moody

ᦵ .݂ ֯ 𓇮 𝖙𝓱𝓮 cannon did not want children. that’s what he’s told every journalist, every super supporter in his comment section, and mama cade; he did not see himself producing offspring with his beautiful fianceé. ysabelle cade was okay with that, for she too did not want any mini version. children are fragile and loud and expensive and cameron cade’s pretty selfish. but there was an odd, impossible to ignore, twinge at the centre of his gut that had invaded the moment he laid his eyes on you . . . again, cuddled beside the mini creed-taylor.

it’d been only four nights since the celebration . . . and you dreaded the idea of facing life around cameron after that rendezvous. you were gonna say it. that word, and he knew. he’s worked it all over in his head and he was certain. certain that he wasn’t thinking himself loony. and because you didn’t do well around him or ysa’s friend group, you wanted nothing more than for the happenings of that night to be erased. he’s getting married soon, maybe it was time you you went back to pining over him. and he should do the same — minus the pining part, obviously.

but he was . . . starting to actually like you. he couldn’t say it for sure, but he definitely didn’t hate you anymore. he didn’t want to. he didn’t think he would label this new development as feelings, which was a word that held way too much emotional weight, but . . . he felt different. there hadn’t even been a moment where he wanted to dump you off somewhere. the desire to be cruel to you was pretty much gone. only took two sessions and to be apart for four nights!

seemed too easy.

sure, he could still mash you if he tried, but he didn’t want to try anymore. instead, he wants to share a private meal and learn you. everything after high-school. the bits he consciously chose to miss. like, why’d you turn away from finance and go into education? or, did you keep up with his professional stats . . . even for a short while? or, with whom from the past decade would you consider ‘serious’?

and cameron doesn’t even realise he’s staring blankly into space until he’s elbowed in the soft meat of his waist and told that he looks stupid staring into space. adonis reminds his good friend, and former opponent, to remove those sneakers and line ‘em up on the rack. his woman didn’t like tracks around their place and cameron tended to treat every living space like his own. and though cameron knew bianca’s rule, he enjoyed working her nerve.

thinking of b : “mm, was just about to text you two. again.” she’s descending the mahogany stairs, looking between the grown men holding three brown-paper bags each. tonight’s meal. a day-old tradition bianca wanted to incorporate into their lives. she says she misses the inner-circle’s closeness. but in actuality, she was apart of a facebook group that made her feel guilty for not hosting frequent, intimate gatherings to ‘strengthen familial connections’.

with a finger, bianca motions toward the pearly white kitchen, sprinkling droplets. when she touches the bottom, instead of following the guys, she goes for the front door, still wagging water from her hands. she peers through that frosty, opaque opening, wondering if maybe they’d returned with a third and just left her outside? but no. there was no third. bianca twists the lock down and turns on both heels, curls bouncing in her effortless, shaggy high pony.

“cam, where’s ysa? i know you saw my message.” yeah, he did see it. but ysa was . . . she wasn’t feeling it. she was in a mood. and cameron wasn’t in the mood for her mood; no one liked ysa when she got into her little moods. “really? not feelin’ dinner? - i swear we were on the phone like an hour ago, she seemed fine.” well, anything can happen in an hour. everyone knew that. a five minute argument had the power to ruin someone’s entire week.

and while bianca’s unloading a paper bag, something in her spirit does not believe that bleak, weirdly vague excuse. his hesitation was unappreciated and quite concerning, since when he didn’t have donnie’s shoulder to whine on, he had hers. it was almost offensive he wasn’t up for a little blabbering. but she guessed it be best to leave that where it was for now. because no one liked cam when he got into his little moods —

plus, she’d find out when ysa called later tonight. that’s what usually happened anyways. after any and every disagreement, no matter how big or small, cameron left for some fight club forty minutes out to ‘cool off’, and ysa rang bianca . . . slurring over words, finger tangled around the stem of a tall wine glass overflowing with bitter red wine.

“we got’chu next time.” which sounded honest enough. “promise, bia. ‘nd you know i keep my promises.” pssh. bianca’s crunching two paper bags into a gigantic ball, her lips crooked upward, and an expression of yeah fucking right plastered on her face. if he lied to her again, he was liable to get struck by lightning.

