Page 52 of Close Knit

“Enough,” Cameron growls, snapping out of his daze and shaking the man off of him. “Daphne, let’s go.” He wraps his fingers around my wrist. I trail behind him, barely able to keep up with the speed of his long legs. We weave through the dancing bodies until we’re outside the iron gate in total darkness.

“What was that about?” I pant, but Cameron keeps walking toward the car. “Cameron.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I yank my arm back, planting myself on the mossy ground below my feet.

“I do,” I declare. “Who was that? Did you know him?”

“No.”

“If there was anyone who should’ve gotten a piece of grumpy Cameron, it’s that guy.”

He sighs, looking wearier than I’ve ever seen him. “Football fans are…they’re passionate about their teams. We had a rough start to the season. I didn’t want to stick around and hear about it.”

“Okay, but—”

“People like that,” he says, gesturing at the conservatory behind us, “are starved for a scandal. They’d call reporters, snap pictures, and feed the tabloids a buffet of steaming shit about me, you, or us.”

I blink, still not fully grasping the severity. “So he was shouting at you for no reason?”

“There’s an aggressive subculture among some football fans. Some don’t just hurl verbal abuse; they thrive on it. They get a kick out of putting people like me on the front page of a gossip column.”

“Oh. It’s not just about the game?” I ask, my naivety evident.

“No,” he says softly. “It’s about everything else too. And while that guy might not have tried to assault me, well, apart from ruining one of my fucking sweaters, he’d definitely yell at me just to get a reaction.”

“That sounds…exhausting.”

“It is,” he admits, his shoulders slumping. “It’s why I don’t want to be seen out in public with you.”

The words hurt more than I expected. I get that we’re not dating, and I don’t exactly want to be on the front page of a gossip column because I went to one botanical garden with my new friend, but the way he says it makes it seem like being seen with me is the worst thing in the world. He’s a regular feature in the news, surely he’s used to the spotlight.

After all, he dated Mal Kelly.

A flurry of questions whirls around my mind. Why else does he not want to be seen out in public? What else is he afraid of? But I’ve never been one for excavating secrets people don’t want to share. That’s a one-way ticket to Codependencyville.

“Are you embarrassed of me?” I let slip, the words propelled by a sudden, irrational fear that’s taken root in my mind.

“No,” he asserts. “It’s not like that. I—” He shakes his head as if he’s trying to properly arrange his thoughts. “Last season, the tabloids were all over me. They spread lies, they twisted stories, they took a painful moment and made sure it hurt me.” There’s pain in his voice.

“What happened?”

Cameron’s gaze drops to the ground. “It’s in the past now. But I don’t want that to happen again. More importantly, I don’t wantyouto be their next target.” His behavior confounds me, shifting from puzzling to forthright in a matter of seconds. As if he can read my thoughts, he steps closer and says, his voice faltering, “I’m not hiding anything from you. There’s just stuffthat isn’t real, stuff that felt humiliating, stuff that—I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me.”

Part of me can’t resist this man with sad eyes and a kind heart. “I’m not swayed by gossip, Cameron. I wouldn’t believe something someone twisted and posted for clicks. I do trust you. But is this why you haven’t done anything for fun lately? Because you don’t want to be recognized?”

“Yes,” he confesses.

Well, that can easily be resolved. “Then let me plan our next da—” I pause. “Outing.”

“No. I made a promise. I won’t take my brother’s recommendations next time.”

“Compromise is the key to friendship, right?” I remind him. “I’ll pick the least public place you could imagine. And,” I say, reaching for the collar of his sweater, “let me mend this when we get back home.”

“You don’t have to do that. I have plenty of charcoal sweaters.” He tries to brush me off but doesn’t step back. In fact, his chest presses firmly into my hand, as if he wants to be touched by me.

“Well, I want to,” I say.

“Okay,” he softly utters, his voice nearly a whisper amid our mutual silence. “Now, let’s get you home.”

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