Page 7 of Dove
Sammy
Icheck the rear view mirror one more time, give Cam my best and most charming smile–the one he can never resist–and then jam my foot down on the accelerator.
Hopefully before he has enough time to think about what I just said.
Because though I meant it, the last thing I need is for Cameron to think about it too much. When he thinks, he gets...
Well, he gets more difficult.
The boy is sharp as a tack and twice as dangerous, but he already spends too much time thinking, and the deeper he gets into his own head, the harder it is to get him back out of it. I've known him since I was seven–he's only two weeks older than me–and been best friends with him since we were eight, and in all that time, I've never been able to get him to loosen up and just live. Just take action without having to think through it first, fly through the night sky without worrying what might be below his feet.
That doesn't mean I'll ever stop trying.
This change the smile on my face to a wicked grin, and I glance into the mirror again. In the bed of the truck, Cameronisn't grinning. He's scowling as he tries to keep the art piece from sliding around, his face creased in concentration and his eyes on whatever his hands are doing, and this makes my grin even bigger. Dark, slightly wavy hair hangs down over his forehead, shading those ebony eyes and reaching nearly to sharp, chiseled cheekbones, and fuck's sake, how does he already need another hair cut? Didn't he just get his hair cut last week? My eyes dip to lush lips–pursed together right now in concentration–and the dimple in a chin sharp enough to match the cheekbones.
When his eyes suddenly come back to mine, dark as sin and twice as hot, I flush, horrified at him having caught me looking, but narrow my own eyes defensively.
"What're you doing that's got you so concerned?" I shout. "Where are your hands, boy?"
"Stop worrying about what I'm doing and watch the road!" he shouts back.
I laugh, refusing to take him seriously, and look back at the road in front of me. I don't know why he's so worried; it's not like anyone is out here. It's 7 in the morning on a Saturday, and normal people are in their houses, probably still in their beds or lingering over long, slow breakfasts, complete with coffee and bacon and probably pancakes.
Pancakes.
My stomach twists at the thought and for a moment I wish I'd stayed in the kitchen for longer, to make us pancakes and fresh orange juice. Lay out a breakfast feast for Cameron and see his eyes light up when he walked in and saw it.
Then I remember that long, slow Saturday morning breakfasts are for normal people, not us. Those are for everyone else in town. The people who have a mom and a dad and kids, and good jobs and steady paychecks.
That's not us.
That's neverbeenus.
Because my mom is dead and his is gone, and I never even knew my own father. As for his dad... I scoff at the thought of him, and turn my mind away. Barrett Hawke has never been in town for long enough to claim the title, and now that he's back, thrown out of the Marines like the degenerate he is, he's proving once again that he doesn't understand family.
Hell, he's barely even acknowledged his own son. Moved right back into his house without so much as a housewarming party and left Cameron and me living with my mother's sister.
Not that we would have gone if he did have a party.
I don't care for Bear myself, but I'll never forgive him for deserting Cam the way he has. And as far as I'm concerned, the sooner Bear leaves again, the better. For all of us.
I take the next right–the one to the road that'll lead us up the mountain–and let my mind skim over the facts as I drive. Cameron and I have never been what you might call normal. For the first seven years of his life, Cam grew up in a broken house. Bear skipped town immediately after Cameron was born, and his mom decided to do the same when Bear reappeared seven years later. She shoved the boy off on the deadbeat dad and blew out of town herself, leaving the kid in the hands of a stranger.
That stranger then married my mother, who was single because her husband had also fled Hawke's Wood—it happens a lot in this town, isolated as it is—leaving her alone and virtually penniless.
And trying to support a seven-year-old girl on a waitress' pay.
The new guy stayed long enough to insert Cameron into our household, charm my mother into taking him, and do some damage to her emotional well-being. Then he went back to whatever life he'd been leading before he reappeared in town.
I take a turn and straighten out again, the road slanting upward and the air growing thinner as we move up the mountain. We're already past the last of the buildings anddriving into the woods, now, and I let my eyes wander over the springtime color. Spring arrived early this year–March rather than our usual May–and the forest is a riot of celebration. Bright, fresh greens in the branches of the trees as the first new leaves make their appearances, and again on the ground as plants push their way into the light. Deeper blue greens in the pines, and chocolate browns in the wood of the trees. There are flashes of jewel tones here and there too, where flowers are starting to show their faces, but we're still a few weeks out from the biggest bloom. Right now, everything is fresh and new and green, still waiting to grow up enough to put out flowers and seeds.
The air is still thin and cool, but it's getting warmer and earning that golden glow that comes with more sunshine. The snow has all melted, our rain is largely finished, and the world feels like it's stretching and breathing out, just waking from a long, deep sleep.
Spring is my favorite time of year. I love the newness of everything. The fresh start, the idea that even after the shortest, darkest days, there's always a light coming. Always a new plant poking up out of the soil, as if it was destined to see the sun, even before it was born.
It gives me hope, and that's something I don't feel very often.
God, sometimes I make myself sick.
