Page 72 of Most Valuable Player
But instead of interrogating me further, she softly says, “Next time, call Cam. If he doesn’t answer, call me. I’ll pick you up. I don’t care what time it is. So add me as a contact, okay?”
I’m stunned. I’ve only met this woman a couple of times, and she’s offering this like I mean something to her. Somewhere in my haze, I give her my number. She releases me, so I awkwardly shamble back into the kitchen to rejoin Cameron. That was nice of her.
He’s drizzling the pancakes with syrup, and when he sees me, he falters. “Oh,” he says. “I should’ve asked if you like syrup.”
I laugh through my hand. “If I say no?”
“I’d start over.”
“Aw.” I flutter my eyes, sprawling a palm over my chest. “You’d do that for little old me?”
Cameron scowls deeply at my tone. “Nutrients are important in the morning, so yeah.”
I’m not sure what nutrients he’s referring to in these syrupy chocolate chip pancakes, but the fact that he went out of his way to do this warms my heart. “Thanks,” I whisper.
“Huh? Oh, no problem. I’m an expert at pancake-making now—”
“Don’t touch the griddle.”
“I’m just going to scrape some of the batter—”
“Stop. You’ll burn yourself.”
“…”
I sigh, tugging his hand to the sink and running his reddish fingers under cool water while he sniffles.
When Cameron asks if I’d prefer to stay or leave after we eat his slightly-undercooked-yet-somehow-charred pancakes, I reluctantly choose the latter. I could probably spend days in the Morelli household, but I can’t avoid life forever. So he grabs an umbrella and walks me to the passenger seat of his car, before swinging around to the driver’s.
The ride to my house is silent. The weight of every second presses on my chest as I realize what I’ve done over the last twelve hours. I walked to Cameron’s house, disturbed his rest, occupied his bed, ate his food, consumed his time. I owe him an explanation, don’t I? Otherwise, am I not just taking advantage of his willingness to be there for me?
He didn’t have to open his window for me, or curl himself around me, or pour his heart out about what happened to him in middle school. Yet he did because…
He likes me.
Was he expecting I’d do the same? Because I can’t. His heart is fiery red and pulsing with heat, strong and sturdy despite the scars that give it color. Mine is a dulled gray, poison rooted at its core, ready to lash into my body the moment I let myself feel too good. The flesh is cracked and dry, the arteries crusted over, the veins and nerves suspended in thin, impenetrable layers of ice.
I shouldn’t unleash my burdens on him. There would be too much to untangle and shoulder. He’d allow himself to get bogged down by my issues and traumas if it meant loosening the weight on my back. I can’t do that to him.
So I’ll continue hiding my story in the cavities of my chest behind barbed wire and ice, where he can’t find it.
“Mason? We’re here.”
I blink. Suddenly, we’re in the slant of my driveway, and I’m staring vacantly at the garage door as Cameron’s engine thrums beneath us. The rain is thick and heavy against the windshield. “Right,” I say, pushing the passenger door open. “Thanks for—”
“Wait.” He pops out the umbrella, then circles around the car to me, holding his hand out. I pretend I don’t see as I push myself to my feet, his umbrella slanted toward me to keep rain from soaking into my flannels.
He walks me up to the front door until we’re under the porch awning. The gray rain is a thunderous ringing in my ears, assaulting the house and asphalt as I stand there, watching the swinging chair sway against the biting breeze.
“If you want to get out of your house, text me,” Cameron says, pulling my attention to him. There’s pancake batter stained on his T-shirt, the top of which pokes out from under his windbreaker jacket. “I’ll pick you up, whatever time it is.”
I can’t help but smile, weak as it might be. “Like mother, like son,” I mumble.
Cameron winces, like I’ve said something to trigger him. But then his shoulders loosen, and he sighs, a soft smile coming to his face. “Yeah,” he whispers. Then his back is to me, and he’s striding to his car, umbrella hovering over his head. The farther away he gets, the more prominent my bodily aches become, as if his distance is draining me of warmth. Or maybe his presence gives me so much happiness that I forget about the pains until he’s gone.
Is a thank-you enough?
My heart sends a particularly stabbing pang into my chest, causingme to wince. Tears are budding in my eyes—a familiar, boring feeling at this point. My soul is ugly, deformed, rotten, mutilated. I can’t let him see it.
