Page 111 of The Leaving Kind

“We don’t always get what we want.”

In his hand, the phone rang. Startled, Victor nearly dropped it. After frowning at the unknown number, he answered. “This is Victor Ness.”

“Vic, it’s Jorge.”

A rather large lump of coal wedged itself between Victor’s larynx and esophagus. “Jorge,” he squeaked.

“Cam’s friend.”

“I know who you are. I’m just, ah, surprised to hear from you.”

“Heh. So, listen. Cam’s not doing so great.”

The kitchen dimmed. That the sun had slid behind a cloud only occurred to Victor after he’d checked that his heart was still functioning by trying and failing to feel the beat through his chest. “What do you mean?”

“Honey’s owners showed up and took her home.”

Oh, no. Oh, dear lord. It had happened on Wednesday, hadn’t it?

The way Cam felt about that dog would have been evident to anyone living on the moon. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I’m sure it’s a good outcome for Honey, but Cam must be devastated.”

“He’s doing his best impression of you.”

“What do you mean?” Jorge barely knew him. What stories had Cam been spreading?

“He won’t talk. Too still. Cam’s never still.”

No, he wasn’t. “Did you call his brother?”

Silence rolled over the line.

“Jorge?”

“Cam’s super protective of his brother. I don’t think he’d want Nick to see him this way.”

Oh, Cameron.

“I see.”

“He needs someone and it’s not me.”

Jorge left that thought there, and Vic didn’t press for details. He got it. It was his turn. No, it was his last turn. If he didn’t act now, he’d lose a good man forever—whether they were destined to be friends or more. And that was not what Victor wanted.

His life would be less complicated without Cameron Zimmermann, but also simply less.

“I’m on my way.”

Jorge had left by the time Victor arrived. They’d agreed it might be best if he went out for the evening. That Cam might be more receptive if he knew he and Victor were alone.

Receptive to what, was the question. Victor had spent the short drive going over what he might say and had come up blank. He hadn’t even brought props. Just himself.

Bypassing the front door, Victor circled around to the back, admiring the immaculate landscaping along the way. He remembered the first time he’d seen this small, unassuming house, and how much sense Cam had made as a person in that moment. It was right there in the obvious care taken with every detail, from the cleanliness and repair of the siding and gutters, the new windows and freshly painted front door. The new paving stones along the front walk, the steps to the mailbox. The trim of every tree and shrub. The multitude of flowers.

The back garden showed the same attention. The grass was a little long but thick and darkly green. The vegetable beds flourished; late summer flowers still bloomed. His orchard trees were heavy with fruit.

And there was Cam, lying on a wooden lounger on the patio—one of a pair he might have made himself, the wood stained a rich oak and then covered with bright red cushions. The patio paving was a work of art—mismatched slabs of slate, mined no doubt from the yard, and spread in an interlocking pattern across light gray gravel.

In the two years Cam had lived in this house, he’d clearly cared for it. But the garden showed the most inspiration. The most love. To see him inert on a lounger rather than enjoying the reward of his labors hurt.