Page 104 of The Leaving Kind
He tried the kitchen door and found it open as always. The black cat, Sinister, appeared out of nowhere and pushed past Cam’s feet to get inside. “Don’t you have your own door?” Cam asked as he caught his balance against the doorframe.
The cat disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
Cam called into the dark. “Vic? You here?”
Rustling came from the direction of Victor’s studio.
Cam picked his way across the dark kitchen, loathe for some reason to turn on any lights. At the family room, he switched on a lamp. He’d break his neck, otherwise.
Then he saw Victor, not in the studio, but sprawled on the couch, eyes closed, dressed in underpants and robe.
Déjà vu skipped across the back of Cam’s neck. Nope, no. But also, why? What the fuck had happened to plunge Victor back into despair? Cam cautiously sniffed and couldn’t detect the telltale odor of old wine and sweat. Maybe Victor was napping.
The sandwiches said otherwise. There were four of them, each on its own plate, each missing only one bite, and now that Cam could see them, he could smell that at least one had gone bad. And there, under the couch, a bottle of wine. Empty. No glass anywhere.
While Cam stood there thinking about his next move—wake him or leave him—Victor opened his eyes. He blinked a couple of times, then focused on Cam. “Oh, it’s you.”
Yeah, it’s me.
At Victor’s careless tone, Cam almost turned to leave. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to be a part of whatever conversation happened next. He licked his lips, pushed the plates aside, and sat on the coffee table.
“So, um, what’s up?”
Victor stared at him.
Cam checked in with his gut, his emotions, and came up confused. He’d wanted to share his optimism with this man. The hope he carried inside, and his plans for the future. He’d assumed Vic would care. That he’d smile that sweet smile of his, the one that crinkled his gray-blue eyes with more amusement than should be possible. That he’d be happy because Cam was cautiously happy.
Now, sitting in a darkened room next to moldy sandwiches, he felt sympathy for the man on the couch. Obviously, Victor was dealing with something. Cam could be the adult, here. He could put aside his cotton candy and pull out the medicine if need be.
“You should probably go,” Victor said.
“I don’t have to. I can clean up a bit. Get you a bath. Stay the night.”
Victor shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. I don’t need you, Cam. I never needed you and I’m sorry if I sounded like I did.”
Yeah, okay, so maybe still a bit drunk.
“Want me to come back tomorrow? We can have this conversation then.”
“No.” Victor pushed himself up on the couch. “No. What I mean is, I can’t do this. I can’t love you.”
Oh-kay. But inside, a large boulder had appeared out of fucking nowhere and had decided to roll down Cam’s midsection, stretching, crushing, and destroying. Taking him down with it.
“I didn’t ask you to love me, Vic. We were having fun.”
“I’m not capable of fun.”
“You know what, we’re not going to do this now. I’ll come back tomorrow. Day after?” Cam shook his head. “But I’m going to call tomorrow. Or text. Because if you’re not showered and dressed sometime soon, I’m going to have to call your son, or Tez, or someone who knows what to do when you pull out the robe and underpants.”
Victor was shaking his head. “This will happen again and again, don’t you understand? I can’t maintain the line. I can’t stay happy. I can’t be with you and make you happy.”
Cam reached out. He meant to take Victor by the shoulders and if not shake some sense into him, then at least connect. But Victor fell away before he could touch him.
“Don’t.”
“Vic—”
“Please go. And ... Just go. Please leave me to do my thing.”