“I told you Chapter 25 was a steamy one,” he indicates with his chin towards the book and waggles his eyebrows.
“What the hell do you want, and why are you following me?” I defensively cross my arms in front of my chest.
“Following you? You’re sitting in front of my apartment.”
Oh. Of course, I am.
He squints at me. “Are you always this snippy when trespassing on people’s property?”
“It’s hardly trespassing. I’m in a public alleyway.”
“Yes, and sitting on my chair,” he states matter-of-factly, pointing to where I’m parked.
“Oh...I...Uh...I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” Defeated, I stand and attempt to gather my things and my bearings. I pick up my bag, put the book away, and grab the forty off the ground.
“You always drink and read in dark alleyways...?” He’s searching my face. I guess this is when I tell him my name. Fuck it. I’m all about doing new things today, I guess.
“Oh, I’m Cameron.” I pause and correct my statement. “Well, Cam for short.”
He huffs out a small chuckle and says, “Okay, Well-Cam.” There’s a pause for a minute before he continues, “My name’s Jaxon. You’re welcome to use my chair to read any time you want. However, I don’t suggest you sit out here by yourself in the dark, impairing your judgment with both alcohol and trashy romance novels. Nothing good can come from that.” He finishes his statement nonchalantly and begins to walk towards the gate to his backyard.
I stand there, frozen and surprisingly calm. Not a sound is going off in my head: no red flashing lights or warning signs. For once, a stranger being genuine actually feels genuine.
He stops before he closes his gate and says, “Oh, and Cam...?”
I stare at him and swallow hard, my mouth suddenly drier than a desert.
I clear my throat and answer him, “Uhmmm, yeah?”
“Your shoes are untied.”
I look down at my feet as I hear the click of his gate closing. Then the sounds of his boots on the concrete, keys jingling, and finally, the door closing.
Damn it, why am I so awkward?
I bend over and tie my boots, double-knotted this time, and start the journey home. A home where I know there’s nothing and no one who’s genuine. At least not right now.
Four
Cameron
Walking up to my door, I take a deep breath. Chances are he’s drunk and passed out at this point anyway. If he isn’t, I’ll just ignore him. Silence is the best medicine when dealing with someone as impossible as my father, anyway.
I open the door and, other than the TV running in the background, it’s quiet. I take a quick look around- and the mess I made still in the same spot I left it. I know he’s home because I see those awful New Balances right by the door.
I grab a glass from the cabinet by the kitchen window, rinse it out, and add some water from the tap. Turning towards my room, I make my way down the hall. The light from my room illuminates the hallway. What the hell? I’m sure I locked my door when I came out this morning. I lock it every time I leave my room because I never want him to take it upon himself to sniff through my shit.
As I approach the door, I can sense I’m not going to like what I find.
Before I even see it, somehow I know he ransacked my room. My psychic guess was right. I push open my door, and that’s when I see the damage. My computer is shattered to pieces. All my pictures are broken. My favorite picture of Milla and I now lies on the floor, not only with a broken frame, but with the picture ripped to pieces and thrown everywhere, too.
I look back at the door and realize he broke through it. He could have unlocked it with a safety pin, but no, this asshole always has to find a way to dig the knife in deeper. Now I have to pay for a new door, a new computer and hope all the pictures on my laptop can be retrieved.
My pictures are all I care about. They’re mostly of Camilla, but some are pictures I have of the places I want to one day visit. Nothing extravagant: the beach, a Broadway show, Coney Island.
All the places that, in another life, I would enjoy without any fear of being seen by other people.
Luckily, I keep the list of these places with me at all times, but, as usual, this man continues to destroy any shred of hope I have left. I need to get away from here. I need to leave.
Out there cannot be worse than what’s rotting away in these walls. I pack whatever I can...some clothes, what’s left of my laptop, whatever pieces I can grab of Camilla’s ripped up face, my charger, and an eyeglass case.
I leave my room and walk down the small hall. The bright yellow walls have been there for so long, I’m surprised the negative energy and violence that’s taken place here hasn’t turned them black.
I spot the chipped hallway table. My dad pushed me so hard my side gauged into the corner and a mark was left on both of us: the table got a big chip taken off from when it hit me and then the floor, and I was left with a 6-inch scar across my right rib cage.
It took around 30 stitches to close up my side. And, of course, my dad so carefully explained how clumsy his 13-year-old was when she had her face glued to her cell phone.
I wondered how being clumsy could also contribute to the bruised ribs they found on the x-ray, but what was the point? I hope the doctor believed it. Because the thought of someone knowing what was happening, and not doing anything about it, is too much to bear now that I’m an adult