“grab those two for me, would’ya?” and he watches bianca stab a wooden spoon over at the center most bit of her and adonis’ living area: lamps, vanilla candles, and ceiling lights set on warm-yellow. the brown curtains, matching the pillows and throw blankets in shade, are swiped back to let the natural deep blue evening sky spill in. “mara’s helping us cook. she would not leave me alone ‘bout it,” with a soft smile.

cameron nods, drumming both hands above the countertop before pushing off and heading around. he tried to hide his uneasiness. you were so cute looking; skipping with your niece in a dress the babiest of pinks, a cone-shaped headdress balancing atop your hair, wand in one hand and wii-stick in the other —

“. . . heey -?” but his voice dies flat when he can feel his cheeks go hot. he decides he’d rather not interrupt, because for the next minute or so, you were the imaginary mother of his imaginary kid.

the cannon did not want children. but if there had been any blessings left for him in this world, he would not mind it. this. just one munchkin. one chunky munchkin that was half yours. he would commit and do the whole parenting thing with you. only if the universe were to ever allow that ending . . . but he would not dare get his hopes high. this situation was a nasty one, he could admit.

it takes thirty seconds for the dance round to come to a bittersweet end. you’re out of breath, posed like you’ve just wrapped up a sold, worldwide pop tour. and amara, she’s in a similar state — the glitter within her purple tutu catching the rainbow lights as she wobbles precariously on her tiptoes. she manages all of two wonky steps before pitching sideways into your thigh, clutching onto you for dear life just before she can face-plant into the carpet.

cameron licks back a chuckle — and the instant amara looks his way, he quickly schools his features, wiping the grin from his face before she can mistake it for mockery. he raised one hand to his mouth, a sign he’s learned as a generic question: you okay, mara?

she rubs her tiny chin, humming and just now remembering that round four required a third dancer. little fingers fluttering and shaping each word in the air: i ‘may’ feel better if you play with me and auntie. they finish at her waist, where she gives an eager wiggle, wearing the sweetest, most hopeful smile ever.

cameron turns to you first and you’re stuck looking at cutie amara, mindlessly twirling a soft curl about one finger, unwilling to meet his face. he wasn't sure whether he was deserving of that. whatever’s happening right now. but he lifts both big hands anyway and goes: finish dinner. okay? bia . . . [searching for the appropriate sign]. waits for you. the girl offers her uncle a good job thumb. then, with one small nod in her auntie’s direction: “and you,” he said.

amara marched up the puffy couch cushions and swiveled over like a superhero. a short-cut, she called it. you didn’t have the luxury of doing such superhero move, so you take the long-way, silly fabric squiggling behind — “i want a minute.”

that’s when you halt and look over your shoulder, puffing out a deep, annoyed sigh. as much as he didn’t want to start anything or make a fuss in your brother’s home, there was no sleeping tonight if he didn’t get what he had on his heart off. “jus’ one. swear.” sounded too familiar and you can recall how that resulted: the l word nearly slipping free.

he promised not to touch you. he promised to stand at arm’s length. and while you’re lapping it over in your mind for the moment, he anxiously awaited your response. but before an answer can be exchanged, adonis claps him on the shoulder. the skin-to-skin strike was loud and must’ve been painful, but cameron didn’t have any sort of reaction. adonis had something cool to show off. something about the world cup. “real quick, real quick,” pulling at cameron’s weight.

upon entering the kitchen, you’re immediately assigned to vegetable dicing and chicken seasoning. “what was that?” bianca wondered, handing over an extra container of oregano and black pepper. “what was what?” but she can see right through your act of cluelessness . . . not enough to put two-and-two together though. she knew that you and cameron grew up constantly bumping heads, so whatever that was could’ve been about anything. literally. anything. tipping each other over the ledge never took a lot.

