Page 112 of The Leaving Kind
He didn’t look up at Victor’s approach. He barely seemed to be breathing. When Victor spied the half-empty whiskey bottle on the patio, Jorge’s comment came into focus.
“He’s doing his best impression of you.”
Maybe it was time to reevaluate the need for a wine collection. Or wine in general.
Victor sat on the lounger next to Cam’s, kicked off his shoes, and lay back. The view was rather lovely—the periwinkle blue of an early evening sky framed by leaves in silhouette. Victor could hear the creek at the far end of the yard. The warmth of the day rose from the patio stones, and when the air stirred, the scent of old charcoal drifted over from the grill and firepit.
Okay. He was here. What now? Cam hadn’t moved, even to acknowledge his presence. Would it be terribly cowardly to get back up, collect his shoes, and go?
Victor studied Cam’s profile. From this side, his nose made a crooked line, and Victor wondered when he’d broken it. Had it been in a fight? During the war? Sometime since? A simple accident, perhaps? He noted, also, that Cam hadn’t shaved in several days, a fact not immediately apparent because of the color of his stubble: more silver than brown. He had deeper lines about his eyes. The corners of his mouth turned uncharacteristically downward.
A sudden movement startled Victor: Cam closing his fingers around the bottle of whiskey and lifting it to his mouth. He swallowed once, then held the bottle out toward Victor. Lacking for anything better to do, Victor took it. But he didn’t raise it to his lips. He set the bottle on his stomach and traced a line around the outside of the label.
“You’re not going to drink?” Cam’s voice was quiet and unsodden. However long he’d been out here, he hadn’t drunk all of this whiskey today.
“No.” Victor set the bottle down on the slate paving.
“Then why are you here?”
Why, indeed?
Victor turned back to Cam and met a weary brown gaze. He seemed so tired, so defeated, so done. And that hurt. God, it hurt. To know Cam was suffering and he hadn’t been here to help ease that burden. What sort of friend was he to let Cam down like this?
What sort of man?
Pressing his lips together, Victor cast about for the perfect way to express all of this. For words of apology and restitution. Had he already left it too long? Had what they’d had counted at all?
He grasped at a straw. “It occurred to me that I had neglected to ask about your tattoos.”
Cam blinked. “You’re here to ask about my tattoos?”
“The dates I figured out. I think I even know why they’re on your left side. For your heart. They’re the people you loved, and you keep them close. The ache of their loss felt sharply one final time, then forever with you.”
Did the pain of each lessen as the tattoos healed? Victor doubted it.
Cam was staring at him, his expression mildly dangerous.
Victor quickly moved on. “The other one, the fireflies and stars. I wanted to ask about that.”
Cam held a hand out toward the whiskey bottle. Victor passed it over. After another small swallow, Cam put it down close to his lounger and returned his gaze to the darkening sky. Rather than give in to the feeling of defeat souring his gut, Victor mirrored Cam’s posture. He’d lie there and meditate. Wait for the stars to come out.
When Cam spoke again, his voice floated into the gathering night. “It’s for Nick. One of his favorite things to do in the summer was chase fireflies. He never wanted to catch them; he wanted to run around stirring them up. Used to say he was running through the stars, and I always liked the image of him running through the sky.”
“That’s beautiful.”
Cam snorted softly and took another swig at the whiskey bottle.
“I was sorry to hear about Honey,” Victor said.
“Jorge called you.”
“He was worried.”
Another snort.
“I’m sorry about ...” Victor trailed off long enough to pull up his big boy pants. “I’m sorry I was such an ass. It wasn’t you.”
“’S’cool. Would’ve happened sooner or later. Everyone leaves, Vic. Got a list of dates on my back to prove it.”