Hush (4 page)

He thinks of Wren, of five minutes in a library that felt like a supernova in an empty room.

“Do you want more?” His mom bumps his foot under the table and smiles when he nods. The foods of his childhood—hot, fresh, the perfect grit of maize flour in his mouth, these are the things he’ll gorge on before he has to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, he quietly watches his parents as they gossip about news in town. His father looks a little older.

“How’s Pey?” Cam asks out of nowhere. The fourth chair at the table looks empty to him. His father tightens his lips until they’re thin and white.

“Oh, you know Peyton,” his mother says lightly, taking another
arepa
. “Always on the move.”

“Needing money,” his dad chimes in.

Cam ignores that last bit. “Where is she now?”

“I’m not sure, honey,” his mom says.

“Oh, well.” Cam knows better than to worry, knows that his worry would only stress them further. Peyton will call if he needs her; somehow she always knows. He bites his lip and grabs the butter from across the table. Even though Peyton usually calls using what they’ve always called their
twintuition,
there are times he just plain misses her, and it’s hard not knowing how to find her. It’s been a long time since they’ve talked.

“I know you miss her,” his mom says, covering his hand with her own. Cam resists the urge to pull away. How can she see him so trans­parently sometimes and not at all at others? His parents miss Peyton too, but he knows that they also feel a certain relief at the distance. The trouble she always made was harder for them.

“Can I help with the dishes?” he asks. His dad is still frowning at his plate and the tension sits like a stone in Cam’s stomach. He shouldn’t have said anything.

The stars are brilliant tonight,
brighter than anything he’ll see in Chicago, for which he is thankful. Peyton is some­where under the sky, too. What does it look like where she is?

Cam has so much to figure out—enough for him to feel he’s in a bit of a quagmire. If ever there were someone for him to talk to, it would be Peyton. But what would he tell her? That he kissed a boy and it felt like the Big Bang in his body? That he has no idea what that means?

He’ll go back to Chicago in two weeks. And he’ll do what he does best: Watch and learn and slowly figure this thing out. And although he’ll make himself move past the emptiness Peyton’s absence leaves here under a hometown sky, he’ll pace each run­ning step to the beat of missing her; she’s always been half of a whole, and he feels her absence more here than he has in the months since he left home.

It’s not just the worst memories that linger in the corners of the family home, the shouted arguments, the anxiety that coated them all whenever she ran away. Cam thinks of the thick ten­sion he swam through whenever she returned, or the incred­ible sense of loss that last time, when they’d finally come of age, and she had escaped the home that had always seemed to sti­fle her. Peyton had been born too free, and although nothing was ever wrong, exactly, their father’s rigid adherence to a certain old school culture and their mother’s too-easy acquiescence had always been too much for her. Peyton had confessed over and over, curled in Cam’s bed on late nights after having snuck back in, that she just couldn’t stand it anymore. Cam had felt this, too, since they were kids. The difference between them lay in the fact that he’d learned to rein in that chafing need to break away, and acted with a calmer, more controlled energy.

When she left, a hasty one-line note on the kitchen table and a box of letters she’d been secretly writing Cam for over a year tucked under his bed, he felt her loss in the most visceral way, like a rending in his core.

Somewhere, Peyton breathes air he’s never touched. She’s got a constantly shifting life that he never really understands. But although it aches, she’s there; and in moments like this, knowing that is the closest he comes to comfort.

Nate had set up a
system
early on, when they met. Socks on the door were too obvious, even though he thought they were slightly hilarious and had admitted he was tempted to go with a throw­back system. In this day and age, he said, texts should suffice.

Cam had nodded and played along; at the time, he doubted he’d ever be in a position to avail himself of the system.

And yet… something is awake now. Concrete. Cam wonders at himself. He watches, trying to pull himself apart into threads and pieces to understand what lies below. He looks at men and at women, assessing their faces and bodies, waiting to see if some­thing sparks in him, to see if he’s just been missing something this whole time in assuming he was only attracted to women.

