“Yeah, I’m not dumb,” she shoots back. “I know it could be hard and he still might not want anything to do with me. But I feel like that’s not completely his choice anymore.” Her words slow, like she’s piecing together her thoughts as she vocalizes them over the ongoing flow of water. “Like, I’m an adult now,and just because he doesn’t want to know anything about me doesn’t mean I don’t get to know anything about him, right? How is that fair? Relationships should be a two-way street. And I guess so far, the street hasn’t existed at all. But I don’t want it to stay this big empty spot in my history and my biology and everything forever. Maybe I’ll find out who he is, and it’ll be someoneIwant nothing to do with, but at least I’ll know. I’ll understand this whole half of my background that has always been a question mark. I feel like that understanding will be worth it.”
Something about her words starts an itch in the back of my brain. The Cammie I knew before was not someone who felt incomplete. She always seemed to know herself better than anyone I’ve met, never let on that she felt anything amiss in her life or family makeup. She was confident, self-assured, and, from my perspective, a complete and completely wonderful person. The prospect that something has shaken that sense of self makes me almost sadder than her absence from my life the last few years.
But I suspect she’s nearing her vulnerability limit for one talk. Hell, I should be grateful she’s even shared this much. I should take this chance for what it is and support her how I can, even if the possible outcomes make me feel the need to double up on virtual therapy this week. That’s preciselywhyI should support her, so she’s not alone if or when it all blows up. Still, the words stay trapped in my throat, anxiety choking them out.
Especially when she adds, “So anyway, I could use yourhelp. Mom clearly isn’t cool with me gallivanting across Italy by myself, and having you along on my Dad Quest could get her off my back.”
“You sure know how to make a guy feel wanted,” I mutter.
Finally, the spray of the shower cuts off, and I know for certain I’m keeping Dad waiting. Time to wrap this up, one way or another. On the other side of the curtain, a huffy breath precedes a series of splatters, several more of those small buckets of water spilling onto the floor. Have alternative energy scholars studied the hydroelectric potential of hair like Cammie’s, post-wash?
Annoyance colors Cam’s voice when she replies, “Well, it’s not like you seemed to enjoy yourself last time we went somewhere. You couldn’t run away from me fast enough, the first chance you got.”
Maybe if I had a few more minutes, I’d tell her what really made me leave her in Naples—open the window to my mental health situation a little wider, in the interest of this renewed friendship thing we’re trying. But my feet are restless in these rubber flip-flops, itching to be on the move.
Already backing toward the door, I say, “I think we should keep talking about this later, but my dad is waiting for me downstairs. So…”
I hear the tinny sound of the shower curtain being jerked open, but I’m already around the corner, opening the door to the hall.
“So you’re running away again?” Cammie calls, and the ratio of real to fake irritation in her voice is unclear.
“Not running away,” I say back with purposeful lightness. “Running toward a pizza with my name on it. Later, neighbor.”
Italian pizza is, without a doubt, some of the best food I’ve had anywhere in the world. So it’s beyond a shame that I’m barely able to eat half of my margherita pie at dinner, my stomach too unsettled by Cammie Lovett and all the chaos that comes with her to handle any more.
This girl will not ruin pizza for me.
I try to shut out thoughts of her, to enjoy some “quality time” with my dad, who’s used the term enough times in reference to this outing that I’m beginning to worry I’ll be graded on quality at the end. So far, I think I’m failing.
“Have you thought any more about the program in Germany?” Dad asks, and what do you know? Thereissomething that can sour my appetite even further than my recent roller coaster of a conversation with Cammie.
“Oh, uh, yeah. A little,” I answer vaguely. Not a complete lie. It was on my mind a lot the day we went into Naples, as I spiraled about my ability to function in the world outside my comfortable bubble. But my thoughts were more of an incoherent “aaaahhhhhhh” than anything productive.
Besides that, my mental space has been occupied either by math or by Cammie. Two areas that share an ability to boggle my mind.
I wish I could talk to my dad about Cammie, could have asounding board somewhere outside my head so it’s not just me and myself talking in circles. In theory, I could try one of the guys from school. But our group chat, for all the time we (virtually, for the summer) spend together, has never had the vibe of a place to bring your girl problems. Or guy problems, or any form of interpersonal-relationship-related problems. It only occurred to me in the last couple days that I don’t know if any of them have significant others—the topic doesn’t come up.
Dad and I just aren’t on that level. But could we get there? Maybe my possible study abroad plans could be a starting point.
With that in mind, I break the lingering, uncomfortable silence by adding a very delayed, “I’m still not sure if it’s the right time for me to do it. I really liked being on campus at Elora this past year and feel like I’ve got a good thing going there—why upset that?”
Dad nods thoughtfully as he chews another bite of his funghi pizza, then washes it down with a glass of water from the carafe on our table. “I understand the hesitation. I know the past few years have been challenging, and you have seemed to thrive in college, which has been great for both your pops and me to see. But if you think about it—this time last year, didn’t you have some of the same reservations around moving away from home, starting your studies, living on campus, all that?”
I pick at my pizza crust like the answer to his question is baked inside. I might have had those feelings, but had I shared them with him? How much do he and Pops still talk about mebehind my back? I thought that was one of the benefits offered in the child-of-divorce package—no more interacting between the two people whose every interaction stressed you out.
“Maybe, yeah,” I admit.
“I’m not trying to push you any one way; all I want is for you to do what’ll make you happiest. Just offering a reminder that you’ve made scary leaps before and landed somewhere wonderful. I hope you won’t let fear keep you from doing it again.” He leans back in his seat, his gaze moving from me out to the quiet, small town street, to the view of rolling hills beyond it. “I almost said no to the Villa di Bronzo job the first time—did I ever tell you that?”
I shake my head, both interested in this story and grateful that we’re moving away from West’s Life Choices. Dad nods, eyes distant as I assume he does some mental time travel.
“It seemed like terrible timing—I mean, it was, and I’m sure Pops would tell this story without my rose-colored glasses.” He chuckles, shooting me a wry look. “We were brand-new parents, had just moved apartments. Pops was going to be starting a new job in the fall, and I got this call from a tenacious young woman named Alex, who I barely knew, asking me to come join her team. I was terrified of uprooting our lives for nothing special and almost backed out a dozen times. I wasn’t even sure by the time we stepped off the plane in Naples. But, well, we see how that turned out.”
He trails off and clears his throat, looking more bashful suddenly as his eyes dart back to me. He takes another sip of water before adding, “It’s hard to believe how much of my lifewas shaped by doing this one thing that scared the hell out of me. Wherever your path takes you, I hope you can look back at my age and be grateful for the times you just went for it, said yes, and figured out the rest later.” Meeting my gaze earnestly, he adds, “And I’m very glad you said yes to this summer, son. It may not have been your initial plan, but being back here with you is a dream I didn’t know I had. It…it means a lot to me.”
“I’m glad I’m here, too,” I say before I’ve really thought through the words, but I’m surprised to find they feel true. My stomach finally feels a little more settled, enough that I take a few bites of pizza. They help fortify me to broach a new subject.
“I have a…well, kind of random question,” I begin.
