“Okay…” I begin, hesitant to tell him much about me. I feel like stuff between us should stay surface level. But I like that he knows nothing about her. I like that I can be the one to tell him how amazing my mother was. Everyone in the town knew her and loved her. I’m excited to be able to talk about my mom and the mark she left on my life without having someone look back at me that pitied me or felt like they lost her, too.
“It’s cliché, and I know every kid says this about their mom, but she truly was the best mom ever. She was born to be a mom.”
“I wouldn’t.” The words are said under his breath. Once his eyes go wide, I wonder if he meant to say that out loud at all.
“You wouldn’t what?”
He runs a finger along my mother’s stitching on the quilt. I’m wondering if it’s something he does when he’s nervous. I’ve noticed he’s also always stuffing his hands in his pockets once his hands get fidgety. He keeps looking down but clears his throat to speak. “I would never say my mom is the best mom ever. She was not born to be a mother. And she made sure every day of my life I knew that.”
I blink, staring at him through a whole new lens. I must admit, the moment he moved into the gallery next door, I googled him. Anyone would’ve done it. I wanted to know why they sold the business to him and not me. A quick Google search of him brought up a ton of information.
His parents were Russell and Emilia Hunter, both very famous artists who fell in love while on a summer getaway to Venice. Their romance was huge in the art world. They were each other’s muses in all aspects. From what I read, they had a tumultuous relationship. There were pictures of them with other people throughout the first few years of dating, but they always seemed to make it back to one another.
There was only one photo of his mom pregnant on the internet. Her husband had an exhibit dedicated to his art, and she shocked everyone by showing up ready to pop. They seemed to do a lot with Camden as a baby all the way up to his teenage years. There were countless photos of them as a family. Photos made them out to be a picture-perfect family. With what Camden had just said, I’m wondering if that’s really the case.
“Don’t feel bad for me, shortcake. Parents fuck up their kids all the time.” He playfully bumps his leg against mine. “Now, tell me what having a mother that loves you feels like.”
I don’t talk at first because I’m lost in what he’s told me, in what I’ve seen about him and his family on the internet. Everything in me wants to pry further about his life, to figure out why he is the way he is.
“If you aren’t ready to talk about her, you don’t have to,” he offers, his tone gentle.
I shake my head at him. “It isn’t that. I just was caught up in hearing about your childhood.”
He peels a piece off his scone, popping it into his mouth. “There’s a reason I’m a dick. Fucked up childhood. Parents who didn’t love me but pretended to when cameras were around. No one in my house to show me love.”
“You deserved better,” I whisper softly.
“Tell me what I missed out on. Tell me about your mom, shortcake.”
“She was my favorite person in the world. My best friend, my mom, my everything. She volunteered in my classroom every year in elementary school. She was the one who taught me to bake, the one who helped me get ready for my first date and held me the first time I had my heart broken. She loved to drink tea and sit on the front porch, and she was always begging for me to make her fresh biscuits to leave with her during the week. Her favorite thing to do was make me laugh during church and would then pretend to scold me when I did. My mom was the life of every party, and people just flocked around her to be in her presence.”
Camden watches me carefully, hanging on every single one of my words. He seems to be genuinely interested in everything I say, which takes me by surprise. I didn’t expect him to care at all.
Things would be a lot simpler if he didn’t seem to care at all.
20
CAMDEN
It’s mesmerizing to watch Pippa talk about her mom. To see her face light up with love and adoration when talking about her. I’m fascinated by listening to every detail she wants to tell me. I like her better like this. Her cheeks are flushed from talking so fast, her hands moving in every direction from telling a story about how her mom once brought home a box of kittens because she found them on the side of the road and couldn’t leave them there.
Earlier, something had hurt inside me to see her cry. I’m not someone who is good at handling other people’s emotions. To be honest, I don’t do well at handling my own emotions—partially due to how I grew up and the verbal lashings I got from my mother if I wasn’t acting like a perfect little robot for them to show off to their friends. Partially because I wasn’t taught to be compassionate. Other people’s feelings have never really been my business. Except right now, I want to know every single feeling she’s ever felt, everything she’s feeling. I want to know everything about her.