Page 73 of This Is How It Started
“Nothing,” I say. “Just checking in.” We never discussed what happened between him and Jess that day he took me home. By now, I’m sure they’ve patched things up. I sit down on the old floor, pull my knees up and tuck them under my chin. “Can I pick your brain for a second?” I want to know what the going rate for a wedding is these days.
“Yep.” He takes the spot next to me, and his familiar scent—a combination of wood, laundry detergent and something distinctly Campbell—takes me back.
And while I momentarily bask in the resonance of it, I notice how tired Campbell looks. His green eyes aren’t twinkling the way they usually do. And there are brackets around his mouth that I don’t recall from a week ago. He seems thinner too.
That’s what you get from burning the candle at both ends. “Are you killing yourself to get the new house done before you and Jess get married?” I feel like an inconsiderate jerk. What kind of friend asks a man to remodel her pool house right before his wedding?
He’s quiet for a long time. And for a minute I think he didn’t hear the question. Then he says, “Jess and I broke up.”
I’m too stunned to say anything. And even if I wasn’t stunned, I wouldn’t know what to say anyway.Why?I’m sorry.Are you sure?I mean, it could just be pre-wedding jitters, right? But somehow I know it’s for real. He and Jessica aren’t getting married. And even more than that, my intuition tells me it was Campbell who called it off and not Jess.
I’m feeling all kinds of things about this news that I don’t want to explore too closely. And when I finally find my tongue, I say the one thing you probably should never say in circumstances like this. “It’ll be okay.”
He nods his Campbell nod, a sort ofyeah, maybe.Then he blows out a breath. “Bailing two months before your wedding is a shitty thing to do. Bailing on your wedding period is a shitty thing to do,” he amends.
I want to ask him why he bailed, but that’s the answer I’m most afraid of. I ask anyway because despite myself I want to be a friend to him in the same way he’s been a friend to me since Josh died.
“What happened, Campbell?”
He doesn’t answer, just looks at me likeyou know what happened.And nearly two decades of history pass between us as if it were yesterday.
“How’s Jessica taking it?” Stupid question but worse if I didn’t ask at all.
“Better than I would’ve predicted, which shows that it was probably for the best.”
“The breakup?”
He nods again. “It was inevitable. But it would’ve been worse if we were married.”
“Why inevitable?”
He gives me the look again, and I play dumb.
“What about the house?” All things considered, the house is a minor sticking point. Sort of a deck chair on the Titanic in the scheme of things. But it’s a safe topic. Safer than “You know what happened.”
“My down payment, my house. She never wanted anything to do with it.”
That was abundantly clear and why I was surprised that Campbell bought it anyway. My suspicion is he knew it was the beginning of the end. Or the house was his torpedo. I refrain from raising my theory, though.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and before I can stop myself, I slip my hand into his. His palm and fingers are callused and work worn, at once strong and unbelievably gentle. Even when I was a young girl, Campbell’s hands had the power to make me feel safe.
“Thanks,” he says without letting go. “This’ll make me sound like a jackoff, but I’m glad it’s over with. Jess deserves better. She deserves the goddamn world.”
I want to say that Campbellisthe “goddamn world,” but things didn’t end between him and Jess because he has an inferiority complex. That much I know.
We grow quiet, knowing better than to say more. For seventeen years, we’ve managed to navigate the slippery slope of conversation without ever discussing anything that would take us back to that painful place and require self-reflection.
“How ’bout you? You feeling better than whatever was going on that day I found you in your car?”
“I am.” Which isn’t exactly the truth. Then I blurt out of nowhere, “What happened to us?”
It’s a wholly inappropriate time to revisit our own breakup. This should be about him and Jessica. But he started it with his inuendo. And I’m sick of secrets, secrets about Beth Hardesty, secrets about Stephen’s affairs, secrets about a miscarriage that changed the trajectory of my life when I was seventeen.
He looks at me, pretending that he doesn’t understand the question. All it takes is a glare from me for him to drop all pretense, and a flicker of resignation crosses his face.
We’re doing this. Seventeen years and we’re finally going to talk about it.
“I was barely eighteen, Rach.” He scrubs his hand through his hair. “I was a stupid, scared kid.”
