Hush (7 page)

They let Mic pick the
bar,
since he’s the most familiar with the scene near campus. Cam can’t claim he’s completely comfortable with this group; they’re Nate’s friends and Cam’s acquaintances, but it is a social circle separate from the one he’d briefly shared with Maggie and her friends. Mic settles on O’Leary’s, which is cheap but not ridiculously busy. It’s dark and close, all deep-stained wood and clusters of chairs around high round tables. Mild chaos surrounds them, but the bar rail is the busiest spot.

Cam drinks what they put in front of him. The more he drinks, the harder it is to attend to the conversation. Instead, his atten­tion is drawn to the other bar patrons. He watches people flirt and begins to differentiate between something new and couples more familiar with each other. A woman with startlingly bright hair leans into the space of a man at her table. They seem to be out with friends, as he is, and Cam sees an exchange of energy when they look at each other.
Friends with a desire for more.

He finds himself rooting for her.

* * *

“I have someone I want
to set you up with,”
Maggie says breath­lessly as she drops into the seat across from him.

“What?” Cam sets down his fork. “You’re playing matchmaker now?”

“I think it’s time,” she says. He’s a little surprised to find that less than two months after their breakup is enough time for this.

“I don’t know, Maggie. It turns out I totally suck at the romance thing—”

“You don’t,” she interrupts easily. “It just wasn’t right. Besides,” she waggles her eyebrows, “practice makes perfect.”

“Practice at what?” he asks.

“Duh.” She kicks him under the table. “Romance.”

She’s rummaging through her bag, muttering to herself. Finally she emerges, brandishing her phone with a victorious “Aha!”

“Here, I have his number,” she says.

That free fall he’d anticipated the night she left and dur­ing the days until now and for all the weeks and months since that moment in the library hits him full force. His number, she said.
His
. Maggie doesn’t look up; she’s pretending interest in her phone. Her cheeks are pink.

“How did—what?” he finally manages to whisper. It’s so loud in the cafeteria, it’s not as though anyone can hear them speaking normally, but still.

“Look, I—” she looks up. “I didn’t know how to do this, I don’t know that there’s a right way. I don’t want to offend you, and if I have I am so sorry.”

“I don’t know if… what I am,” he says. He frowns; he’s referring to her statement, but it’s also true.

“Look, when we were together I saw… I don’t even know. Just, things seemed a certain way. I won’t lie, I did wonder a little from the start, but—I didn’t know for sure. I guess I pushed it away. After we broke up, everything… the things I felt that were just off between us—I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what it was.” She looks at him beseechingly.

“Maggie, I can’t say something about myself that I don’t know,” he says. When her eyes meet his he doesn’t look away and the smile she gives him is gentle.

“Well, then. You don’t have to do anything. But maybe this is something you could try out. He’s a great guy; I think you’ll get along with him really well.”

“I feel a little—” He rubs his forehead. “Is this what it feels like to get hit by a truck?” He tries to catch his breath.

“Well, no,” she says, laughter in her voice. “There are lots more broken bones involved in that one.”

“Shut up,” he jokes feebly.

“Do you need a bit?” She gestures toward her tray, as if ready to pick it up.

“No, stay.” He reaches out and grabs her hand. “Just, can you stay? And I’ll think.”

“All right,” she acquiesces. She takes her time smearing cream cheese on her bagel. It’s pink, and he wonders what flavor it is. She’s thorough and exact, spreading the cream cheese with an attention to its uniformity of thickness, as if the perfect spread will make the difference between a good meal and a sub­standard one. They don’t speak. He lets himself get lost in observing her, enjoy­ing the sense of intimacy he feels, knowing things about her that no one else in this room knows. It’s not been long since she let the dis­tance between them slide slowly into tentative friend­ship. Her presence feels like coming home in so many ways.

He needs a lot more time to process this new development. “Can we revisit this?”

“Absolutely.” She wipes her fingers delicately and sends him a smile. His smile back is instinctual.

* * *

Cam always thought
there were
three categories: straight, gay or bisexual. That’s how the world works, right? Navigating some internal shift between them should be huge, right? But these labels, themselves, seem to carry a weight he doesn’t feel; instead, he feels a linger­ing con­fusion born of never having ques­tioned him­self before. He doubts that Wren will be the only person to ever make Cam feel like he did—the idea is ludicrous. It was four months of some­thing intense he could never quite name, five minutes of some­thing life-alter­ing, and nine months since then: more than a year of try­ing to find a mirror inside him with which to exam­ine every­thing he’d assumed was true and no longer seems right.

