Baby, Be My Last: The Fairfields | Book Three Read online

  “Oh, he’s not old,” Silas says, even as he scratches the crop of gray fur under Arrow’s chin. “At least, not in spirit. You can see it in his eyes.”

  “I’m telling you, he’s a lazy old man. Every time we come here, he gets excited for about five minutes, then rests his head on my leg looking pathetic until I take all the dogs back and we go home. Then he burrows into my bed and stays like that until dinnertime.”

  “He’s not old,” he repeats, in this tone like I’m naïve. “He’s just bored.”

  “Bored. In a park with all his friends.”

  “He’s a farm dog.” In a flash, Silas’s voice melts into his dog tone. “He wants to run through a field and chase birds, not climb little bridges with dachshunds. Look at this place, it’s barely five yards long.”

  “This ‘farm dog,’” I retort, “spends most his days sleeping, gets manicures more often than I do, and has never lived anywhere but my house.”

  “It’s not about his experience. It’s in his blood.” After I scoff, Silas ducks so he can stage-whisper in Arrow’s ear, “Tell your mom to drive you out to Filigree, some time. I know a great field for you to romp in. You could run all over the place, the whole day.” He peers at me, smile returning. “Camille and I could set up a picnic and everything. Tell her I’ll even cook. It’ll be a much better date than this sorry excuse for a park.”

  “First of all,” I argue, “this dog park is fine. All the others love it. And second...” My sentence fades. The annoyance goes right with it. “...you said this wasn’t a date.”

  It’s now that Silas chooses to kiss me. It’s so swift and sudden, I wonder if that was his plan all along—to fake me out, just for the fun of keeping me guessing.

  Or maybe it’s because he wanted to see exactly this, when he pulled away: my eyes still shut, breath held, and the red spreading through my neck and cheeks when I look at him in stunned silence.

  “Yeah, well.” He reaches up and holds my chin gently, like I’m some work of art he wants to admire. “Wouldn’t be the first time I lied to you, would it?”

  9

  “I can’t stress this enough: no matter how you feel towards him, don’t let your emotions get the better of you in there.”

  For the first time since I woke at dawn, I stop fidgeting. Graham doesn’t look up from his phone.

  “I won’t,” I say evenly, punctuating the sentence by unbuckling my seatbelt and letting it slap the door. Graham takes his time getting out and following me into the courthouse. There’s a conference room inside, where he and Tim’s lawyers agreed to meet today, but I still feel a cold grip on my stomach as though I’m walking into court. The weather’s taken a sudden turn from yesterday. My breath curls into a cloud in front of me and hovers.

  “I’m just saying,” he goes on, “I’ve handled plenty of cases like this. You might think you’re fine out here, but as soon as you see him—”

  “Graham. I’m not going to haul off and punch the guy.” As though this proves it, I straighten my tie and fix my shirt cuffs. “Like you said, we’re here on business.”

  He eyes me skeptically and yanks the door open. Even the way he motions me inside seems sarcastic.

  * * *

  Last night, after Camille and I dropped all the dogs off at their houses, her mother invited me in for dinner.

  “Silas actually has an early meeting, tomorrow,” Camille blurted, before I’d even gotten over my surprise of Mrs. Ballard—who whipped my knee with the dish towel and insisted I call her Kerry—inviting me inside.

  “Actually,” I said, smiling at Camille as I stepped past the threshold to her kitchen, “dinner sounds amazing. I’ve been eating so much vending machine junk at the motel. Thank you.”

  Camille smiled back, a little tightly, before the buzz of conversation and flurry as we helped prepare dinner took over. The more I made her mom laugh, the more Camille relaxed.

  “So, Silas,” Kerry said, when the three of us sat down to eat our salads while the chicken finished, “how long are you in town? You mentioned a motel, so I’m guessing you aren’t from here.”

  “Filigree, originally. I moved to Hillford when I was eighteen. Needed a change of scenery.”

