What Happens Now by Jennifer Castle Page B

“I’m Camden,” he said. “I’ve seen you before.”
    “Ditto,” said Kendall. “Your house is amazing.”
    “Thanks. I’ll give you a tour later, if you want. Not that there’s much else to see—it is a barn, after all. But I’m happy to show you the bedrooms.” There was an awkward pause. “Wow, that came out wrong. I so didn’t mean it like that.”
    Kendall laughed, then Camden did, too, when he saw he’d made it okay.
    “I want to talk to you guys, but I have to give my momsomething.” He grabbed a glass and poured some wine into it. “I’ll be right back.”
    He moved away from us toward the outdoor patio, and Kendall leaned in close. “Do you think Ed Penniman bought this house for them? I wonder if he comes and visits, and where he sits.”
    “You didn’t see the Ed Penniman Chair over there? It’s got a plaque and a velvet pillow.”
    Kendall slapped my arm playfully. Then we were quiet again, watching Camden hand his mother the wineglass, bending down to say something in her ear, his arm protectively sweeping her shoulder.
    “That must be one of her pieces,” I said, directing Kendall to a large felt disk hanging on the wall, a swirl of colors like a sun from the next galaxy over.
    “It is,” said Eliza, reappearing and stepping between us. “I have a smaller version hanging in my room. She made it for my birthday because she knew I loved this one so much.” Her eyes misted up.
    It was a son’s girlfriend gift, and it was also really hard not to wonder what Camden and Eliza’s relationship was like now that Eliza was with Max. How long had they gone out? Was it a dumping or a mutual split? And why would Camden ever let her go because look at her, she was a freaking superstar even as Reboot Satina.
    “How long have you known Camden?” asked Kendall, as if reading my mind.
    “Since he started at Dashwood two years ago.”
    “We’ve never met anyone from Dashwood,” said Kendall. “Isn’t that weird?”
    “I have a couple of friends at Fitzpatrick,” said Eliza, not answering the question. “What do you do there?”
    “What do you mean? We go to school.”
    “What are your interests ? Activities?”
    “I’m on the newspaper staff,” offered Kendall.
    “Perfect. Then I know exactly who to introduce you to.” She grabbed Kendall’s elbow and guided her away. I started to follow them, but then caught sight of Camden moving back toward me. So I stayed, and turned to him, and tried to keep breathing.
    He looked down at my drink. “How is that?”
    “Um . . .”
    “I assumed as much.” He took it out of my hand and placed it on a nearby counter, and there was something simple and chivalrous about the gesture that made that floating thing happen to my kneecaps. “Your friend seems to be gone. Do you want the tour anyway?”
    I nodded, and he nodded back, then indicated that I should follow him. A simple tilt of his head, with his eyes on me. My God. Did he know that’s all it would take for me to go with him anywhere?
    He led me out of the kitchen area and through the living room zone, then up the spiral stairs, past some guy sitting on a single step playing the mandolin as if that weren’t completelyrandom. The stairs were narrow and steep, which made me focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I gripped the railing hard.
    On the second level, there was a small landing with a couch and wood-burning stove. Three closed doors led off of it. A floor-to-ceiling window overlooked some hills to the west, where the sun had just set and the sky was an abstract quilt of reds and blues about to fade forever.
    Without a word, Camden slid one panel of the window open, then the other, and stepped up to it so the tips of his boots were practically on the ledge. There was no screen. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
    I hung back, but he turned to me and tilted his head again. Come try .
    One foot in front of the other, again and again. If only all clichés could be