Katie, with her parents who bought her a car when she graduated high school. Katie, with her tight gray skirt and straight white teeth, which right now are being polished by some needle-dick dentist. They’ll give her a free toothbrush on the way out. She’ll toss it, still wrapped, in the bathroom drawer because she uses some fancy electric toothbrush anyway.
He’s stretched out on the couch, watching some low-budget action movie, when she finally returns. It occurs to him that it’s been a while. Hours and hours; it’s nearly dark outside now. Way longer than a dentist appointment should take—not that he’d actually know; he hasn’t been to a dentist in years. Maybe Katie had a bunch of cavities or something. A root canal. Aunt Jeanne had a root canal last year and complained about the pain for a week. The thought of perfect Katie getting poked in the mouth with a pointy drill is vaguely satisfying, and this makes him feel like a jerk.
“Hey,” he calls, then pauses, waiting for her lamenting sigh, the one meaning she’s still pissed, but less so. He’ll say he’s sorry, and she’ll frown, but she won’t really mean it, then he’ll put his hand on her leg and she’ll lean into him and they’ll lie here, cuddling, while they finish watching this dumb movie before retiring to bed for some solid post-argument sex.
But she doesn’t respond. Instead, she heads straight for the bedroom. He half smiles. Straight to it?
Then he hears the first thunk. What the . . . ? He has to investigate.
As he walks in, Cameron watches his work boot sail over the edge of the moonlit balcony, landing below on the tiny square of crusty grass.
Thunk.
Its mate hits the walkway, then bounces a couple of times over the weedy cracks, laces dragging behind.
“Katie! Can’t we talk?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Look, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
Again, no response.
Whiz.
A ball cap grazes his ear as it sails by. His favorite Niners cap. Enough. Yeah, he should have told her he got canned. But could they just talk about it for a hot second before she throws out everything he owns?
“Katie,” he says slowly. Like she’s some wild animal, he reaches out and puts a tentative hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t,” Katie mutters, twisting away. She yanks a pair of his boxers from the bureau and wads them in her fist, then hurls them toward the balcony door. But the throw is too soft. The underwear unfurls and flops to the floor.
He bends to pick it up. “Can we just talk?”
“I can’t do this anymore, Cam.” For the first time since she left for the dentist this afternoon, she meets his gaze. Her eyes blaze, like the bonfires they used to build in the shadow of his Jeep when they’d go camping out in the high desert. But those days are long gone. The repo guys snagged the Jeep months ago. Cameron was going to call the bank, to make their so-called payment arrangement. He swears he was about to do it, but no, they just sent those assholes in and hauled it away, no second chance. Yet another deduction from his chance tally.
“I swear, I was going to tell you. And it wasn’t my fault.”
“Sure, it wasn’t your fault. Never is, is it?”
“No!” The relief that washes over him at her sudden empathy is short-lived. Of course she’s being sarcastic. His cheeks burn. “I mean, it’s complicated.” Of course she’s kicking him out. Cameron would probably kick himself out, too.
Katie closes her eyes. “Cameron, it isn’t complicated. I’m going to put this to you as simply as possible, so your juvenile brain can understand. This. Is. Over.”
“But I’ve got rent covered,” he insists, thoughts veering back to Aunt Jeanne’s mystery box. Desperation tinges his voice. He trails Katie from the bedroom into the kitchen, still clutching his boxers.
“This isn’t about rent! It’s about your inability to be an honest human being.” She picks up the mystery box from the counter and starts back toward the bedroom. Toward the balcony. To his surprise, his gut clenches.
“I’ll take that.”
“Fine, whatever. Just get out.” She drops the box, and it lands with a heavy thump on the carpet. Her face has changed, the fire in her eyes vanished. She looks tired.
“You mean right now?” Cameron snorts. She can’t be serious.
“No, next Saturday. I threw your stuff outside for the hell of it.” She rolls her eyes. “Yes, of course, right now.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“Not. My. Problem.” She lets out a hollow laugh. “Not that I care, but someday, you’re gonna have to grow up, you know?”
THE BOX MAKES a reasonably comfortable seat. It’s better than the curb, anyway. In the dark, and with his stuff heaped next to him, Cameron waits for Brad to pick him up.
And waits and waits. For an hour.
Of all the times to not have a car.
Finally, headlights sweep around the corner. “What the hell happened?” Brad slams his truck door as he gets out.
“What the hell yourself! What took you so long?”
“Well, let’s see. How about, I was asleep. Because it’s almost eleven on a Tuesday night.” Brad starts chucking Cameron’s stuff into the truck bed. “Some of us have to work tomorrow, you know.”
“Hey, fuck you.”
Brad’s face melts into a grin. “Too soon? Sorry.”
“Whatever. Can we just go?” As Cameron hoists a trash bag full of clothes, he glances up at the balcony, where Katie still has the patio door open and the bedroom light on, no doubt watching the curbside scene unfold. He throws one last glance toward the apartment before nestling his guitar case atop the pile and flipping the tailgate up. It creaks loudly, then closes with a metallic bang.
“Come on,” Brad says, unlocking the passenger door. “Get in.”
“Thanks,” Cameron mutters, hopping onto the seat with the box on his lap.
Brad and Elizabeth’s house is on the outskirts of town, where subdivisions pop up overnight like a bad rash. Unnecessary plaster columns and fake brick facades and four-car garages. Bougie as shit. Elizabeth’s parents gave them a huge chunk of money for the down payment a few years ago after their wedding. Must be nice.
But Cameron doesn’t complain about any of these things on the fifteen-minute drive there from his apartment. His old apartment. It’s Katie’s apartment, now. Her name alone is on the lease. When he first moved in, she was constantly on his case about calling the landlord to be officially added, because Katie always follows the rules. But after a while, she let it drop. Maybe she saw this coming.
“What’s in the box?” Brad asks, interrupting his thoughts.
“Baby vipers,” Cameron deadpans, not missing a beat. “Dozens of them. I hope Elizabeth likes snakes.”
Half an hour later, Brad slides a coaster across the coffee table before he hands Cameron a sweating pint glass, as Cameron finishes explaining what happened.
“Maybe she’ll get over it,” Brad says, yawning. “Just give her a couple of days.”
Cameron looks up. “She threw my shit on the lawn, like something from some dumb chick-flick movie. Every damn thing I own.”
Brad glances at the pile in the corner. “That’s really everything you own?”
“I mean, not literally. But you know.” Cameron frowns. What about his Xbox, still parked in the cabinet under Katie’s TV? He’d skirted overdraft fees to buy that thing when it first came out. But it might as well be Katie’s now. Like hell is he going back there to beg for it.
Maybe those couple of bags, and one dubious box, really are all he owns now.
Cameron’s eyes fix on Brad’s oversized bay window when he continues, “We can’t all live in a McMansion, you know.” It was meant as a joke, but the words spray out like acid. He attempts to soften his tone. “I mean, I’ve just been embracing my minimalist side.”
Brad raises an eyebrow, stares at Cameron for a long moment, then raises his pint. “Well, here’s to new beginnings.”
“Thanks for letting me crash again. I owe you one.” Cameron clinks, and lager sloshes over the rim, dribbling on the table. Seemingly out of thin air Brad comes up with a paper towel, then leans over to dab the spill.