The End of the World (26 page)

She can’t finish the sentence. Inside my head, there’s a voice screaming
no no no
because I don’t want her to tell me. But then I’m the one who started this conversation. No matter how much I hate it, it’s so much worse for her. Much much worse.

“How old?” My voice is the prosecutor; my brain the child arrested for shoplifting. One in charge, the other begging for mercy.

“Thirteen.”

I swallow.

“And how long had you lived there?”

I know the answer, because I know how the system works when you’re one of the few unlucky ones who land on the broken side.

“Twelve days.”
The day after her caseworker made the last regular visit.
“The day after my caseworker stopped coming as often.”

Which meant that Shaye had lived there alone and faced all that abuse with no one to talk to but an infant who begged for sandwiches or whatever one- and two- and three-year-olds pleaded for back then.

Three years before I showed up.

Two children short of the final houseful.

Once a night in a secluded basement bedroom.

“I’m so sorry, Shaye. So sorry I wasn’t there sooner to help. I’m so sorry I didn’t help the first time I knew. If I had, then maybe—”

I can’t say more. Words can only soothe so many regrets. The mind can only absorb so much before it explodes. The heart can only take so much before it breaks. Feelings can only stay hidden so long before they force their way in the open. I just never knew how strong those energies were before now, especially when they all band together and cause one giant internal combustion.

My head is no longer screaming. My mind is no longer formulating things to say to make Shaye feel better. My heart knows we’ve reached the point where there’s only one way to make her understand me now.

So my hands start doing all the talking.

They’re in her hair before I can convince them back.

On her thighs before I can command them off.

On her busted bottom lip before I can tell myself this is a bad idea.

I stare at her lip. Try to will myself away from doing this with my friend—my
best
friend—the friend I’ve never done anything with except hold her while she sleeps. Listen while she cries. Sit beside her while she talks.

I’m done with talking.

I love her too much to form the words.

So I turn all my senses off except one and gently take that lip between mine, eyes closed, tasting, testing, never feeling so worried and awkward and excited in my entire life. This is new and this is old. I can no longer remember not loving her, nor where she stops and I begin. There is no Cameron without Shaye, and she needs to understand.

When I press both lips against hers, she takes a breath. At first I think I’ve hurt her, but then I know she just needs a second. She holds the air, processing, for another second, maybe ten. It’s not easy to tell because my heart is beating too fast to keep track. I’m fairly sure hers is as well, but it’s just so hard to hear.

“What was that for?” she whispers against my mouth.

“For you.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why.”

“Cameron, I don’t think—” she murmurs.

“Then don’t think.”

I smile a kind of drugged, drunk smile and lean toward her again.

For just a moment she struggles, but then she leans in. I nip at her bottom lip, loving the way it feels between my teeth—blood, cut and all—then kiss her fully. Harder. Her face between my hands and my tongue touching hers and our teeth bumping gently, then separating for air and connecting again. But when she gives a soft laugh and her hands thread through my hair and she kisses me back with the same urgency…that’s when I lose it.

Me.

My head.

My heart.

Whatever was left of it.

Nothing but a few crumbled pieces of something that used to beat and beat and beat and keep me alive day after day after day. But the simple act of beating doesn’t constitute a life.

Sometimes you have to lose your heart completely to begin to really thrive.

She swings around, mouth still on mine, legs wrapped around my waist, chest pressed against me, arms tangled with arms and fingers knocking against fingers. I’m leaning against the side of a hard and wet bathtub, sitting backwards on a downward slope, and I’ve never been more comfortable in my life.

That’s what kissing a girl you’ve loved for years and years does to you.

Without breaking my hold on her, I grab her by the hips and stand, using the side of the tub and the weight of her slender body for balance. In seconds we’re out, my lips on her neck, my instinct routing us toward the sofa.

