Is this the Cammie effect? Her proximity making absolutely everything seem more confusing and tangled and messy? Or do I just need to shut up, eat my now-cold mountain of carbs, and get a full night of sleep, then everything will be easy-breezy in the morning?
Cammie picks up the conversational baton instead of letting the awkward silence I’ve left drag on for eternity.
“We’re here with our parents. Well, my mom and his dad. We’re not siblings. Or even step-siblings. Our parents aren’t a couple—never have been! Because he’s gay, but it’s not like that’s the only reason they aren’t together. She’s also…emotionally unavailable?”
On second thought, the silence wasn’t so awkward. And I thoughtmysocial skills were rusty.
Cammie pauses to lift her full water glass to her lips and drain it, then slams it back down with a gasping breath. This is quickly followed by a few seconds where her face pinches up in discomfort and she presses a hand to her chest, squeaking out the words “that was carbonated” by way of explanation.
Lila, Anonymous Guy, and I all seem incapable of anything but gaping at the one-woman show. When her face finally relaxes and her hand falls to her lap, Cammie finishes with: “Anyway, our parents are archaeologists.”
Lila is polite enough to ask a follow-up question. “So, your parents are leading the field school?”
I decide to take this one, bolstered by the fact that I can’t make things much weirder. “No, they’re here for the twentieth anniversary celebration and the documentary about Villa di Bronzo. Her mom was the first to discover it, and she and my dad co-led the first excavations.” Belatedly, I add, “Cammie was also born at the dig site, and it was a big news story and everything, so she’ll be part of filming, too.”
Just when I thought we’d lost these potential summer friends, Lila’s face brightens and she lets out a gasp. “Wait, oh my god, what?” Her excitement is entirely directed toward Cammie. “I’ve heard that story! That was you?”
Cammie nods, and her new biggest fan fires questions at her about her brush with worldwide celebrity, which she spent as a barely sentient baby blob. Cammie’s a seasoned pro at this routine, and while the two are occupied with each other, I’m able to eat a few bites of food and almost convince myself it tastes better cold than it would have fresh.
“So, West,” Lila says after a few minutes, snapping my attention back to her. “You won’t get to be part of the documentary? What are you going to do with all your free time?”
The questions come with a cute faux pout, like she’s sympathetic to the plight of the unfamous. But her eyes are smiling and her lashes flutter, and for the first time, I wonder—is this unreasonably pretty girl…flirting with me?
I feel my cheeks heat as my ability to form complete sentences crumbles. “I…I brought some stuff I’m hoping to work on. Programs, like, coding. On my computer.”
Cammie’s laugh is like a singular thunderclap, brief butforeboding. I turn my head to find her looking at Lila with a knowing smile, her tone breezy as she says, “You’ve gotta watch out if this one starts getting bored.” She leans in and lowers her voice, but not so low I can’t hear her confide, “He might try to make you his friend with benefits.”
I’m vaguely aware of Lila letting out an uncomfortable semi-laugh, and Whatever His Name Is might be choking on a piece of cannoli. Our parents continue to joke and chat and drink, oblivious to the psychological warfare being waged so casually at the same table.
But I’m too consumed by a shock-horror-mortification cocktail to do anything but sit there, perfectly still and laser-focused on this stranger who looks a lot like my old friend. My insides tremble with something like adrenaline. Maybe it’s my fight-or-flight instincts battling it out with the lesser known third option: cry.
I don’t know if it’s to her credit or not, but Cammie doesn’t walk the words back. Nor does she drop my gaze as she leans back in her chair and carelessly twirls one braid around her fingers. I finally manage to swallow even though my mouth has gone dry. Several slow, deep breaths later, the emotional five-alarm fire that filled my brain has burned down to something more manageable, and I can start to form actual thoughts.
So I know exactly what I’m doing when I tap into the most spiteful side of myself, crafting the first reply I can think of with a chance of wounding her back in kind.
“Nah, I have too many interests to get truly bored. I guessthat’s a perk of starting life in an ordinary way to ordinary parents—it forces you to develop a personality.”
She flinches, the rest of her body going rigid while her jaw goes slack.
I know I’ve struck true. But it sure doesn’t feel like a victory.
Chapter Five
Cammie
Even in my sleep, Ican’t escape Weston Jacobs.
The first night after a long travel day, no matter the change in distance or time zones, I am reliably dead to the world. Thoroughly zonked, from the moment my head hits the pillow until a persistent alarm or brave human revives me the next day.
By the time I fled the Welcome (to Hell) Dinner, I was craving that sweet hibernation. I almost wished West’s verbal knockout punch had been literal—that I could’ve taken the L and skipped straight to being unconscious. But no, I had to spend another half hour actually thinking thoughts and feeling feelings and hiding it all under a polite, composed mask before I was finally alone in my room, regrettable outfit off, pajamas on, lights out.
I told myself I didn’t care that West looked so betrayed bywhat I told that Lila girl. I’d only said it because of all his little jabs at me and my overalls, each snarky comment like a tug on one of my braids, making me want to swat back. If our words were our weapons, I’d thought mine were a Swiss Army knife, but West had answered with explosives.
Then, instead of enjoying a peaceful, restorative slumber, I proceeded to relive the awful night for nine hours straight. That’s how long it felt, anyway, with the weird time distortion that happens in dreamland. I woke up with splayed limbs tangled in my duvet, and similarly tangled memories of the real versus dream versions of last night.
It didn’t help that Dream Cammie made some disturbing creative choices. Like devoting a lot of attention to Dream West’s effortlessly shiny hair, which fell in a kind of tidy mess I didn’t know could be so appealing. And his strong jawline, shaded with a light stubble that hadn’t been there earlier in the day, and definitely wasn’t a thing the one time my lips had touched his. And his forearms, revealed by the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt.
I rub my eyes aggressively, like that’ll wipe those all-too-real images from where they’re printed on my brain in what I fear is permanent ink. I, for one, could have gone my whole life without seeing West Jacobs in a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. I didn’t need to know that he’s acquired objectively hot forearms in our years apart. It would’ve been my preference for him to spend the whole summer inside a hazmat suit with akick mesign taped to the back. Something that wouldn’t allow me any glimpse of his present-day body, so I couldimagine he’s become completely unappealing. Like he no longer bathes, because he thinks hygiene is a myth created by Big Soap. Or he got a giant chest tattoo of the wordFREEDOMand only dresses in revealing muscle tanks that show it off.
