“She’s right,” Louisa asks. “Cam would have gone crazy seeing you behave this way.”
“Then he shouldn’t have got in the car knowing Stu was absolutely f**king steaming, should he? He should have got in with us.”
“You know that isn’t fair,” Lou says with an edge to her voice.
“No, what isn’t fair is that he died. What isn’t fair is that I’m just trying to cope and I can’t even grieve for him without everyone going on at me.” I snatch up my cloth.
“You’re not grieving, Roxy.”
“Everyone grieves in different ways. This is mine, okay?” I stare at her and point at her laptop bag. “Are you gonna work on that book? It won’t write and publish itself, you know.”
Louisa chews the inside of her cheek, and sighs. “Fine. I get it.” She turns and sits at the table nearest to the counter.
I resume my cleaning of the counter unnecessarily and feel Selena’s eyes on me. I turn to face her.
“What?”
She sips her lemonade. “She’s right, you know.”
I scoff, turning to the coffee machine. “Oh cry me a f**king river, why don’t you?”
“Just saying.”
“Well don’t.”
~
It’s not a problem if I know I’m doing it.
This is what I’m telling myself; it’s what I have to tell myself. I have to believe I don’t have a problem and my coping mechanism hasn’t developed into more than just that. It hasn’t. It can’t have. The drink, the sex, the… occasional drug use… is a habit, not an addiction. I can live without it.
Maybe…
His room hasn’t been touched. I know because I’m the only one that ever opens the door. I’m the only one brave enough to step into the place that was his sanctuary and filled with everything that made Cam, Cam.
It even smells like him still. His half-empty Davidoff cologne sits on his desk, the underlying musky smell still lingering in the air as if it was only sprayed recently. The bed is still perfectly made, and there’s still a weeks’ worth of clean clothes piled on his chair. He never did put them away – instead waiting until Mom gave in and did it or he could bribe me to.
I sit on his bed and lean back against the wall. My legs bend upward, my thighs pressing against my chest, and I wrap my arms around my knees. Every part of me aches with missing him. It’s a feeling that runs deeper than anything I’ve ever known, so deep I feel it right to my bones. Being in his room only makes it worse, but it’s all I have left of him. The memories aren’t enough yet.
I need to be in his room surrounded by him. By the clothes I sneak out when Mom isn’t around, returning them only once they no longer smell of him, and by that exact smell. I still call his cell to hear his voice on the answer phone. I still check his Facebook very day for a stupid status update or a picture of a cat with some stupid caption.
Of course they never come. And it hurts – every time I look at the date of his last post, a grumpy cat picture, my stomach sinks a little more, twisting painfully with every millimeter it drops. The same feeling hits when I look at the sneakers he’ll never wear again or think of the pink shirt he bought for my graduation to piss me off.
The shirt he’ll never wear. The graduation he never got to attend.
I reach to the side and smooth my hand across the comforter beneath me. The navy fleece blanket gives way to the lighter blue sheet beneath it, both smelling of his Davidoff and fresh laundry. It amazes me his room still smells like him, and it’s almost as if he can’t let go either, even though he has no hold on his life.
I hope it never leaves. I hope his things still smell like my big brother, my idol, as long as I’m here. I know I taint it every time I walk in here but I can’t help it. It’s a catch-22… I either preserve the thing that reminds me of him the most by staying away, making the preservation irrelevant, or I keep removing a little of it by coming in when I get lonely.
The smell will fade eventually, this I know, and that’s what keeps me coming in here. Either way the musky yet fresh fragrance will disappear, so I might as well make the most of it while I can. Besides, I adore the smell, even if I did taunt him about it constantly when he was alive.
“You’ll choke her,” I’d warned him, leaning against the doorframe.
“Oh, ha ha. And you’re the expert on dating, I suppose.”
“I’m not allowed to date, Cameron. Remember?”
He chuckled and sprayed again. I wrinkled my nose.
“’Kay, seriously. She’ll be drowning in that stuff.”
“If I have my way, she’ll be drowning in Eau De Cam.” My brother winked. I gagged.
“You smell like a cheap whore.”
Another chuckle accompanied the kiss to my forehead. “How do you know I’m not?”
I scoot off the bed and open one of his drawers. His sweaters are lined up, all folded neatly, and I grab one from the top of a pile. I pull it over my head and look in his mirror. The hoodie swamps me, but I don’t care. I hunch my shoulders and bury my nose in the collar, smiling when I smell Davidoff. He wore this before he died and put it back in his drawer, obviously.
Little shit. I always knew he could put his own damn washing away.
The house is still silent since Dad helps Mom at the café on Tuesdays. I curl my fingers around my cell as I go downstairs, my thumb rubbing over the unlock key on the side.
I could call Layla now. I could get her to meet me, give me what I want, and then it wouldn’t hurt anymore. I wouldn’t feel so lost without Cam because I’d be lost somewhere else.
Somewhere else…
A knock sounds at the door as I put my hand on the handle, and I pull it open.
“Kyle,” his name leaves my mouth in an exclamation of surprise. What’s he doing here? Didn’t he get it before? I don’t need him.
Or rather, I don’t want to need him.
“Roxy. I wasn’t sure if you were here.” He scratches the side of his nose, looking down at me with his soft brown eyes. “Can I come in?”
I step to the side. “You don’t need to ask. You never have before.”
“Yeah, well. It doesn’t feel the same without him here.” His eyes focus on Cam’s sweater, and I wrap my arms around my body. “You wear that better than he ever did.”
I snort, shutting the door behind him. “Right. I look like I’m wearing a tent.”