Page 7 of Bring You Back

“Want one?” I offer as more of a diversion that I hope will be effective.

He waits until I’m finished prepping my own and on to the first bite to drop the bomb.

“He’s dead.”

Chicken gets stuck in my throat and I grimace as it makes its way down. This isn’t a bomb, it’s an arrow straight to my chest, joining the ones already there. I see her face. She slams through my head like a cold slap, and the first question I think is,How’s Camille?Camille. The other name I’ve blocked out. The sister to Caleb. The reason for two of those arrows. I don’t verbalize the thought, because how the fuck would Tommy even know? How the fuck does he even know about Caleb?

As much as I don’t want to, I have to ask questions.

“How do you know? Who told you? What the fuck?” I’m sounding desperate, wondering if Camille found her heart again and got a hold of Tommy, instead ofme, and I need to rein it in.

“The obituaries,” he says like it’s obvious. How else does one find out about dead people? “I check them,” he admits with a sheepish bob of his head. “But it’s been a while.”

I chuckle despite myself. “That’s morbid, man. Even for you.”

He launches into a spiel that I catch pieces of; keeping tabs on Camille, making sure she’s still alive since she dropped contact, until finally, his last question breaks through – “And do you really not care?”

I’m scarfing down the last bite of my sandwich, having apparently matched the speed of my eating with the speed of his confession. Do I care? My head tells me I stopped caring when Camille stopped caring, but my body won’t let me lie. My pulse hasn’t stopped racing since Tommy started talking. Camille hasn’t vanished from my thoughts since I found out she’s been dealt the worst hand she could possibly hold. After what she’s done to me—to all of us—I still want to help carry the weight, even from miles away, and I put all of my concentration into a fucking chicken sandwich to avoid having to show it.

I don’twantto care, and my hands are full.

“I’m not the one still caring about someone who doesn’t,” I say as I busy my hands with closing the container and bread bag.

Tommy dwells. Once he cares for you, he cares for life. Camille once claimed she didn’t deserve a friend like him, or a friend like Reyna. Now I’m claiming it, too. Now I’m thinking the group was divided wrong. Instead of it being me, Tommy, and Reyna left over, those two should’ve left me, Camille, and Banks a long time ago.

At the thought of our other ex-friend, I almost ask Tommy if he’s been trying to stalk Banks, too, but the mention ofthatname won’t bring any harmony to this situation. Tommy doesn’t care about Banks. Besides, Banks is still in town, and the answer to what he has been up to hasn’t changed since freshman year. He’s a simple guy, give him girls and alcohol and everything is right with his world.

I breathe out all of thismissingI’m suddenly feeling, and bring it back around to what Tommy said.But it’s been a while.The moment he found out wasn’t close to the moment it happened.

I ask one more question. “How long?”

Tommy sighs through guilt he shouldn’t have to feel. “A month.”

Fuck.I close my eyes and snap them open in the same breath. No, maybe notfuck. Maybe this is a positive. A month has given Camille enough time to find a way to cope, and it has nothing to do with us. She hasn’t been in touch. She still doesn’t need us … or anyone. She’s fine.

I almost smack my own head for thinking that lie. I know better, considering the hand I’ve been dealt. I’m about a month in myself, and I’m still trying to cope. Camille is tough, but if anything can bring her to her knees, it’s the death of her brother. Death is permanent. She’ll never be able to fix it, bring him back, or see him again.

At least it wasn’t just yesterday.

But it still happened without us by her side, and Tommy had to find out from the fucking obituaries, so now the rest of us have to find out from him. I’m not saying a damn word to anyone. Camille and everything about her life stopped being my business or my problem the moment she cut me off. However she’s coping, her method has nothing to do with me, and my own coping method has nothing to do with her.

I think of Reyna the same time Tommy does, and I know that’s another lie.

“Guess I should tell Reyna,” he says, the statement half question that he’s looking for me to answer.

“Bad idea.”

“Why?” he asks with a face scrunch, then pins me with a hard look, jaw tight. “Because she hates Camille, too, or because telling her will ruin your time with her?”

My time with her.Tommy can’t place me, Reyna, and sex in the same sentence. I don’t bother trying to humor him.

We both know Reyna doesn’t hate Camille; she isn’t capable, and that’s why, yes, bringing up Caleb’s death would taint my time with her. Force me to talk about Camille with her, a topic that has been touchy between us, at best. It’s like I’m the only one who can push past the feelings in this situation. Sadness. Anger. Guilt. I feel them, but I can let them go.

I haven’t admitted to or denied hating Camille—or the rest of the people Iamcapable of hating lately. But that’s a lie I’ve slowly been convincing myself to believe. Slowly, but not surely. The truth still remains. Camille left a stain; she’s part of all of us. None of us can let her go completely.

I shift my thoughts back to Reyna and stare at Tommy so long, without words, that he caves and reaches for a strip of chicken—something to do—and his fingers collide with the lid in a loudthunk. He grunts as he pulls back, his mouth twisted as he shakes out his hand. I bite back a laugh and open the lid for him.

He sighs down at the food, rubbing his fingers against his palm. “I don’t really want one.”

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