When he tries to examine this, he senses so much more below some surface he created inside himself: something alive and want­ing and bright, something confusing and tangled. Sometimes it’s too much to let himself dwell on it. It makes him feel unsteady and frightened; he’s not who he thought he was, and he has no idea who or
why
he really is.

So he spends the rest of his summer working behind the regis­ter at a deli on Chadsworth, watching people come and go and quietly listening to their conversations. He comes home crowded with a press of feelings, with fleeting desires cultivated by observing faces and bodies and by small talk. He wakes in states of shaking arousal, with remnant images of bodies and hands on him, and indulges in furtive release when the intensity of layered desires begins to crest.

And he runs. He lets himself feel most alive when he runs; he can think of nothing more than the count of his breaths and the big sky above him. And when he gets home, he feels awake and incredible, strong and steady. It’s almost what he felt with Wren, but safer because he understands it.

* * *

“You gonna ask her out?”
Nate says, as his pen taps his note­book rapidly. It’s been a long day for him, Cam can tell. His blond hair, always shaggily disheveled, is in a particularly telling state of dis­array. His hazel eyes are by far his most expressive feature; at this moment, they express tired curiosity.

“What?” Cam breaks out of his fog.

“You’ve been staring at her for a good five minutes,” Nate says, tilting his head toward the girl a few tables over that Cam has indeed been staring at. The café tables in their dorm quad cafeteria are unusually empty. “Not really being subtle about it.”

“Uh.” Cam bites his lip. His fingers trace the grooves of the table. It’s a dark wood, real wood, sealed so it shines, but tex­tured by use over time. He’s not eating anymore, and is instead trying to study while Nate eats. “It’s not like that.” And it’s not. Well, sort of. But not. He’s just wondering. She isn’t beautiful, but her looks are interesting. Compelling. She’s sitting with friends, and her laughter is bright; it’s what drew his attention.

“What’s it like, then?” Nate prods.

Cam looks up at his friend—how much he can tell him? Can he explain how he’s wandered classes and streets, examining faces and bodies and trying to figure out where his desires land? He certainly can’t expose more—how often he’s watched for even a glimpse of Wren; his attempts to search out Wren’s last name through late-night library research; how keenly his body calls for more. Wren’s kiss was a flame touched to a fuse, and Cam has spent the time since then on the edge of ignition.

“I don’t know,” Cam says finally, miserably. Confessing this—exposing this—makes him feel small and somehow also confined in his body.

Nate gives him a long look. He does this sometimes, as if Cam is a puzzle he’s trying to put together. Cam has gotten good at ignor­ing it, for the most part. He looks down and blindly highlights some portion of text, hoping Nate will get the message and drop it. Cam is in no position to say anything; to him, the world is just one big puzzle. More often than not, he finds himself staring at all the pieces, baffled as to what picture they’re supposed to make.

* * *

“Cameron,” a familiar voice
sings
through the phone. He dou­ble checks the number: it’s not one he recognizes.

“Peyton,” he says. “Hey! You’re lucky I answered.”

“You should always answer strange numbers, because there’s always a chance it will be me,” she responds easily. She does have a point.

“Where are you?” Cam lies on his bed; there’s an auto­matic smile on his face, a sort of sighing through his body he gets when­ever she calls. No matter where they are, they always have a con­nection; he goes through his days always aware that she’s somewhere. But it’s comforting to hear her voice; it pulls him back into himself.

“Arizona,” Peyton says.

“
Arizona
,” he says, surprised. “What the hell is in Arizona? I can’t think of anything exciting enough to bring you there.”

“You’d be surprised,” she says, laughing, “at the things that call me.” Cam closes his eyes.

“I miss you,” he says.

“Hey,” Peyton responds softly, worry in her voice. “Are you okay?” It’s uncharacteristic of him to be open like this. When they’re together, he rarely has to say what he’s feel­ing, but it’s been a long time since he’s seen her. It’s hard to catch her, nomad that she is. Cam doesn’t always mind, because he under­stands how much she needs this sort of life, flitting from one brief stop to another, changing anything she must to suit whatever calls her next.

