I let out a shaky breath. Am I about to tell him about my mom dying? If I do tell him, how much do I tell?
Do I tell him that I feel guilty Cade was the one who found her? That sometimes I wish it was me who found her because I feel like I could handle the pain better than my brother?
Do I admit that I waited outside the local movie theater the next day because my mom and I had made plans to see the newest rom-com together that afternoon? I hadn’t processed that we’d actually lost her, even though Dad had already asked me to begin arranging the funeral and to let everyone know she’d passed because he hadn’t faced our new reality yet. I sat on the curb in the theater’s parking lot for over an hour weeping because she never showed up.
Do I tell him that I still listen to the old voicemails she left me to pretend she’s still here?
Do I admit that sometimes I feel really fucking angry at her for dying? And hate myself for feeling that way because I know in my bones she never would’ve left us on purpose.
There are so many things I could say that could answer his question. I open my mouth to tell him, but no words come. Words fail me.
I didn’t know I was crying until Camden reaches across the quilt, wiping his thumb at my tearstained cheeks.
“You don’t have to…” There’s a softness to his voice, his words trailing off.
I nod, letting out a shaky breath. I have to tell him. We’ve made it this far. My tears make it obvious that there’s more to what he already knows. I might as well tell him the rest.
“A few months ago,” I begin, trying to swallow the lump in my throat that makes my words come out shaky, “my mom passed away all of a sudden. She had a heart attack in the middle of the night.”
Camden’s body freezes, the rough, calloused pad of his thumb still on my cheekbone. He’s silent, and I don’t hold it against him. At least he doesn’t apologize. That’s what I hated most when talking to people after my mom died. I didn’t need their apologies. I just needed my mom back.
“We all thought she was healthy. It shattered our world. My dad had been with her his entire life, and Cade was a total Momma’s boy. She was their world, and our family was a mess after.”
“And you?”
He lets his thumb stroke along my cheek again, even though I’m confident more tears haven’t fallen. “Wasn’t she your world, too? How did you handle it?”
I pause. His words take me by surprise. “I don’t know if anyone really asked about me specifically. It was always ‘how’s your brother doing…how’s your father doing…how’s your family doing…’”
“I want to know how you’re doing.”
His eyes are so blue up close. A kind of blue I haven’t seen before. It’s crystal clear, the pigment so icy that his eyes almost seem gray.
He looks at where his hand still rests on my cheek. I don’t think deeply into why I miss his touch the moment he pulls it away like my skin had burned him.
“You don’t have to answer that,” he insists. His eyes search my face. I want to know what he’s looking for, what he’s thinking. I’m grateful that he might be the first person to know about my mom and not look at me with pity.
I try to hold back a weak laugh when I realize the first person to really ask me how I’m doing without pitying me happens to be a man that I swore I hated—and one I’d bet money hates me.
I’m well aware how truly pathetic that is.
“If I tell you, are you going to make fun of me later for it?”
He rears back as if I hit him. Of all the insults I’ve thrown at him, why does he seem most affected by this one?
“I must really have been an asshole to you if you think I’d ever make fun of you for how you’re dealing with the loss of your mother.”
I shrug because I don’t know what else to do. We don’t have the best track record together, but I really don’t think he’d ever use it against me. I just don’t like having him know intimate things about me.
“Tell me about her.”
I stare at him for a moment, wondering if although he doesn’t show it, he feels sorry for me. That could be the only explanation for why he’s asking about my mom. It’d make sense why he’s acting like he actually gives a damn about me.
“You really want to know?” I shift on the quilt, my knee bumping against his. He doesn’t move at all, even though with my new position, our knees barely touch.
“Yeah.” He sounds confident but maybe even a little sad. Taking a deep breath, he looks up from his lap, and I find vulnerability in his icy-blue eyes. “I want to know more about her.”