  “It certainly is a wholesome little town,” she offered, which made Camille look like she wanted to die inside. I nudged her foot with mine under the table, letting her know I didn’t take offense. “What brought you to the city?”

  “Just some legal stuff I needed to sort out.”

  “Oh.” Kerry raised her eyebrows politely. “Like what?”

  “Uh….”

  “Mom,” Camille hissed.

  “No, it’s okay,” I told her. Thanks to that reporter I met with, rumors were already running rampant; it would only be a matter of time before everyone knew my story. Might as well share it on my terms, while I can, I thought.

  “My dad is Tim Fairfield. So…that’s my meeting tomorrow, that Camille was talking about. He wants to add me to his will.”

  Kerry stared at me, her smile flickering into place, while Camille focused her complete attention on the Italian dressing bottle.

  “Oh,” her mom said, after a beat. “I didn’t realize Timothy and Jeannie had any children besides a daughter. What’s her name—oh, gosh, it’s on the tip of my tongue. She’s always at the Jackson Park Fundraiser with her mother, every year.”

  “Caitlin-Anne,” I prompted, nodding. “That’s my half-sister.”

  “Half,” she repeated. I nodded again. It took her a minute to register what, exactly, this must have meant. But once it did, the smile faded, and she had about as much trouble looking at me as Camille did.

  But then she drew a breath, right when the timer for the chicken sounded. “Well,” she grinned, as she jumped up to get it out of the oven, “imagine that! We’re eating dinner with a genuine Fairfield.”

  At the exact same time, Camille and I rolled our eyes. She hid her laugh behind a piece of dinner roll.

  When the meal was finished, Kerry wrapped up some leftovers to take to Camille’s father at his night shift. The two of us waved her off from the front door. Then I turned and rocked on my heels in the doorway, smiling while Camille picked at the weatherstripping.

  “Mom hasn’t cooked a meal like that in a long time,” she said, and stared down the road like she could still see the taillights. “We rarely get to eat together, so it’s all instant stuff and frozen meals.”

  Camille turned and went back inside. She didn’t shut the door, or even put her hand on the knob. Just went straight to the couch. I took it as permission to stay longer, so I shut the door myself and followed.

  “She’s doing a lot more than she used to, actually,” she continued. “It’s like...like how she was before she even got sick.”

  “Maybe they’re not as bad off as you think, then.” I held my breath afterwards, worried I’d anger her, but she sank into the cushions and nodded.

  I got up and made us some coffee. She called out directions to me, eager to help but too tired to actually interfere, and I was glad. I liked doing something for her, anything to take away some of the pressure she put on herself, day after day.

  “Thank you,” she smiled, taking her mug when I returned. “And, um...thank you, for your help today.” She stared into her cup and turned red when I pushed her hair back so I could see her eyes.

  “Thank you for letting me help. You obviously don’t accept it from just anyone, so it was an honor.”

  “I accept help,” she shot back, “just not a lot of it. What’s wrong with being independent?”

  “Nothing. It was just an observation.”

  She shrank back a little and mumbled something that sounded, vaguely, like an apology.

  I lowered my head so she’d look at me. “Should I leave?”

  “No,” she said quickly, then blushed again. “I mean—if you want to, that’s fine. I just meant...don’t feel like you have to. That stuff I said about your meeting, when my mom aske
d you to stay for dinner, it wasn’t because I wanted you to leave. I just didn’t want her...jumping to conclusions.”

  “Ah. Does she tend to do that with guys you bring home?”

  “I don’t bring guys home, actually. Ever. That’s why she was so gung-ho about you staying, I think. She was probably thinking, ‘Thank God, finally. She won’t die an old spinster.’”

  We laughed quietly, then drank in silence while Arrow limped into the kitchen. The television was muted; we could hear him slurp water like he hadn’t gotten any in days.

  “‘Finally.’ Interesting word choice.” When she looked at me, I explained, “You make it sound like you’ve never brought guys home because...there haven’t been any guys.”

  “Told you. Never had time for dating.”