“I think so,” he says, opening his eyes. He turns onto his side to face the wall and moves his phone to the other ear. The phone’s getting hot, and he hates that feeling. “I don’t know.”

“College being okay to you?”

“Yes. I like it,” he says.

“Chicago too big?”

“No, it’s just right. Besides, it’s not like I’m
in
the city.” The near claustro­phobia from buildings and bod­ies feels good after the great open skies in Nebraska. “There’s just something—new.”

“Oh, that sounds promising,” she says. “Tell me more.”

“I don’t know yet,” he says. “I’m not sure what it is, I have no idea how to figure it out. I don’t know how to talk about it right now.”

Peyton hums lightly. “Figuring something out. That’s gonna be a challenge for you.”

“Shut up,” he says it lightly, but means it to some extent. Pey­ton is good for him; she foils some of his personality traits—as he does hers—very well. Her impulsive personality, her instinct for change and her willingness to trust her intuition and desires are all things he doesn’t have and she has long challenged him to develop.

He’s still waiting for his traits of steady patience and careful observation to rub off on her, so he can’t fault her for pushing.

“Well,” she says, “I’ll be settling here for a little while. I want you to call me when you need to talk. Or if you need help figuring out whatever it is.”

Cam sighs. He knows she means it, but it’s hard to trust that she’s really staying anywhere, because Peyton moves on whims. She inevitably gets herself into some sort of trouble he or their parents have to help her out of, then falls off the map and into silence for long stretches.

“I will,” he promises anyway, because he’s never felt a need for concealment with her. He’s not keeping secrets or evading right now, he’s just confused. If she’s where she says she’ll be when he has more words, he’ll call her.

“I love you, Peyton.”

“I love you too, Cam,” she says quietly before hanging up.

* * *

The girl Cam has been
noticing
lives in his dorm. How has he never noticed her before? Once he’s recorded her in his memory, he sud­denly sees her everywhere. She’s curvy and quite a bit shorter than he; she laughs easily and touches casually. He observes her with friends and learns that she’s not particularly social, but is always with the same two or three people. She wears her shiny, light brown hair both straight and in curls—he’s not sure which is natural, because both always look styled.

“Seriously,” Nate says, shoving him lightly one day as they leave the dining hall. “You are making me crazy.”

“Shut up.” Cam shoves back. Nate grabs his arm and starts to drag him along. “What are you—?”

“I’m doing what you won’t,” Nate says. He walks straight up to her. Her friend seems to be in the middle of a story when they arrive, but stops mid-sentence.

“Hi,” Nate says, dropping into one of the hard, over­stuffed chairs in the commons. “I’m Nate. This is my roommate, Cam.”

Trapped by manners and curiosity, Cam sits too.

“Hi, Nate. Cam,” the girl says, obviously amused. “I’m Maggie. This is Christine and Lauren.”

A small moment of silence passes, awkward and begging for someone to navigate the graceless interruption.

“I’ve seen you around a lot,” Cam offers, wincing when he real­izes how awkward this sounds.

“I’ve noticed,” Maggie says with a smile. Cam resists the urge to close his eyes. Maggie turns in the chair next to him. She pitches her voice lower. “I’ve had a small bet with myself, how long it might take you to come introduce yourself.”

Nate snorts softly.

“And if I never did?” Cam asks.

“I think I might have caved eventually,” she says. Then she smiles the wide, true smile he’s watched for weeks. “I’ll have to thank your friend some time. Although I do deduct points for execution. Awkward.”

“Yes,” Cam laughs, sparing Nate a glance. He’s making conver­sation with Christine and Lauren. Cam knows it’s an effort to distract them, but it’s not working all that well; they’re both watch­ing him and Maggie in the gaps in conversation.

“We should go for coffee or something,” he blurts. Maggie laughs and nods.

“I’d like that.”

* * *

He finds her in line;
he’s not running late, so it throws him off to see her near the front of a long line.

