMW.” I know of Langston. It has a campus with trees and private sports teams. Having a nice car is a prerequisite.
“I wasn’t like them,” he says. “They were fake, and I’m not like that.”
Cameron isn’t calm and smiling. His eyes are narrowed and his lips are pulled up in a sneer. I shift a little closer to him, sort of fascinated by his anger.
“You could’ve done your thing and gone home,” I say. “That’s what I do now.”