  “Never?”

  Pushing through her embarrassment with sarcastic pride, Camille lifted her chin and declared, “Never ever.”

  “So if there haven’t been any guys....” I let my sentence trail, eyeing her while I sipped my coffee. As expected, her face reddened all over again. Any minute now, she could decide she’d had enough of me and kick me out, any shot I had with her ruined because I couldn’t shut my stupid mouth.

  But I had to know.

  “Camille.” Slowly, her eyes drifted from the blanket she was picking at, to my coffee cup as I set it on the tray in front of us. “Have you never been with anyone?”

  Her mouth twisted as she bit the skin inside her lip. “Like...have I had a boyfriend, or have I...” The register of her voice nosedived. “...slept with...anyone?”

  Don’t push your luck, I warned myself. One question too far, and that was it for us. Whatever we were now, whatever we might be later.

  Too bad my mouth was operating on some separate part of my brain. “Both. Either.”

  “No,” she said softly, but her tone was just a little sharp. She sat straight and set her mug on the tray beside mine. “I haven’t been with anyone. My last boyfriend was in high school, for...maybe a month, if that. And I haven’t....” Her words tangled. She stared at the muted television and paced her breath, even though I could see her heartbeat going crazy in a spot by her ear.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “You didn’t. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “I didn’t say there was.”

  The look she shot me was bathed in an aura of “Yeah, right.”

  “Really,” I insisted, “I’m not judging you over it. It just popped into my head, and—and I was curious.”

  “Curious” didn’t even begin to describe what I was. The virgin thing was as daunting as it was exciting, but that was secondary to the other piece of the puzzle, every new bit of information I was gathering about her today: she’d never really had a relationship.

  “It explains a lot,” I added, “like why you assumed you wouldn’t have time to date. Like, sure, it takes time, but a lot of people make it work when schedules don’t line up. You act like it’s coordinating the Olympic opening ceremonies or something.”

  “Thank you. Your insults are greatly appreciated.” She flipped the blanket on her feet onto the couch and began to rise, but I reached for her. My fingers locked around her wrist. When she looked down at me, I loosened them.

  “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my business, but...thank you for telling me.” Now I knew why she was scared. The work hours, her mom’s health, her parents’ money problems: they were just surface reasons, things that probably used to be true, but now weren’t as good reasons as she thought.

  It was all new to her. She didn’t know how to live any other way than how she did, up until the exact moment we met, when I challenged it all.

  “I’ll top off your coffee,” she said, too flustered by the conversation to formally accept my apology. But this was more than enough.

  I let go of her wrist. She took our mugs off the tray…then promptly tripped on my feet, one of the mugs sloshing coffee right onto me.

  Specifically, right onto my crotch.

  “Fuck, that’s hot,” I breathed, jumping up so I could peel the damp fabric away from my skin. Camille was spewing curses and apologies, the mugs sloshing more coffee onto the tray until she set it down, grabbed the blanket, and dabbed at the stain.

  “It’s okay,” I assured her, when she seemed to snap into the reality of what, exactly, she was touching, and her hand dropped the blanket like it was made of lead. “Nothing vital was scalded.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she muttered, but a laugh bubbled under the surface. I laughed, and soon she didn’t have any choice but to join in.

  “Of all the places, huh?” I flung the droplets off my hand and adjusted my pants again. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you planned that.”

  “It’s mostly your thigh,” she countered, laughter still breaking through.

  “It is,” I said, “and you know what’s right next to my thigh? What, you think we just rest it perfectly on the seam? That’d be quite the balancing act.”

  Every sentence just made her laugh more, and me, too. We didn’t stop until our sides ached, and Arrow finally peered out of the kitchen to see what the hell was wrong with his human.

  “Let me wash them for you,” she said, after we’d calmed down. “I have some sweatpants that’ll fit you. I use them for yard work.”

