Page 36 of Cut up
She blushes. “You’re welcome.” Then she glances at the oven. “I’m gonna go put Netflix on in the lounge room while the brownies bake. That okay?”
“You don’t need to ask. Make yourself at home. I’ll join you soon, whatever you put on is fine.”
I watch her walk away, not even trying to stop my eyes from drifting down to those legs and that ass in those tiny shorts. Damn.
While I eat, I look through the sketch book that Camille left on the table. She said she loved drawing.
She’s good. Like, really good.
Each page is alive with detail, filled with beautiful, realistic sketches of people. Some are done in pencil, the lines so precise they look like they could step off the page. Others are softened with gentle watercolour. Flowers bloom across a few pages, trailing vines curling around butterflies caught mid-flight. There’s a softness to her art, like she sees the world a little more gently than most.
My fingers pause when I spot a familiar jawline, a curve of a smile I’ve seen in the mirror. It’s me. She drew me.
I hesitate. It feels…personal, like I’ve opened something I wasn’t meant to. I close the sketchbook carefully and set it back where I found it, my heart beating just a little faster than before.
I hear the timer go off.
“Your brownies are done, want me to bring them out?” I call.
“Yes, please!” she calls back.
I pull the tray from the oven, plate a few pieces, and head to thelounge room. Gizmo follows behind me.
Camille is curled up on the couch,The Vampire Diariesplaying on the screen.
I sit down next to her.
“Thanks,” she takes the plate. “Sorry, it’s my comfort show. I can change it if you want.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll sit with you for a bit, then I’ve gotta crash soon. I’ve actually watched it with my younger sister.” I pat Gizmo, who’s purring on my lap.
“Really? How old is she?”
“Nicole. She’s twenty-five. Baby of the family.”
“She’s my age! Well, I’ll be twenty-five this year,” she says with a laugh, handing me a brownie. “You can have one. I can share with you.”
“Thanks.” I take a bite and close my eyes. “These are so good.”
“I know, right? It was my mum’s recipe. She left me her cookbook, but I’ve memorized it by heart.”
“Then your mum is an amazing cook.”
“Shewas,” she pauses, running her index finger slowly along the small butterfly tattoo on her ankle. “She… she died, actually.”
I pause, not wanting to push her. “I’m sorry, Cam. What happened? You don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s okay.” Her eyes stay down, still focusing on her tattoo. “I love talking about her.” Her brows crease, like she’s being pulled back in her memories.
“It was a long time ago… She died from breast cancer. I was ten. She wasn’t even sick, well not from what I can remember. Then suddenly, she was just… gone. My dad wasn’t really in our lives. He was—I mean—heisin the army. He left so he could take care of me when she got sick. He reenlisted when I was older. It was a really hard time, but we got through it. I still miss her every day.”
She doesn’t cry, but her voice is thick with emotion. This wound is old—scarred—but not fully healed. It pulls at my heart strings. Loss is something I can relate to.
I move closer, resting a hand gently on her shoulder. “I’m really sorry Cam. That must’ve been so hard. You were just a kid.” I pause, I don’t want to take anything away from her experience. But hearing her speak about her mum makes me think of my dad. “When my dad died, I was older. We knew it was coming. It still wasn’t easy, but at least we had time. Some days I smile at a photo of him. Other days, it hits like it just happened.”
She nods. “I agree. Sometimes I feel like I’m fine, the memories of her make me so happy. Then I think about how much I miss her—and it’s like there’s a weight on my chest, like I can’t breathe.” She puts her hand to her chest like she’s in pain. “And the only person who ever made me feel okay… is gone.” She lets out an anguished breath. “But the hardest part isn’t just missing her, it’s the future she won’t be part of. When I get married. When I have kids. She won’t be there for any of it. Not really. I’ll carry her with me, but I’ll always mourn what we were supposed to have.”
Tears stream down her cheeks. I reach up and gently wipe them away. She looks at me.