I back into it and ease us down, shuddering when her mouth travels to my ear, my neck, my collarbone. Every nerve ending in my body converges on those individual spots, jumping around like ping pong balls inside a Powerball wheel—darting, moving, shaking, unable to stay still for more than two seconds at a time while her lips roam across me. My hands dig into her hips, pull her closer. Closer still because we’re too far apart.

I’ve never been this on fire or excited or turned on in my life. Which is why I force my hands off her hips and on the sides of her face. It takes effort; more effort than I’ll ever admit. The pain is physical.

I stifle a groan.

Swallow it.

And smile into her mouth.

I don’t care what she says. I could kiss her and kiss her for hours. It’s exactly what I plan to do for the rest of the night. And hopefully for the rest of my life.

Because she is perfect.

Shaye

I
caved.

Despite my best attempts, I caved. And I kissed him. And I’ve kissed him a thousand times in the two weeks since that first one. And I’ve never been happier in my life.

Happiness, I’ve found, is a precious thing once it comes to you. And when it arrives in your early twenties for the first time ever, you don’t plan on letting it go. My grip might be fragile, but it’s strong.

Much like the hold Cameron currently has on my waist.

“Let go of me!” I squirm and squirm, but every fighting move is futile. I’m stuck, and there’s only one way to get myself free. But as always, I’m too stubborn to give in. I raise my arm higher and struggle to read the words now held aloft over my head.

“If you want me to let go of you, then give me that paper!” Cameron lunges for it, making the fatal mistake of loosening his hold on me. Seeing an escape, I jump up and race across the grass in my bare feet, loving the way the mid June breeze feels on my face. We’ve been at the park for an hour. It’s cool enough that a light sweater is necessary, but there’s a hint of warmth drifting across the pre-sunset horizon.

I’m too preoccupied to notice. I’m pretty sure I just made out a line of text and begin to read it out loud
. “I see my old friend waiting for me there…”

Cameron snatches the paper out of my hand. Being a slow reader is one of the many ways my life is cursed. It’s a three-way tie, right up there with my 34A bra size and my inability to add fractions.

“Give that back,” I whine. “What’s so important that you won’t let me read it?”

“None of your business, that’s what.” He folds the paper and tucks it in his back pocket. “Just a project for school. Something that’s due next week.”

Of course I don’t believe him, but I can’t argue. His face is red and his movements are jittery and the paper is clearly something I’m not supposed to see, at least for now. This might bother me if it didn’t seem so achingly sweet.

I think he’s writing me a poem.

No one’s ever written me a poem.

No one’s ever written me anything.

And even though there’s a very real possibility that I could be wrong about my idea, something tells me I’m not and a stupid grin fills my face.

I’m pretty sure it’s a poem.

I’m more than sure I like it.

I’m definitely sure I want to read it yesterday, but I’m also beyond sure I shouldn’t push the issue.

“Fine, keep your stupid paper,” I say. Even I can hear the giddiness in my voice. “I didn’t want to read it anyway.”

“Is that so?” He raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s too bad, because I was going to finish it and give it to you next Christmas. I guess now I’ll just have to buy you a dancing Santa.”

“I thought it was for school.” I knew it was a total lie. “And those Santas are cheesy and disturbing and I don’t want to wait until Christmas.”

“That might be so, but you’re going to have to.”

He’s ridiculous. Ridiculous and sweet.

“It’s probably not very good anyway. Probably starts with something like
Roses are red
and ends with
And so are you
.”

“Shut up, Shaye. Just shut up.” He laughs and rubs his hands together, and I can’t help but smile at the combination of shyness and cockiness he puts on display.

He walks over to a swing set—the metal, industrial type—and lowers himself into one. I move to the swing next to him, and a slow back and forth commences. In less than ten seconds, we’re moving at an opposite pace—him in front and me heading backwards at a slightly elevated angle. Because, really, I’m determined to go higher and faster. Because I like to win. And I’m winning now. Yay me.

This isn’t a character trait I’m proud of.

“Want to see who can jump the farthest?” I ask, dragging a foot along the ground to slow myself down a little, taking a second to align my swing with his.

