We were silent for a moment. His eyes met mine. The for you seemed visible in the air after he said it, like breath on a cold day.
“We get to wear costumes,” I said, trying to keep the conversation going, keep myself from freezing up. “Sort of. Lawyer-type suits and whatever clothes your character would wear. Not like actual cosplay. Pretty impressive, by the way.”
I motioned to his silver jacket. He looked down at my boots.
“I know, I know,” he said sheepishly. “You’re a fan of the Arrow Original, right? You think the Arrow Reboot was lame and ill-conceived. Something they did to capitalize on the fandom.”
“I didn’t like what they did to Satina, and the relationship between her and Marr, but some of it was really intelligent.”
“But you prefer the original.”
“Do I have to choose one or the other? Can’t I love them both in a complicated way that doesn’t involve nicknames and acronyms?”
He smiled, and I caught a glimpse of something that looked like respect in his eyes. “Of course. Of course you can.”
“What about you? Do you have a preference, or is that a stupid question given your choice of outfit?”
Camden thought about it for a while, blinking those long lashes at the sunset.
“Sometimes you think you like something because your friends like it,” he finally said. “Because you want to join. You go along. And then, by going along . . . that’s your way in. You discover it for yourself. You own it in a way that’s different from how anyone else owns it. Is that a backward way to fall in love with a thing?”
He looked expectantly at me, into me, as if my opinion actually mattered.
The word no had possibly never been so hard or taken me so long to form on my lips. It was almost out, and many more words after that, when a loud cheer came from downstairs. Then a wave of clapping. I heard someone banging on a drum set, rapid and sudden like gunfire.
“Sounds like the band is about to start,” said Camden. “You don’t want to miss it.” He closed the window and took a few steps away, then stopped and turned back to me.
“You’re staying the night, right?”
“Pardon?”
“The campout. When my mom has a party, it tends not to end. People sleep over, on couches or the floor or they pitch tents in the back. And we don’t have to worry about everyone getting home safely.”
“Eliza didn’t tell me that. I didn’t bring anything . . .”
He reached out and took my hand. His skin on mine. Warmer than I ever imagined. In all my fantasizing, I never took body temperature into consideration.
“Good, because you don’t need anything. You just need to not leave.”
We looked at each other for two full seconds before his gaze fell to the ground and away. He let my hand go and I let it drop, as if stunned and rendered useless.
I thought of Mom and Dani and Richard, each in their pajamas and frustration. I thought of the small, small windows of my house and the to-do list on the fridge. Kendall downstairs somewhere; she would not be able to stay, too, but would definitely lie for me.
And there it was again, no longer a whisper in my ear but now a whoosh.
The Possible.
I followed Camden Armstrong close down the spiral stairs and into the rest of his world.
The house was mostly empty now, and the music from outside was louder. Camden and I stepped through the door to the patio, where most of the party guests had gathered in a dance cluster. Off to one side, there was a band set up. Not some crappy high school band but a real one. With adults. Who I recognized.
“You hired the Plastic Masks to play at your party?” I yelled to Camden over the bass line.
“Not hired. They’re friends with my mom.” We watched and listened for a few moments, then Camden added, “Speaking of which, I want you to meet her.”
He took my hand again—zing!—and led me to where Maeve Armstrong stood near the side of the barn. I didn’t have time to protest, to feel weird about it, to get nervous. Suddenly we were there, in front of this woman who managed to appear removed from the action, but also at the heart of it, simply in the way she leaned against a wall.
“Mom,” he said, letting go of my hand but putting his fingertips gently on my back (zing! again). “This is Ari. She’s a new friend.”
Camden’s mother lit up when she saw him, then stayed lit up when her gaze traveled to me. At close range, she looked much more weathered, with streaks of gray in her auburn hair, deep lines around the freckles. She reminded me of what Kendall might look like in twenty-five years. There was even less resemblance between her and her son than between my mom and me, except Maeve and Camden had the same green eyes.
“Ari,” said Maeve carefully, as if she was tasting my name on her tongue. “I saw you once at the lake with that adorable little girl. You were so good with her.”
“My sister,” I said, and fought the urge to bow my head or drop to one knee. Why did it feel like I was meeting royalty? “You have a good memory.”