“Hey,” he says, trying to get her attention. She’s focused on her phone.

“Oh, hi!” Maggie smiles widely. “I was just going to get—”

“Do you want me to—?”

Maggie laughs and Cam looks down. She makes this look easy without betraying a trace of awkwardness or uncertainty. He doesn’t feel right in his body; he’s like an imposter trying to prove some­thing to someone who doesn’t even care.

Cam hasn’t seen Wren since that night in the library. He doesn’t bother trying to convince himself he doesn’t want to—he looks everywhere he goes.

“Let me get you your order,” he manages finally. It’s the polite thing to do on a first date, after all. Assuming this is a date.

“Okay, yeah,” Maggie says. “Thank you. I’ll go grab us a table over there.” She points to a row of two-person tables by the win­dow. “I’ll have a frappuccino, medium.”

Maggie is obviously a coffee drinker, although Cam bets that when she makes it for herself, she takes a lot of cream and sugar.

Cam watches her settle. She wipes the table carefully and hangs her purse from the back of the chair. He’s seen her around the dorm enough to know she’s put more effort into her appearance today; she’s wearing a nice skirt and a little more makeup.

“Here you go.” He sets down her drink. “I took a chance on the cookie.” He doesn’t add that he’s seen her eat them in the cafeteria. That would be creepy. Her face lights up.

“Oh, yum! Thank you. Want to share?”

“Oh no, I’m good.” His chair pulls out with a loud screech that turns the heads of a few patrons. S
mooth, Cam. Smooth
.

“So Cam, mystery boy, tell me about yourself.”

“Mystery boy?” he asks.

“That’s what we call you,” Maggie explains.

Cam laughs. “That must be a theme. I was calling you that in my head for a while too. Well, girl, I mean.”

“Well then.” She leans forward and crosses her arms on the table. Her eyes are brown, but not like his. Hers are lighter, like milk chocolate, bright in the sunlight. “Let’s uncover things.” He blushes and she laughs like butterflies storming the room, beau­tiful and startling.

“All right, then,” Maggie sets
her empty cup to the side. “Let’s see who passes the quiz.”

“There’s a quiz?” Cam feigns dismay.

“Yes, of course. Don’t all first dates end with a test?” Maggie looks down and bites her lip, holding back a smile. Cam doesn’t think she meant to say that, but she doesn’t seem to mind, either.

“I wouldn’t know,” he confesses. She’s so much easier to talk to than he anticipated.

“Oh god, I’m your first date?” Maggie asks. “Had I known that, I would have taken you somewhere fancy.” She winks and it’s impos­sible not to smile.

“Maybe next time?” Cam says quietly. He’s not sure what this means, but he likes her. That’s where things usually begin, right?

“Let’s see if you pass the test.”

“Okay. What are the questions?”

“The usual,” Maggie says. “Name, age, major, likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams, family genealogy, blood type, toenail polish color.”

“Oh, is that all?” he manages through his laughter.

“No, that’s just the short answer,” she says, chuckling. “There’s an essay due later.”

“Okay,” he says, “I resent the lack of multiple choice questions, but no matter. I’m sure I’ll beat the pants off of you.”

Maggie gasps through her laughter. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

Cam covers his face, muffling his own words. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, this is good, now I have something to put in ‘hopes and dreams,’” Maggie says.

“Oh god,” Cam says. He takes a deep breath and tries to manage his laughter. His sides hurt from it, which is pretty rare. “Okay, you first, since you’ve apparently already started.”

Maggie rolls her shoulders and pretends to crack her neck. “Your name is Cameron Vargas, but never call you Cameron, Cam all the way. You are nineteen years old, majoring in environmental studies. Um, let me see…”

“You’ve still got the heavy hitters coming,” he reminds her when she pauses.

“Damn. Well, I know you like tea,” she gestures to the iced tea in front of him, “and that you dislike wobbling tables. You hope to get into my pants.” She winks again and he tries to smile—he really has no idea what he wants in that regard. He tries to guide the conversation forward.