Page 33 of You're So Vine
“Very carefully.”
“O-kay.” Cam swings his legs over the side of the bed. “I was going to say alcohol was a bad idea. But now I have that picture in my mind, two beers it is.”
I’m ashamed to say I look to see if he grabs his phone on the way out. He doesn’t. Which is good. But the stupid thing is packed full of his conversations with Lee, to the point where I still feel like she’s partly in the room. Which is bad.
I could really use that beer.
Cam’s back. I admire his full naked glory framed in the doorway before he slides under the blankets and gives a quick all-over shiver.
“Damn, it’s cold out there,” he says.
“Out there?” I frown. “You were naked and went outside?”
“Just behind the workshop. It’s where I keep the beer,” he replies. “Fridge is too small.”
He has a bottle of said beer in each hand. A local IPA. He hands me mine. It’s certainly chilled, he’s right about that.
I have questions. “Doesn’t it freeze solid?”
“Made a box for it. Cedar because it’s rot resistant. Insulated with wood shavings. Lined with an old copper washtub so I can fill it with ice in summer.”
The weirdest feeling shoots through me, radiates from my gut right out to the tip of every nerve. It’s like I want to cry, but with joy or sadness, I can’t tell. Both, I guess. I feel safe but scared, excited but wary, open-hearted but desperate to run and hide. All because of a stupid handmade beer cooler. What the actual?
Oh, shit. I think I have it. Cam makes things by hand. He is a handy man, a craftsman. Growing up a Durant, the only thing we were expected to build was a track record of success. Mitch, our dad, didn’t even care about money that much. Well, not as much as what it signified: that you’d made it to the top of your field. That’s why he was okay with us kids following whatever path we chose—Nate into wine, Danny into cars, Izzy into science, Max into music, and me into horses. Didn’t matterwhatwe did, so long as we were super successful at it. So long as we never settled for second best. And never quit.
The rest of my family thinks Mitch has mellowed since his recent health scare, citing the fact that he’s begun hugging people—even his own family—as evidence. But even if old Mitch’s view of the world has a rosier tint thanks to narrowly averting a date with death, there’s nothing happening to provoke him. Nate’s happily married and turning Flora Valley Wines around. Danny’s car business grows exponentially every year. Max and Izzy are top of their respective classes. What’s not to like?
Me. That’s what. Ava Durant. The quitter. Now that’s guaranteed to snap Mitch out of his mellow trance. I’ve been on the receiving end of our father’s scorn, and it can peel skin. I escaped it most of the time by becoming prickly—the time-honored porcupine defense—and by focusing only on what I couldexcel at, namely athletics and horses. Now I don’t have either of those. I’m twenty-seven, and I’m already washed up and broken down.
And that’swhy I went all weird when Cam described his beer cooler. Cam fixes things. He fixes them thoughtfully, intuitively and with a real affinity for his materials. He’s patient and calm and takes his time to ensure his work is both functional and beautiful.
My subconscious hopes he might be able to fix me. There. Nailed it. So to speak.
Goddammit, Freud. If you were alive, I’d brain you with an upcycled copper washtub.
Cam fixes things. But for him to fix me, I’d have to admit to him that I’m broken. I’d have to let that secret out into the world, along with all the judgment and pity it will no doubt unleash. Okay, I don’t believe Cam will judge or pity me, but he might draw away from me. If I really am ill, then I could be a burden to him. And I refuse to be a burden to anyone.
“You don’t like IPA?”
Cam’s smiling but there’s a shade of concern in his brown eyes. He’s about to share secrets and I’ve just decided to hold mine close … until I know exactly what I’m dealing with, and how to handle it. Until I feel more in control.
“I love IPA,” I say. “Just waiting until it doesn’t feel like it could be used for cryogenics.”
“Bartons hotel has a special warm beer on tap for Ted’s British friends.”
“A man who makes a cocktail with octopus’ milk is capable of anything.”
Cam slumps into the pillows behind him and sighs. Is he having second thoughts about telling me about him and Lee? That would solve a few of my problems. Not the least being the stab of jealousy I feel every time I think about her.
“Lee,” he says, because of course. “Do you want the whole story, or do you want me to cut straight to the worst bits?”
“Do the worst bits make sense without the background?” I ask.
He upends his beer and finishes it. Sets it on the floor. Sighs. “Whole story it is.”
Suddenly, I need to pee. Stupid body, always letting me down. I can hold it. No way I’m leaving this room now.
Cam’s gone super still and quiet. Our arms are touching, and I can smell his musky, woody scent with a top note of IPA. All I want to do right now is press my whole body against his and breathe him in. But if I move even an inch, I’ll spook him. And though I am deeply conflicted about what’s coming, I’ve no right to let my own fears get in the way. And maybe—just maybe—a little of his courage might transfer across to me.
