Page 19 of Curious Cameron
The box is such a mess. I know I don't have the energy to sort through it all and get it organized. But looking at the colored pencils makes me feel better. I take them out and snatch one of my sketchbooks.
I last used it in a drawing class. Pages and pages of anatomy studies. Looking at it after a long break and fresh perspective makes me see it with new eyes. I remember I hated doing this at the moment and thought I was horrible, but they're actually…good?
Yeah, I think with a smile, I'm a pretty good artist.
I sit down at my desk with my sketches and my colored pencils. It doesn't look so empty now. That's nice. I smile as I admire all the loving details on the bodies I drew.
Fat and thin. White and brown. Men and women.
Though I'll admit my sketches of guys are far better. The only time I've ever drawn women is for school assignments. Everything I've drawn on my own has been guys.
Huh.
The alarm on my phone goes off. What was that for? Oh, right, dinner. I silence the alarm and turn to the next page in my sketchbook. No need to rush off to check the dish in the oven. Trevor loves everything well done anyway.
Looking over my art reminds me there was a reason I got accepted into art school in the first place. It wasn't just a fluke or a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Trevor's right. Like he usually is. All I need is a break to recover and get myself into a new routine. Then I'll be ready to go back to college.
And get back into my art.
I'm still flipping through pages, wondering about online classes, when a horrid smell tickles the inside of my nose. What's that?
Oh, shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I rush down the stairs and dart into the kitchen. How could I forget? I set an alarm so I wouldn't forget. By the time I get there, the fire alarm is going off. I grab a dish towel, wrapping it twice around my hand to protect myself, instead of wasting time to find an oven mitt.
What I pull out doesn't even count as food anymore. It's some sort of crispy brunt monstrosity. I abandon it on top of the oven and cough as I kill the heat. The fire alarm is still shrieking. My shoulders shoot up in a feeble attempt to try and shield my ears.
Too damn loud. I stand on my tippy-toes at first, fanning the towel in the air to clear away the smoky stench. Once silence returns to the house, I survey the damage. It's hopeless.
Rest in peace, baked ziti.
I take it out of the house and dump it, dish and all, directly into the garbage can.
"Hey, new neighbor."
I look over the white picket fence and come face to face with one-half of the couple who live next door to us. Shit, I've been caught. Judging by the smirk on the man's face, he knows it too.
"Um, hi."
The urge to bolt back into the house and hide makes my toes itchy. My face must be as red as the neighbor's hair. He looks likea natural ginger with a light spray of brown freckles across his nose and dusted over his cheeks.
"Nice to finally meet you. I'm Julian Flores," he greets while extending his hand for a handshake.
I reach over the fence to accept his gesture. Julian's hands are silky smooth and blissfully dry compared to my clammy nightmare. And his grip is surprisingly strong. He's as skinny as I am, but I'm just realizing he's much shorter than me.
Why's everyone fun-sized around here?
"Uh, yeah. Same. I'm Cameron Green. Moore. I meant Moore. I'm Cameron Moore, sorry. I just got married so it's still all new."
I fucked that up big time. I'm going to have to start practicing introducing myself in the mirror or something. I'm Cameron Moore, husband of Corporal Trevor Moore. Married and gay and happy and that's all anybody else ever needs to know about us.
"Newlyweds?" Julian smiles at me like a cat who got some cream. "Congratulations. And welcome to the neighborhood. Crazy that we're just meeting now, right? I popped over the other day, but nobody was home."
"Yeah? Sorry, we must have been out."
That's a lie. I heard the knock at the door, but I ignored it. Pretended I wasn't there. I wish I could pretend I was invisible right now, but Julian's got me pinched between his perfectly manicured fingers.