“just not in front of mara.” who was spooning a huge bowl of jiffy cornbread mix, crown lopsided and cheeks somehow streaked with flour. “i beggg,” while kindly cuffing your arm. of course. of course. never would your niece see you like that. arguing with a man over something so . . . yeah.

as you’re chopping through two fat carrots, you can only think about cameron. the last four nights were bizarre, but it also felt weirdly natural — not normal, but undemanding. missing him felt like . . . it felt right. it felt like you’d returned to planet earth after spending some time in space.

you already liked him, but the want for friendship didn’t scare you anymore. for the first time ever. and obviously, for that to happen, you and cameron would have to stop fucking and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for that to end just yet. whatever this was, it was a shitty place. but it wasn’t exactly a horrible place; better than arguing and kicking at the other. just one filled with a lot of frustration and confusion and unfaithfulness . . .

and in order for a casual-friendship to work, you [a]. had to stand up for yourself. this ‘i fucking despise you’ dynamic was so tired. and [b]. you seriously couldn’t have sex with him again . . .

— the real test of character was here. right now. dinner was over and the dishes were stacked away. amara got four more just dance! rounds out of her family and was down for the night. adonis snuggled in the same bed, snoring amongst fairy-lights and glowy stars. and his wife was in a private bathroom, singing to tamar braxton, applying the rest of a charcoal face mask and waiting for ysa to call.

as for cameron . . . he was missing you in that fairytale costume. he’s still at the dining table taking irregular swigs from a longneck bottle of warm beer and watching you gather up your belongings.

he has his bottom lip pulled between his thumb and forefinger in contemplation. he couldn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this anxious — absolutely terrified — to speak to a woman. or the last time panic rattled his entirety at the mere thought of potentially never being able to have a pussy squeezing his cock again. this was torture; to be in your presence and not have you as he wanted you.

“what time you plan on leaving out?” he dropped his fingers from his lips and redirected his weirdly intense gaze elsewhere. he’s assuming that you must’ve found it strange that he’s sat back longer than he also expected. now looking at you: “after . . .” cameron scoots the chair a bit, “. . . i get that conversation.”

guess this was the perfect window.

you’re seeing him begin to stand from the dining table and in what seemed like the longest second of your life, you wanted to unclasp his belt and jump into his arms. it was impossible not to. it was impossible not to want him. to ache for him and hope for him, as you’ve always had . . . “i was going to say it.”

he guessed it was nice to have a confirmation. “hasn’t left my mind.” after countless feeble attempts, it was no use. it was and had to be your body under his. from here on and forever. you’ve made his home life impossible. he can not kiss his fiancée as he used to, because her lips are not your own. he can not hug his fiancée, because her body is not your own. just existing here now, mere feet from you, has his resolute hanging by a thread.

“but, y’know. that’s what happens during sex - we say things we don’t mean,” you blurted. a cheap cop-out. one he couldn’t accept. or embrace. did you seriously think he’d take that?

“it’s been a long, hard coupl’a nights . . . and i’ve . . . i’ve underestimated you.” or rather, he believed he couldn’t fall for the girl he used to pinch and bite following rough, adult sex in a muggy, male locker-room. but that’s what he did.

he wasn’t too worried though. about this here. he knew he could get your legs open again as soon as this madness was all over.

“i’ve tried reaching you- calls. texts. voicemails. that phone broke?” cameron gestures to the device indenting one front pocket. no, it was not broken. nor cracked a smidge. its condition was immaculate actually. you hold a hand over your concealed phone and shake your head, muttering no. “i silenced everything . . . wasn’t ready ‘s’all.” and scared you might’ve spooked him. “but, uhm- i have’to apologise.” not just to him, but to ysa. and adonis. and bianca. and mama cade. and your momma! “i know better.”

woahwoahwoah. cameron catches your arm, careful of the slipping purse. “‘m not mad. ‘ight? i’m not. but- hey. hey- i do think we can try somethin’.” he wanted you more than anything. more than everything. “- i wan’a try something with you.” try? with pupils blown and bigger than the moon. “something that’s more serious- you’d like that, yeah?”

serious like what? secret girlfriend-boyfriend, serious?

“no.” like there could be a serious label after tonight.