Dating Maggie was something else entirely. Not a high, not a peak of rushing emotions or hormones, but something ris­ing, some­thing burning a little brighter. It’s not as if Cam never thought he’d be in a relationship—he’d just had no idea what it would feel like. He’d had no comparison other than the world and what it said to him, despite that itch that never let him feel truly con­nected with himself or with Maggie. But still, she had known.

He trusts Maggie now as much as Nate or Peyton.

Cam takes a breath and opens his phone, thumbing to her num­ber to text her. If she thinks this might be good for him, what harm can come of trying? That Maggie felt comfortable enough to address it first is calming.

The truth is, he’s been more concerned with
not
being freaked out by his reaction to Wren. Questioning his sexuality hasn’t felt scary, because being gay isn’t scary to him. It should be, shouldn’t it? But not being able to figure things out because he’s so dis­connected from the world and himself—that really scares him.

Cam takes a deep breath, then another, and taps out his message:

Let’s get coffee and talk about it
.

* * *

“It’s not the idea
of
being gay, you know,” he says, after he and Maggie have progressed through awkward conversation openers. They’ve never been awkward before, but right now there is a giant elephant on the table between them that they have to address, and figuring out how to ease into that seems impossible. Once he can’t take it anymore, he goes with a straightforward approach.

“Okay,” she says slowly, and blows on her steaming mocha. “What is it then?”

“It’s not knowing if I am,” he admits. “Or who I am.”

“How long have you been trying to figure it out?” she asks gently. He looks down at the table and traces the rim of his mug. This sucks, because he doesn’t want to admit that he’d been unsure before he met her. He never wants her to think she was an experiment.

“I think… well, I know,” he says honestly, “a few months before I met you.”

“Oh?” Maggie tries to hide her frown.

“I promise, Maggie, it was never like I was just experimenting or trying it out. I was confused and I was drawn to you. I liked you and I was attracted to you and I just—”

“Cam, it’s okay, take a breath,” she advises. He does.

“I just… I don’t know anything,” he finally says.

“About this?” she asks.

He laughs humorlessly. “No, about anything,” he admits. “Who the fuck am I?”

“Oh, honey,” she touches his hand lightly. “Cam, everyone goes through this, you know?”

“Seriously?” he snaps.

“I mean it. It doesn’t necessarily have to look the same, and maybe some people haven’t gotten there yet. But we’re growing up. Becoming adults. Nothing looks like we thought it would when we were kids. Maybe we’re not who we thought we would be, or where we would be.”

“You think so?” he asks pensively.

“I do,” she says with authority. “Look, it seems like you’re over­whelmed, and you’re processing a lot of stuff. But you have friends, and we want to be here. Nate and I want to help you.”

“You’ve talked to Nate?” he says, surprised.

“Not about the gay thing,” she says quickly, and winces. “I should reword that. It was probably offensive. But like, just about being wor­ried about you. You’ve been getting more and more tense and worried and with­drawn. Which for you is saying quite a bit.”

“Really?” He looks at her, surprised. “Am I withdrawn nor­mally?”

“Oh my—” Maggie bursts into laughter, bright peals that ripple through the room. “Cam…” She shakes her head and tries to calm her giggles. “I do love you so much.”

* * *

His name is Jason Beals.
He’s good-looking in a very generic sort of way, with blue eyes and brown hair; he’s the same height as Cam but more muscular. Their meeting is awkward as hell at first; Cam’s never been good at small talk. He needs to observe people before coming out of his shell, so he’s terrible in one-on-one situations.

Jason is unperturbed by the awkwardness. “So tell me your story,” he asks when they’re finally seated. They’re in a large restau­rant off of Shawnee. The ceiling is open, with gray painted ducts and exposed pipes. Tasteful black and white photos decorate the walls. It’s very minimalist and airy. Their voices seem loud in the silent room, intruding on the hush of soft-spoken waitstaff.

“That’s quite the question,” Cam stalls. His finger traces the leather seam along the edge of the plastic menu.

