“Why not?”
“Dude, you have no job.”
“Not true. I’m between projects right now.”
“Are you ever not between projects?”
“The construction industry is cyclical.” Cameron straightens up, a bite creeping into his voice. What would Brad know about actual, physical work? He spends all day faffing around some dumpy little office, shuffling papers for the local electric utility.
Brad used to talk about leaving, going to San Francisco or something. But he’ll never leave now, and Cameron knows why. His parents are here, Elizabeth’s, too, and now all four of them are about to be grandparents. The whole clan gets together for dinner on Sunday nights. Probably eats honey-glazed ham or some shit. Why would they ever leave? Cameron wonders if there’s some sort of special tether children of normal families are granted. One for which he’s never been eligible.
“Cam, what’s your credit score?”
Cameron hesitates. Truth is, he has no clue. Hell would freeze before he’d check. When he got the Jeep a few years back, it was in the low six hundreds, but that was several questionable life choices ago. With a sarcastic smirk, he answers, “A hundred and twenty.”
Brad shakes his head. “Maybe that’s your bowling score. Sure as hell’s not your credit score.”
“Well, what can I say? I’m awesome at bowling.”
“Obviously.”
Cameron runs his fingers over the little series of punctures in the side of his sneaker. Probably from Katie’s dog, a teacup something-or-other with a taste for footwear, his in particular. The dog is such a pain in the ass, Katie sent it to live with her parents, but they brought it over every time they visited. At least he won’t have to deal with that garbage anymore.
“Why don’t you go back to school?” Brad suggests, not for the first time. “Get your associate’s degree or something.”
Cameron grunts. Brad should be smart enough to realize college costs money Cameron doesn’t have. But suddenly, Cameron does have an idea. A good one. “You know that apartment over Dell’s?”
Brad nods. All the regulars at their watering hole know about the place upstairs. They joke sometimes that Old Al, the bartender, could make a killing renting it out by the hour.
“The other night, I heard Old Al say it’s empty,” Cameron continues. “Maybe he’d rent it to me.”
“He might make you settle your tab first. But maybe.”
“I’ll ask him when we’re there for our gig next week.”
Brad clears his throat. “Next week?”
“Fine. I’ll go over tomorrow.”
“Good,” Brad says. Then he looks down. “By the way, there’s something I need to tell you. I wanted to wait until everyone was together, but . . .”
“But what?” Cameron frowns. “Just spill it.”
“Um. Our Moth Sausage show next week? It’ll be my last.”
“What?” Cameron feels like someone kicked him in the chest.
“Yeah, I’m quitting the band.” Brad grimaces. “With the baby coming, Elizabeth and I think it’s best if—”
“You’re the lead singer,” Cameron blurts. “You can’t quit.”
“Sorry.” Brad looks like he’s shrinking in his chair. “Can you not tell the guys yet? I really wanted to wait until everyone was together.”
Cameron stands and stalks over to the window.
“It’s just that with the baby, things will be different,” Brad goes on.
Cameron glares at Brad and Elizabeth’s front yard, its glowing landscape lights, the golf-course grass, the brick walkway. To his horror, a lump forms in his throat. Of course Brad would leave Moth Sausage when the baby came. He should’ve seen it coming. “I get it,” he says finally.
“I’ll still come to the shows.”
Cameron swallows a scoff. There won’t be any Moth Sausage shows without Brad.
“Elizabeth, too. Maybe we can bring the baby.” Brad lets out a long sigh. “I really am sorry.”
“It’s cool.” Cameron returns to the sofa and starts removing the decorative pillows, making a point to stack them extra neatly. “It’s late. I should sleep.”
“Yeah, okay.” Brad hovers for an extra moment before picking up their empty glasses. “Hang on, you need sheets,” he says before disappearing down the hallway.
Sheets? For a couch? Since when?