“no?” he’s plucked. “you’ve said no more than three words t’me all night.” and for very good reason. “i don’t want that again.” . . . “i showed up ‘cause i miss you.” but also ‘cause he knew ysa wouldn’t be on his arm to bullshit and yank him away. “i cannot think of anyone else.” — cameron releases your arm without even meaning to and paces sloppy circles about the space between the dining area and the living area. a tell-tale sign that he was spiralling and getting ready to crash. “i can’t.”

you swallow thickly, gripping both hips for stability and comfort. seeing the way he moved was making your mind tilt and legs jelly. the nervous energy that warped and buzzed around cameron was spreading and latching onto you. “yeah- i’m not doing this.” fresh air. get outside. fressh airr. out.sidde.

“if not now, then when? huh?” cameron hurried forth, adamant on keeping you from leaving out of that front door.

gulp. “maybe when you feel like havin’ sex with me again,” right as you’re about to snatch back the handle: “oh don’t- don’t you dare do that.” because there was something awful in your voice. and he wasn’t going for it. shit wasn’t fair. “i did not lure you into some - fucked, degrading ass shit -“

“you didn’t have to!” oh crap. that was much louder than what you were going for. but not as loud as the grumbling in your tummy and the thrashing of your upset heart. “you- my gosh- cameron,” said with an enormous sense of wrongness, “you know how i feel- have felt about you for years. years.”

okay, so, yeah. maybe he used that to get over the bridge that night in the locker-room. maybe your feelings made it easier. cameron had always known how to press. and you'd always had a weakness for persistence. cameron’s bedroom-life wasn’t the greatest then and still isn’t now. and yours is and has never existed to begin with. no offense.

making a choked noise, “you knew.”

“. . . i did.” a confession; there was real history here. jacked up, cracked up history. but it was there. “and you knew too.” you couldn't claim surprise. couldn't claim innocence. or victim. the only victim in this case was ysa. he’d gotten you halfway, holding the door open, and the other half had been your own two feet.

“but did you not hear what i just said? . . .” cameron hunched down until he was eye level and cradled the sides of your neck. then gently cupped both of your cute cheeks. “i. want. you.”

but it . . . it doesn’t feel good. this doesn’t feel like love. not from him. not the kind you'd spent all those lonely nights imagining. you've wanted him to choose you for so long, yet now that he was, all you could feel was the mess of how he'd gotten here. there were no butterflies and there were no sparkles and there were no confetti cannons. "i want you to want me - the right way."

the right way? he wasn’t getting it. he wasn’t understanding your opposition. you’ve wanted him for years. fucking years, like you said. since before you could even comprehend what romantic feelings were. all you’ve ever been able to think about was cameron cade. all you’ve ever known to breathe for was cameron cade. and to be chased by him. and to call him yours. and now that he was purposing the idea, you were . . . declining. ???

did he have to leave ysa?

“jus’ . . .” he righted himself and wiped his face with a deep, full-body groan. “jus’ sit down.”

but sitting down was not happening. you’re looking at him with disgust and deep sorrow and neither hear the soft-as-a-mouse footfalls at the staircase — “this . . . is not affection,” barely able to speak over the nausea. “this shit . . . is- it’s messy.” which might’ve been the nicest word to use here. “and you do not want the’real me.”

maybe he believed it was love. maybe he even meant every word. but compared to everything you'd carried for him your entire life, it felt flimsy. what you had, it was forged by time and vexation and disappointment and patience. “i . . . want someone who’ll see me as someone.” . . . it had been easy to give him your body because your heart had belonged to him. but giving him the rest of your life? that was different. that required believing he loved you for reasons that existed before the night in the locker-room. and you didn't.

cameron’s brows fold into themselves and his arms uncross. defeated. “would you please jus’ sit down?”

that . . . was not happening. it couldn’t. another minute spent talking with cameron was another minute you could’ve been home, in the bed, holding a bowl of chopped fruit and the television streaming season four of the big bang theory. “goodnight, cameron.”

and you left without saying anything else.

he should’ve told you that the sex wasn’t to be taken to heart. just something fun, he figured. but having known you his whole life, saying that not only would’ve hurt you —

but it would’ve kept you away . . .