  “It’s fine, really. I’ll...wash them in the motel sink.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She took my hand, pulling me to the stairs to the next split-level. “Your motel is only a few minutes from the Acre—I’ll drop them off before my shift tomorrow.”

  This changed my mind instantly. Any excuse to see her again was a good one. “I guess it’s the least you can do,” I quipped. She let go of my hand on the stairs and swatted me.

  I changed in the bathroom. The sweatpants were baggy and fit fine, maybe an inch too short and embedded with grass stains, but comfortable. I passed her my jeans and listened while she took them down to the laundry room. Pipes creaked in the walls behind me.

  The door to her bedroom was open. I strolled closer and glanced inside: bed, television, crowded dresser. Not much different from mine back at the apartment in Hillford, except for the pink daisy wallpaper.

  “Done,” she announced, when she came back up the steps. “Or they will be, soon enough.” She froze when she caught me looking into her bedroom. “What are you doing?”

  “Just scoping it out. So this is where the magic doesn’t happen, huh?”

  Camille gave a tense smile as she reached past me and closed the door. “Shut up.”

  “Your desk looks nice. Maybe you could help me write that letter to my dad, before I leave.”

  Once again, she gave me the look that made it clear she didn’t believe me. Good call on her part: I didn’t give two shits about that letter, right now. I didn’t care about tomorrow at all. All I wanted was to kiss her again. Maybe lay her down across her bed and touch her, even for a minute, just enough to ensure she’d think about me when I left.

  “It’s getting late.” Her challenge came complete with a jutted hip and hand on the waist. “You’ve got your meeting.”

  “And you have work.” I leaned on her doorframe. “But come on—you can’t tell me I don’t look cute as hell in your sweatpants.”

  Camille laughed again and started downstairs. I trailed at my own pace, looking at the photographs in frames along the hallway: her parents’ wedding day, some old folks I guessed were grandparents, and all thirteen of her school portraits, in order, ending with her graduation day. Her parents stood on either side of her, beaming; Camille brandished her diploma in one hand, a decorated mortarboard in the other. In neon paint, she’d written, “Somerset U, watch out!”

  “Whoa.” I stopped in my tracks. “You didn’t tell me you went to Somerset.”

  “Barely. I dropped out, remember?”

  “Still. That’s a tough one to get into. You must have had, like, a perfect GPA.”

  “Far from i
t. I applied to their Writing and Literature program, so the portfolio and essay you submit are weighed more than your transcripts.”

  “Your portfolio was probably crazy impressive, then.” I came back to the living room when she walked away again. “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

  “I’m not. It was just a way to get into a good school. My guidance counselor made me write, like, fifty pages about growing up while my mom had cancer. A memoir, I guess.”

  “But it must have been well-written, otherwise they wouldn’t have admitted you.”

  “They felt sorry for me,” she said, busying herself by cleaning up the shards of a bone Arrow was gnawing on the area rug.

  “So you didn’t want an English degree?”

  “I wanted any degree, honestly. I planned on double-majoring in that and Business. Something generic.”

  “Why?” I crouched to help her with the last of the pieces. And, truthfully, to stop myself from saying anything unbelievably cheesy, like the fact “generic” was the last word I’d ever use to describe her. It was true, but still lame.

  “I have no idea what I want to do with my life.” She sat as she said this, cross-legged in the middle of the rug, like just admitting it took all her energy. “Finding a job was easy, but I’ve never taken the time to try and find a career.”

  “Overrated,” I scoffed.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Research and Development is not my career. It’s just a job that might turn into one. I haven’t decided yet. Right now I like it, but it’s not my passion or anything.”

  Camille studied me a moment, watching as I sat at the other end of the rug. “What is your passion?”

  “No idea. Just like you. Just like most people.”

  “It seems like everyone knows what they want to do in life except me.”

  “Yeah, because everyone thinks they’re the only one just kind of...stumbling along, trying to figure it out, so they hide it. There’s a lot more of us than you think.” I held out my hand when Arrow roamed closer, sniffing out the precious fragments we’d apparently stolen from him.