Page 28 of Catching Camila

John

Wednesday 9:18 p.m.

They stood inside the foyer, water dripping on the fraying rug. The smell of her strawberry shampoo, brought out by the rain, filled his nose. Her dark brown hair hung limp to her face in wet coils as she blinked up at him. Her cheeks blazed pink from the walk and perhaps from the fact that he was standing two feet away? He hoped so.

“So,” she said, gesturing around the trailer, “this is my place.”

Every square inch of carpet was covered by saggy cardboard boxes, mismatched shoes, and purses. A trail of papers littered the walkway between the foyer and the kitchen. Around the couch, cigarette boxes, ashtrays, old magazines, and TV dinner trays made uneven piles.

Camila gnawed nervously at her lip; her hands twisted together at her waist. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, just looked around her home. “My mom, she’s a little…okay a lot messy. If you’ll give me a minute to tidy up…” She spun, grabbed trash from the floor, and shoved it in an overflowing garbage can. Then she hurried over and began stacking food-encrusted plates together.

He walked up and put his hand on her arm. Her skin was warm and supple.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Yesterday I was eating in a dumpster.”

She met his eyes, setting the plates back on the end table. “John, are you homeless?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

She gave a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. At least it’s summer, right?”

“Good point.” She stared up into his eyes again. “Still. This is embarrassing.” She looked around her trailer.

“Camila, I don’t care that your trailer’s a mess.”

She blew out a breath. “Good. Cause it’d take all week to get it clean.”

He chuckled. “No kidding.”

He watched the unease fall from her face. Her eyes locked on him. They traveled down to his chest, her cheeks flushed and then she darted her eyes away.

“So, what’s first?” she asked. “Food or shower?”

He ran a hand through his wet hair. “Shower.”

She started down the cluttered hallway. “Follow me.”

Pausing at the doorway, the fluorescent light buzzed to life, and she pointed him to the tub and shower combo. She left and returned with a clean, if rust-stained, bath towel, disposable razor, and washcloth. Before she pulled the door shut, she stopped and fixed him with a worried look. “If my mother comes home, just let me do the talking.”

“Why?”

“She might be mad you’re here.”

He furrowed his brow. “Is she going to come home?”

“Dunno.” Then she clicked the door shut.

John pressed his forehead to the door. That girl.

He could still smell her strawberry shampoo.

* * *

Wednesday 9:32 p.m.

The rain drummedon the roof as John walked out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel on his wet hair. He wore a navy V-neck T-shirt and black athletic shorts with drawstring ties Camila had left at the bathroom door. The clothes smelled a little musty, like they'd been in bags for a couple of years, but he didn’t mind. He’d thrown away those women’s jogging shorts and hoped to God he never had to see them again.

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