Page 8 of Things We Tell Ourselves

“Better shut those,” she mumbles, pressing the top left button as Delilah had shown her.

The blinds touch the floor but don’t stop. The blinds keep going, unfurling further onto the ground. She hurries to correct her mistake and accidentally hits the button below it. The surround sound kicks on as a loud, deep male vibrato sings, “And I would do anything for love…”

Camille quickly finds the volume button, dropping it down to a tolerable level, and then goes back to the blinds, finally pressing the correct button. The privacy blinds roll up. This time, she’s ready, pressing the button just as the blinds are even with the floor.

She sighs, relieved that it was only music that went off and not alarms. At least the song choice wasn’t bad. She walks around the couch, pressing the button for the lights. The warm lighting brightens, so much so that she notices the dark sofa is actually a deep blue and not a brown or black like she’d thought. She steps onto the rug, brushing her toes across it. Happier now that she has proper lighting, she bumps up the music with a new song playing. A gentle male crooner sings, “and she’s buying a stairway to heaven.”

At the sound of her favorite singer’s voice, Camille bumps up the volume, all the while wondering how insulated a guesthouse of this caliber could be until the chef downstairs starts searching for a broom to smack against the ceiling.

“Ooh, it makes me wonder,” she sings along, dancing across the rug.

She needs to decompress. When the guitar solo takes over, she performs her own rendition with her air guitar, pretending the couch is an imaginary audience. She gives it her all. Her fingers flowed across her pretend guitar. The solo ends, and she throws her right arm up in the air.

“Thank you, L.A.!” she cheers at her invisible audience. “Who wants an encore?” she asks, sweeping her right arm across her imaginary audience, imagining them cheering her on.

She grabs the remote to replay the song when she hears, “Unbelievable,” muttered behind her.

Camille spins around, stumbling off the couch as the next song starts to play. A man in loose black sweats is standing at the door, his lower lip hanging open as he gawks at her. Camille snatches a throw pillow up from the couch to cover her underwear, feeling exposed without her pants. Two hard lines form between his brow.

“I’m gonna kill her,” he utters, turning from the room. He charges down the stairs, his voice growing louder. “I am going to kill her.”

Camille’s quick with the remote, moving to the window as the blinds rise to see the mysterious man charging past the pool to the main house.He can’t really mean it, can he?Is he talking about Leah?Camille dives for the bedroom. “Pants, where are my pants!” She races to the closet, grabbing her travel pants, lying crumpled on the floor beside her suitcase. She jumps into them and runs out. Pausing halfway across the living room, she remembers the baseball bat on the wall.

Camille’s down the stairs and across the yard, running at a speed that one should only achieve when running for one's life.

The intruder left the backdoor wide open. She steps in carefully, not wanting to make a sound; her bare feet make it easy to be silent. The bat is poised to swing as she creeps inside. Through the living room, she follows the distant sound of banging down the smaller hallway–Leah’s room.

“Open up, old lady. I know you’re in there,” the man bellows.

He jiggles the doorknob, leaning into the doorframe. His back is to her. Camille sets her sights on the back of his head, sprinting to get to him before he breaks into the room.

“Leave … her … alone!” Camille shouts breathlessly, running headlong at him with the bat raised high over her head.

The man’s head snaps in her direction, utter shock spreading over his features. He jumps back, tripping over himself to get away from her. He knows this is going to hurt. He falls to the ground, shielding himself with his arms.

“What on Earth?!” Leah barks behind her. “Wade, is that you?”

The man glances around Camille. “Mom,” he pleads.

Camille’s bat stops mid-air. “Mom?”

Camille turns to see Leah standing at the door he was banging on, her robe pulled tight around her midsection.

Leah looks between them, assessing the situation. Her eyes turn solemn as they land on the man partially cowering on the floor at Camille’s feet. “Son, what have you done?”

Three

Leah limps out of her bedroom with no boot or scooter in sight. Camille lowers the bat to rest on her shoulder, stepping to the side.

“What do you mean, what have I done?” the man asks Leah, his eyes darting between her and Camille as he lowers his arms. “You’re the one who has some chick staying at my place. Did you not think that I wouldn’t recognize such a blatant attempt to throw some crazy chick on me?”

Camille glares at him. “What did you call me?”

Wade raises his hand protectively between them as if he’s expecting her to hit him with the bat for the name-calling.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he gasps, rising to his feet. “It’s been a long day, and all I want to do is get some sleep.”

“I’ll have you know,” Leah starts, her voice straining as she takes a pained step forward, her right hand on the wall for support. Camille lowers the bat, walking over to her, wanting to help, but Leah shakes her head, her eyes locked on her son. “If I was going to set Camille up with anyone, it would be your brother.”

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