“Sure, but I’ll win. I always win at this game.”

“Since when have you ever played it?”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “Believe it or not, there was a time when you didn’t know me. Back then, I went to a thing called elementary school, where I was known as the swing jumping champion of the third grade.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew me back then. Every girl in Mrs. Nichols’ class wanted to date me because of my mad swinging skills.”

“Everything about that sentence sounds wrong.”

“Do you want to race or not?”

“Of course I do. Okay, we jump on three. One…”

“Count slower.”

“I only made it to one.” I shoot him a look.

“You know what I mean. Start over.”

I send him another glance, wondering when he became so competitive.

“Fine. One…” I push myself higher, but I worry it’s not high enough. “Two…” Higher still, but then frown when Cameron pulls ahead. “Three!”

I’m airborne. He’s airborne. We land on a layer of woodchips that somehow manage to soften the blow despite the potential for serious splinters in horrible places. And we roll. And because fate has a way of sticking my pride-filled balloon with a needle any time I grow the least bit overconfident, Cameron wins by six inches.

Three cheers for the swing-jumping champion of the third grade.

Funny thing. Suddenly I feel a kinship with all those nine-year-old girls. Winning actually does make him hotter.

So I climb on top of him before he has a chance to stand up. Straddle his waist and pin his hands against the ground, brushing away a leftover wood chip pressed into his palm. He’s looking at me and I’m looking at him and we’re both breathing heavy in and out in and out, but it’s the good kind of struggle, the kind that would still occur even if we hadn’t just exerted ourselves. The kind of struggle that makes you lightheaded and nervous, too excited to think about something as trivial as oxygen and working lungs.

It’s dark; no one can see us. There’s no danger of a little girl in pigtails or a pre-pubescent boy with a hole in his jeans to wander up and make silly catcalls at my very public display of affection, so I lean down and kiss him.

This kiss makes a thousand and one times now, but it never gets old.

He flips me over and coaxes my lips open with his own, tongue bumping against tongue in a frantic desire to feel more. To know more. To give in to more. The butt of my jeans presses into the ground; my pulse races to keep up with my wildly spinning mind, and all I can think is this is Cameron.

This is Cameron.

I’ve known him for what feels like forever.

He’s the best part of my days and the even better part of my nights, and I may not ever know what took so long, but he found me. Once again, he found me. Just like he found me on a front porch and followed me to a woodshed and discovered me on a weathered dock and reintroduced himself to me in an apartment building laundry room so many of my best months ago.

This is Cameron, the steadiest foundation and the strongest rock with the sturdiest arms that I can hang onto forever.

I’ve always known it.

I’ve known it forever even if it’s taken me all this time to admit it to myself.

This is Cameron. My Cameron.

And I’m in love with him.

Cameron

T
he funny thing
about the phrase “the end of the world” is that people throw it around so casually without even realizing it. Your girlfriend breaks up with you in seventh grade: it’s
the end of the world!
You get drunk at a college party and wake up with a tattoo you don’t remember sitting for: it’s
the end of the world!
Time changes centuries and people stockpile firewood and bottled water because it might be
the end of the world!
Two broken kids sit at the edge of a dock that overlooks a lake with a view that stretches into infinity and name the place
the end of the world
.

The funny thing about the phrase “the end of the world” is that it’s meaningless. Until time actually stops. Until disaster happens so fast that there’s no time to prepare and even less time to beg the clock for an extra minute or two to allow your human self to catch up. Until you’re hit with the worst news of your life, and there’s absolutely, one-hundred percent, no way possible to undo it.

Like now.

“I’m pregnant.”

We’re sitting at Shaye’s kitchen table and I’ve been here five minutes. And four minutes and fifty nine seconds ago I knew something was wrong. Usually Shaye greets me with a kiss—the kind of kiss that is preceded by a running leap into my arms and her perfect legs wrapped around my waist. The kind of kiss I spend all night and every second of the morning looking forward to. The kind of kiss that has me wanting to stay until she forces me to leave.