Something clatters in a semi-close sort of way, probably from beyond the door behind the bar. Is the grass-haired girl listening in on all of this? What was the daughter’s name? Natalie? A wave of nausea hits him square in the gut. She knows the whole story. Her father’s brilliant best friend who got pregnant and went off the rails, and the son who might come looking for them someday. As usual, Cameron is the last to know.
Brinks sighs. “I wish I could tell you more. I feel terrible that you came all the way up here, expecting one thing and finding . . . another.”
“Do you know where she is?” Cameron twists his hands together in his lap. Did he really ask that? Does he even want to know?
But, to his semi-relief, Simon just shakes his head and says, “No, not anymore. I haven’t seen her in several years.”
“What was she—I mean, where—”
“She was living in Eastern Washington somewhere, back then. She showed up at my house. Needed cash. Which I gave her, of course. But it was clear she was still struggling, Cameron. Still using.” His brow creases. “Maybe I shouldn’t have given her the money? I don’t know. Part of me wanted to drag her into my house, put her up in the guest room. Fix her. But I had my hands full with Natalie already. And, well . . . you can’t fix someone who is determined to stay broken.”
“Right.” Cameron fakes a smile. “I guess I’m a chip off the old block.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Cameron.”
“I can’t even put trash liners in the right way.”
Brinks shoots him a puzzled look.
“At the aquarium. I’ve been working there, chopping fish and cleaning. And the trash cans—oh, never mind.” Cameron cuts off his own pointless rambling. Simon Brinks, renowned real estate tycoon and speakeasy owner, from the wrong side of the highway but bootstrapped his way into wild success, doesn’t want to hear about janitor problems.
After a long pause, Brinks says, “Daphne would’ve been proud of you, Cameron.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Cameron slaps a five-dollar bill on the bar, hoping that will cover a Mudminnow’s beer. Close enough, anyway.
Brinks pushes away the cash, but Cameron is already halfway to the door.
A New Route
Back in the cab of the parked camper, Cameron smacks the steering wheel. He checks his phone, anticipating a message from Avery, hoping for an excuse to call her back and unload the events of the last hour on a sympathetic ear, but there’s nothing. Well, now what? He drums his fingers on the dash and watches the steady stream of Capitol Hill foot traffic go by. People grabbing dinner, picking up dry cleaning, window-shopping. All of them, with their normal, happy lives.
Screw them.
How long does he sit there before the phone dings? When it does, he jumps. A text message, but it’s not from Avery, it’s from Brad. A photo. Cameron taps on it. A tiny baby squints back at him, its squishy red face wrapped up in a light blue blanket. It does look like an alien spawn, but a cute alien spawn. A single quadrant of Elizabeth’s face is visible in the photo, but Cameron can tell she’s beaming. Not dying from a precipitous childbirth: a benefit of the twenty-first century.
Cameron closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He texts back, Bro, you’re a dad! Brad responds seconds later with the head-exploding emoji.
While he’s texting, he writes one to Avery, too. Hey, can we talk? He fires the message off into the cellular-network void, then shifts the camper into gear and pulls out of the parking space.
Traffic is horrible leaving Seattle, but Cameron couldn’t tell you whether he’s been sitting in gridlock for ten minutes or three hours. The camper creeps along, and brake lights from the sea of idling cars blend together, a haze of smeary red. On the passenger seat, his phone dings repeatedly, and while stopped he steals a look, thinking it might be Avery, but it’s Brad again. More pictures of the baby. He shoves the phone under a fast-food bag that’s sitting on the seat. Out of sight, out of mind.
But his mind has other ideas. And it will not shut up about them. From somewhere deep in his brain, a voice needles him. None of this was ever real, it nags. Too good to be true. This isn’t your life. This is not your home. He wasn’t your father. She’s not your girlfriend.
At least he has a job he doesn’t hate. How many times has Tova assured him that Terry is definitely planning to offer him the permanent position? And that it’s well-deserved? Even Cameron must admit that his glass polishing has come a long way. He makes that shit sparkle. And he can do the entire loop with the mop, including all the random nooks and crannies, in under an hour now.