CAMERON

"Just stop traumatizing her," Malia spitefully says, halting me as I stare at the door where their other friend, chasing after Amy with his car key, disappears. "She has Jake; do not ruin that for them like guys like you do."

You argue against the world when those you fight for want you to, so I harbor my words in the sanctuary of my silence. Amy hates me. They say to look into a person's eyes is to see their soul. I look into hers and see a weapon-sharp and cutting, ready to wound, void of warmth, a bottomless pit of cold, unwavering hostility for me.

Leaving the residence hall, I feel drained and slumped, as though a part of me has collapsed. On my way, my eyes caught the guy who followed Amy, calling after her as she raced down the parking lot. I hope she stops and lets him stay with her because it's dark, and there are a lot of crazy students drinking for the weekend.

"Amy, Amy?" He keeps calling until he reaches her and grabs her arm, stopping her.

She's gesticulating wildly, frustratedly uttering something I can't hear from here. I guess it's how much she hates me. It makes perfect sense, given I am a jerk. I shouldn't have said all those hurtful things to her, but I did because no girl ever turned away from me. Much worse to know it would hurt that bad following and speaking to someone who doesn't want to listen deliberately.

No matter how much I wanted to get into my car and leave, a part of me needed to know what she was saying and it was the command my legs listened to.

There are rows of parked cars, providing convenient cover to avoid being noticed if I keep a low profile. I trace their narrow path and lean against a black Chevrolet truck in the darkness. Their conversation is audible, and through the window glass, I can witness tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.

"I hate that this is happening while Jake is out there working harder for a life for us," she sadly murmurs through strained, quivering breaths.

"It's not your fault you're admired by him."

"It's not admiration," she gasps, her breaths heavy and unsteady, like a child who has cried for so long. "What Cam is doing is unfair; he knows it. He knows it's wrong. He could have anyone, all the girls in the state if he wants. They used to flow through his door."

"What if he means what he says?" Her friend asks her.

"I will never take his words seriously; he's a liar," she unfairly judges. "Once a whore, always a whore. He's definitely seeing them somewhere. I mean, he and Harper-you saw how close they are. He said he's not one to commit; he brags about it every chance he gets, but he's always with her. He wants me to join their slutty clique just to ruin the happiness I built for years."

She makes unfounded assumptions about things she's unaware of. She labeled me as bad, but how can she claim to represent goodness when she lets herself believe baseless things about others? She's no better than me if we're using my behavior as a standard.

"Isaac, I have a ring on my hand from the man who's been only good to me, and Cam just wants to ruin that for me. I told him repeatedly, I love Jake. I'd do anything for him." Anguish fuels her words as she speaks. I turn my back, hard to look at the fool who's in delusion, believing she is safer with Jake, who's currently on vacation with his baby mama. "He keeps his word and will never hurt me. Cam only wants to get into my pants. He's conceited and arrogant, all about proving he is right all the time so he can make you a slave to his entertainment. I will never want someone like that."

Of course, I am the bad guy. She's so quick to study me in a few weeks. She might as well go get a certificate on that.

No. My heart wouldn't hurt for her. What am I even doing sneaking and eavesdropping for what she has to say about me? She can think of me as the king of hell; she can name me Satan. I don't fucking care.

In the quiet solitude of my car, I grapple with resisting her insults and projections, yet they persist, echoing like a worn-out cassette within my mind. I know I could be called a culprit by others, but I wasn't to her. God knows I am not.

But screw her and her judgment. She can go to hell.

I plug in my earphones, turn on music to the last volume, and breathe, as Myles would say when I am down after taking a severe punch that I blank out.

My phone buzzes, interrupting the music in my ears, and the screen reads Walter. I guess he's calling for why I have skipped the sessions again, but talking isn't exactly what I want to do right now or ever.

The call ends eventually, and the music returns. My eyes close in relief, but it doesn't last long. The call once again comes up, irritating me. I pluck the goddamn earphones and the phone altogether, tossing the fucking things somewhere.

Now all that self-restraint I tried to maintain control of is demolished, and my chest feels like it's being weighed down, and the fucking wheels I keep hitting with my already bruised fists won't break.

The stress ball! The idea flows in my head, and I pull open the center console box, finding it set there for me.

Breathe, squeeze, breathe, and squeeze.

I start the car and take off.

***

"Mom," she calls, hugging her mother after Anthony in the living room.

I have just walked in quietly, given the car that just dropped Amy had only U-turned in our driveway. And to avoid run-ins with her, I carefully wanted to head upstairs.

"Are you okay? Honey, we were so scared when we heard, and then you didn't pick up my calls," her mother tells her, cradling her face in her hands. The way she stares at her is of pure concern, one that offers security. One I used to know before Mom was sentenced to fifteen years.

Maybe Amy is right; she has everything good going on with her life. Had I not become a chapter in her story, perhaps Jake would have fulfilled his promise, returning to her as he vowed when he first came back. Possibly her troubles begin with my presence since I had her betray him while she was drunk, and now it becomes her curse; Jake reverting to his old habits and she is about to experience the most heartbreak of her life.

"Mom, my phone battery died," Amy says, none of them noticing my presence.

I lean back against the foyer wall, watching them.

"Jake said it happened on Monday, and we talked all this while, why didn't you tell me?" Her distressed mother asks, and Amy forces a smile.

"Mom, that's because there wasn't anything to say. Look, I am fine."

"You are not. You look wrecked; is it school?" The mother asks, angling her daughter's head, and inspecting her. "You look like all you do is cry every day."

"You look like you just cried right now." Her stepfather adds given it's easy to tell.

"Ahem-" Amy freezes, as though struck with lightning. "Is just the job searching I told you about."

"No, that won't drain you to this extent. Is it Jerk?"

"Mom?" Amy scolds.

"Why will you move in with him and look this lost? I heard he traveled and left you here. Why would you do that to the girl you call a fiancée?"

"He traveled for work. Anthony does too. Don't you?" Amy retorts, motioning at her stepfather, making excuses for her bastard man, which in her words, is better than me.

"I am not eighteen and didn't move across the country to move in with Anthony. Not to mention he married me." The mother firmly points; I almost chuckle at her smart way of reasoning.

"He put a ring on my finger." Amy flaunts her hand, displaying the ring to her mother as she did with her friend earlier, then pulls her mother's hand away from her face, visibly infuriated. She steers toward the kitchen, exhaustedly running her fingers through her hair.

"How sure are you he is this Mr. Perfect you claim? All the phases of your dating have been a long-distance relationship, and now when you've still taken the forward step and followed him, he's traveling for work and leaving you behind." The mother remarks cleverly, following Amy.

"Mom, I will not talk anymore on this topic with you. Let me drink some water and escort you to the nearest hotel." She drainingly says.

"Cameron said we are staying here. We've already settled in the guest room down the hall." Her mother lets her know. "I wanted to say, what a kind, young gentleman he is, though. Who are the parents who created that celestial gene? The whole airport was staring; it's so good knowing he came for us."

"Well Mom, he's not as charming as he looks." Amy's words are flat and unengaging.

So mean.

"No, that young man is a perfect ten. He brings me a bouquet at the airport, takes my hand, and kisses it, saying he now knows where your beauty came from. That's not all; he won't let us stay in a hotel like strangers in a foreign state. He brings us to his home and cooks for us, Amy, five-star restaurant style. If only Jake would learn from him and not stiffen in your family's presence like a chicken laying eggs," she gushes, and I can't help but laugh quietly, imagining the look on Amy's face at her mother's truth.

I don't let her reply; I push up and enter the room.