Page 11 of Fractured Souls
“Look at me.” I do, because I can’t help myself when it comes to him. “You’re allowed to be upset. Don’t try to push it away. I got you.” That’s when I stop choking back the emotion and let myself crumble, and he hugs me tight as I cry. While he’s so much smaller than I am, I always feel like he’s my shield. He keeps all the bad away, and just by having his arms around meI feel a little better—even if I am snotting up the front of his hoodie.My old hoodie.
We sit there like this for a bit until I finally calm down.
“Let me drive,” he says, and it’s probably smart. He lifts off of me and gets out his side to switch spots with me. Adjusting my seat and mirrors, Bo drives back toward his house. “You want to grab some snacks? We can get drinks? We can try a new recipe? WatchDragon Ballor something. What’s the one you wanted me to watch . . . ghoul something?”
“Tokyo Ghoul.” I look at him. My best friend is literally describing my perfect night, but Siena’s words echo in my brain.
Childish. Immature. Boring.
“We can do whatever you want tonight. We can go out? Maybe to a bar or something.”
“Like . . . in public?” He grimaces. “Why would I want to do that?”
And this, among a thousand other things, is why he’s my best friend. “Let’s go get some snacks. And lots of alcohol. I don’t have to work tomorrow, do you?”
He shakes his head before turning down another road heading toward the store. “I had to work tonight, but I called in when you were in the house.” It’s quiet for a minute. “Are you going to be okay?”
I think for a moment before I nod. “I am. I’m okay. As long as it’s us three, I’ll be fine.”
“Three?”
“You, me, and your very talented hand.”
He blinks at me flatly. “I hate you, Cam. So damn much.”
Chapter 3
Bo
Mykitchenisamess, and for once I’m not the cause. Not that I cook that much for myself, but I also don’t clean much either. It’s not that my house is dirty, it’s not, it’s just messy—lived in, some would say.
Me. I say that.
There are so many other things I could be doing instead. Not that I do them, but I’m sure they’re better things.
I watch Cam aggressively mix batter, and flour spills over the edges of the bowl. When he came out of the house after getting his stuff I knew something was wrong. When Cam’s trying not to cry he does this blank stare thing, which is very unnerving for someone so animated. I want to know what the hell Siena said to him, but my friend has been slowly losing it ever since, the evidence of his breakdown bursting all over this kitchen.
How the hell is he going to eat all of this?
Cookie dough bars, brownie bites, two different kinds of muffins, and a bowl of fruit salsa with homemade cinnamon chips are spread out on the counter. All of it gluten free I’m sure. But the pop-up bakery on my kitchen counter isn’t even what’s getting to me the most.
No. The most alarming thing of all?
Cam hasn’t said one word since he started violently baking.
We went to the store. He grabbed ingredients, some containers, and a case of White Claw because my friend hates beer. He’s three deep now, slightly swaying as he mixes, glaring into the bowl like the batter insulted his favorite anime. I nurse my own drink as I watch him. I’ve given him space, but quiet Cam is unnerving.
And I cannot take it anymore.
I lean toward him from where I’m sitting on the counter next to him. “I think it’s mixed.”
My heart squeezes all over again as he blinks his golden eyes at me. The thing about Camden is, big man cry hard. My friend is a crier. A huge crier.
But there’s a difference between “I just watchedToy Story 3” crying Cam and the broken boy who got into his car earlier.
What the fuck did she say to him?
“These will take a few hours to set,” he says absently. Everything about him right now just feels so hollow. “We’ve got plenty here.”