“Want to hear mine?” Jason asks with a grin. Cam finds it in himself to smile. Jason’s skin appears pale in the too airy light. His shirt—maroon and white stripes in a casual polo—accen­tuates the contrast.

“Do we have time? Is this an epic novel with a tragic hero?” Cam jokes.

“You’ve caught me,” Jason says and holds up his hands. “My real name is Jay Gatsby.”

“Shouldn’t you be floating in a pool, then?” Cam jokes and then winces. “Okay, that’s a line of thought that’s gonna get creepy.”

“Good point,” Jason says. “So should we play twenty questions or something?”

Cam feels a small pang, remembering his first date with Mag­gie. “Let’s try something a little more organic.”

“All right. Cam…?”

“Vargas,” Cam supplies.

“Okay. Cam Vargas, what are you majoring in?”

“Environmental studies,” Cam says. “Not through the hard science track, but social science.”

“I’ll be honest and admit I’ve never even heard of that,” Jason shrugs sheepishly.

“Almost no one has; think about the various ways you can engage with environmental issues—” Cam says, before bit­ing back his spiel. “Never mind, I can get pretty boring if you get me started. What’s your major?”

“Oh, we’ll come back to this, I think,” Jason says. “But I’ll allow you to distract me for the moment.”

Prepared to listen, Cam fiddles with the straw of his Coke and settles his elbow on the table. Jason is dressed more casually than he; the polo is nice enough, but not what Cam would have worn to this restaurant. It says quite a bit that Jason chose this restaurant, though; it definitely makes an impression for a first date. Jason ordered a beer right off the bat, and he slowly picks and then peels the label from the bottle as they talk. Other than that, he doesn’t fidget. He’s definitely comfortable in his skin and with conveying open interest in Cam.

The restau­rant starts to fill; couples and groups congre­gate around the tables in the middle of the floor. Many mingle with drinks in hand; their glasses sweat through napkins. A lot of them seem to know each other.

“Oh, looks like there’s a show tonight,” Jason says, looking over at the corner of the restaurant. Cam follows his line of sight and is surprised to see a stage. A couple of guys are setting up equipment, putting together a drum kit and hauling speakers.

“They do live music here?” he asks.

“Of a sort,” Jason replies. “From the sudden influx of peo­ple who know each other, I’m guessing that we’re getting a treat to­night. They never advertise these, so I’ve never gotten to see one.”

“Who doesn’t advertise?” Cam wrinkles his nose.

“The gifted,” Jason says offhandedly, his eyes still on the stage; he’s searching for something. Or for someone?

“Is that the name of the band?” Cam asks.

“What? Wait, no—” Jason turns to look at him. “You know, people who have gifts.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cam says, a bit annoyed.

“Where are you from?” Jason asks. “We might have skipped that part in our personal histories.” He cracks up, which lightens the mood.

“We sort of failed at that, actually,” Cam admits.

“So I’m guessing you aren’t originally from Chicago. And by process of elimination, I’ll exclude any big city.”

“You deduce marvelously,” Cam says dryly.

“That still leaves a whole lot of the country,” Jason points out. “Oh god, are you foreign? You don’t have an accent or—”

Cam tries not to frown. “Uh, would it be a problem if I am?”

“No!” Jason swallows. “I just didn’t want to seem like I wasn’t paying attention. I mean, your skin is not that—”

“Okay, well,” Cam interrupts, and ignores the flare of irrita­tion he always feels when people assume he’s white. “I’m from a little town in Nebraska called Lexington City. Population roughly ten thousand. Well, take away one.” He wiggles his fingers. “My parents are Venezuelan. I was born in Nebraska.”

“Just a small town boy, huh?” Jason smiles and tips back his beer. Cam shrugs.

“Well, I’ve never been to Detroit,” he points out after scan­ning his memory to remember the next lyric of the song Jason is referencing.

“I don’t think you’re missing much.” Jason says.

Suddenly, the volume in the room goes up and the chatter of conversation coalesces around a blue-haired girl who makes the rounds of the tables, stopping to say hi, occasionally laughing loudly. She has a bottle of beer in one hand and a cell phone in the other. There’s something magnetic about her; Cam doesn’t want to take his eyes from her. After she’s talked to most of the patrons by the stage, she disappears down a hallway to the left and the quality of conversation shifts back into a sort of chaos.