Page 30 of Catching Camila

Yeah, well, where the hell were they?

The timer above the stove dinged, and John pushed up before Camila could stand. “You don’t have to wait on me,” he said, heading for the stove. “Sit down. You worked all day.”

She sat back in her chair and crossed her tan arms on the tabletop. “I guess I’m just used to waiting on people.”

He flipped off the burner and lifted the pot. Steam coiled from the macaroni. “Well, I’m not used to being waited on.”

She cocked her head, a slash of dark bangs falling over her eyes. “How’d you know? You only remember the last three days.”

He smiled. “You’re right, but you’re still not getting up. Where’s your butter?”

She pointed. There was a short silence while John cut a hunk of butter and dropped it in the pot. He found the milk carton in the fridge and poured some in. Then the powdered cheese. When he finally came to the table with two steaming bowls and produced them triumphantly, he saw her frowning. He sat, letting the bowl sit uneaten.

“What is it?”

She twisted her mouth. “I need to ask you…”

“Ask.” He placed both palms on the table, ready. “I’ll tell you the truth. Whatever it is.”

She looked up, her hands tugging on the ends of her hair. “What happened this morning? You looked so panicked.”

John leaned back in his chair. He'd said he’d tell her the truth. He lifted his fork and tapped it nervously on the side of the bowl.

“This morning I was really sick, so sick I thought I was going to die.” His eyes flicked to her face. “I decided I'd find a cop or something and ask for help. I walked into a convenience store a couple miles outta town. The shop owner…” John winced remembering the man’s bloody throat, the flies.

She nodded encouraging him to tell her more, but if he did, she’d kick him out for sure.

He swallowed hard, and lied. “He kicked me out. It was here I was attached.”

Camila pushed up from the table, the dishes clattering. “We should call the police.”

He put his hands up, shaking his head. “No, no, it’s fine. Really. I don’t want to involve the police. I’m fine.”

So much for telling the truth. But there was no way she'd believe the truth.

“Do you need medical attention?” she asked.

“No. I’m a fast healer.” He smiled, feeling guilty.

She furrowed her brow, but didn’t ask any more questions. He took that as a good sign.

The smell of the macaroni, so starchy and cheesy, was making his stomach somersault. He took a bite, the gooey goodness coating his tongue. Would she kick him out? Slam the door in his face? He glanced up at her. She was eating carefully. He could almost see the gears working in her head. She seemed to let it slide for now.

Her eyes flicked to the door and a nervous shadow darkened her face.

“Where’s your mom at?” he asked, scraping the last yellow globs out of the bowl.

Camila shrugged. “I woke up this morning and she was gone. She takes off sometimes.” Her eyes trailed over to the couch. “Most of the time lately she just lays around, but she flushed her medication and now I’m not sure what she’ll do.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said, looking down.

John reached for her empty dish and rinsed both out in the sink. The clock above the stove read half past ten. He felt the fatigue down to his bones. He looked over and caught her rubbing her eyes. “I should go.”

“Where?” Her eyes shifted to the rain streaming down the kitchen window. “Out there? You can’t.”

Thunder cracked across the sky hard enough to rattle the windowpanes. He certainly didn’t want to sleep under some overpass, but the thought of her mother coming home and catching him sleeping on her couch did not appeal to him either. “I’ll be fine.”

---