Page 38 of Curious
“It sucked,” I say.
He barks out a laugh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. You’re just so much fun, I figured you had a fun childhood.”
I shake my head. “I didnothave a fun childhood. I had to make my own fun. So I imagined what life was going to be like when I got bigger.” I huff. “I didn’t get that much bigger.”
Cam reaches over and squeezes my knee.
Do that a little higher, sweetheart.
But of course I don’t say that, because Cam and I aren’t like that. My resolve is slipping, like I’m trying to grab a wet water balloon but it’s too hard to hold on to. Heh. Very hard.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” he assures me. “I wanted to know more about you, because I like you. But I don’t mean to pry.”
“It’s fine,” I say hastily. “I know. You weren’t prying, and with a lot of people, it’s not a tough question. But for those of us that it is a tough question, it’s areallytough one.” I scrub my face with my palms. “I wasn’t abused. I think I was neglected a bit. My mom would tell me she wished I hadn’t been born.”
I didn’t mean for that to slip out, but I can’t seem to keep things from Cam. He feels so safe, like my little hiding place where I can go and won’t get hurt.
His eyes narrow. “Shelby, that’s abuse.”
“No, she wasn’t abusive. She never hit me, and I always had enough food and a place to stay and all that. Until I was eighteen. When I turned eighteen, she kicked me out. Said I was an adult now, and her job was done.”
This is why I never celebrate my birthday, and why I keep the card she gave me to remind me not to expect people to go above and beyond what they are required to do.
“It sounds like emotional abuse, and she sounds horrible,” Cam says. “I’m sorry to say that, but she does.” The wheel swoops around one more time. I’m sure it’s about time for us to be done. I’m certainly ready to get off this ride.
My shoulders slump. “When I was little, I thought it was normal. Then I grew older and looked around and saw that this wasn’t happening to anyone else, and I started to think that it wasn’t normal at all. ThatIwasn’t normal.”
“You’re perfect. It’s your mom who was wrong. She didn’t treat you the way parents are supposed to treat their kids—with love.”
“She resented me because she was so young when she got pregnant with me, and she felt like I ruined her life. She didn’t get to go out and party, because she had a kid. She never had fun, because she had a kid.”
“That’s a poor excuse. I think kids can be fun—”
“Spoken like someone who doesn’t have one.”
“True. Still, there are plenty of people who have unplanned children but don’t emotionally abuse their kids.” He leans closer. “I think you may have some trauma, Shelby. I’m not a shrink or anything, but that had to have affected you.”
I shrug so I don’t cry.
Our basket finally makes its way down to the bottom, and we exit. Once Cam gathers his crutches, we make our way off, but then he tugs on my sleeve and pulls me into a space between two stores.
“Hey,” he says, and he scoots closer. “Do you need a hug?”
I really, really do. I nod, still trying not to cry. He opens up his arms, and I fold myself into him. I’ve kissed my husband and slept next to him, but I may like his hugs the best. I rest my head against his chest and curl into him.
I have never felt more safe and comfortable—or more out of sorts—than I do right now. Cam is big and warm and solid. He smells like his body wash and deodorant: masculine, clean, strong. His heart thumps against my ear, and I can hear the rushing of my own blood, my harsher breathing, but also his steady breaths and his murmurs as he tells me it’s all going to be okay.
If he wants me to feel better, big picture, he needs to not be so soothing, because I’m too conflicted right now. It seems like he’s learning some new things about his sexuality, and hugging me has nothing to do with sex, anyway. But I confuse intimacy and affection and sex. They can be related, but they can also not be. “I don’t know what I’m doing with you,” I admit.
Cam strokes my hair. “What’s going on with you? Inside that head, it seems like it’s a tangled place.”
“Yeah, it is. I always overanalyze everything. Or rather, I declare that I’m going to do something—or not do it—and then spend all my time talking myself into doing exactly the opposite. It’s like I’m my own debate team.”
He kisses the top of my head, and I sigh. I’m afraid I’m too loud, too needy. That I’m just too much.
But he cuddles me closer. “Hey,” he says. “You can tell me anything. I’m not going to judge you.”
“Why? Because you’re my husband?”
