Page 66 of Catching Camila

Camila

Friday 1:25 a.m.

Travis was kissing her.

Camila slammed back against the couch, pressing her palms into Travis's chest. He fell back, stunned.

“Travis, I…” She stared up at him.

Travis slumped back, dropping his eyes to the floor. He planted his palm in the middle of his forehead. “Stupid.”

“No.” Camila shifted forward again, touching his arm. “It wasn't stupid. I like you. A lot. It's just… I like someone else.”

“Who? You never talk about anybody at work. It's just an excuse, isn't it?” He shook his head and then clasped it in his hands. “I suck.”

She laid her hand gently on his arm. “No, you don't. You are smart and funny and nobody makes me laugh like you.”

Travis lifted his sad eyes to hers. “Then why don't you like me?”

How could she explain how she felt when she was with John? She grabbed a tattered pillow and hugged it to her chest. “I'm all messed up right now. You don't want to be with me.”

Travis leaned in, his face lighting up. “I do!”

“No.” She pulled back. “I think we should just be friends.”

“Oh God!” He fell back as it had been a fatal blow.

“Oh, Travis. I'm sorry.”

He sat there for a moment, letting his eyes burn holes into the dirty carpet. Finally, he sighed. “I can dig what you're saying, being your friend or whatever, but whoever this dude is, he better be good to you.”

She pinched her hands together on her lap. “He is.”

An awkward silence filled the room. He turned and looked at the neon Budweiser clock glowing in the corner, drew out a fake yawn. “Dude, it's late and I gotta work tomorrow.”

“Oh no! Work.” She fell back on the couch. She'd nearly forgotten. She'd never be able to work at Lizzy's again. Not with the cops looking for her.

“I'm sure Lizzy'll give you your job back when this whole thing blows over.” Travis handed her a faded blue and gray Detroit Lions blanket. “I'd give you my bed, but it's kinda gross. I think the couch is cleaner.”

Camila took the blanket, feigning a yawn. The atmosphere in the room was decidedly awkward, and she needed to be alone for what she was planning to do next. Travis shuffled off and clicked his door shut. Camila pulled out the folded piece of paper from her pocket. In all the excitement she’d forgotten she had a new number at the bottom, penned in fresh ink. Marquez, her father. She thought of his photo stuffed in Mama's frame, the cleft chin, the dark curly hair, the crooked front tooth. Did he ever think of her? Had he ever tried to call, come by? What would he say to his long-lost daughter? She looked down at her cellphone. Time to find out.

She dialed the number. She'd been nervous with Aunt Bea, even worse with Ben, but this…

It rang three times. A deep male voice, sleepy and deep, answered. “Hello?”

She swallowed. “Marquez? Is this Marquez?”

“Yeah,” his voice was slow and thick. He coughed into the phone. “Who is this?”

“My name is Camila. And I'm…your daughter.”

The man coughed again. “It’s the middle of the night. I'm not in the mood for jokes.” His words slurred as if he were drunk.

“This isn't a joke. My mother is Luisa Acha. I think you know her and my Aunt Bea.”

There was a pause and then a low rumble that turned into a wheezing laugh. “So, she told you, eh? She said she'd never tell her daughter about the pigshit that fathered her. Looks like I'm not too much of a pigshit after all.”

“No, she didn't tell me. I found a picture and kind of put things together.” She paused. “So, why didn't you ever come to see me?”

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