Just For You (3 page)

"Come with me," he sighed.

They made their way slowly to Cameron's apartment then, but he was impatient with her. That was when she saw the book.

The book.

Imogen's eyes flashed open and she jerked, emitting a yelp when the sudden movement upset her ankle. She pawed at it, placing firm pressure on it and adjusting it again so that she was comfortable.

She sighed. She couldn't find it in her to be upset that she was injured. It wasn't just a pointless blunder of the universe, but it was Fate. She was supposed to fall so that she could be invited into the apartment which now housed what used to be one of her most prized possessions: the old, worn out, leather bound book, which she received on her thirteenth birthday as a present from her father.

It started out as a journal. Her instructions were simple: all she had to do was jot down her thoughts, her dreams, her memories, her opinions, a quote she enjoyed, a philosophy she had. Anything. Anytime. Then she could look back on it and read about what had been so important to her, about what would turn her into the person she would become.

Imogen only wrote in the journal a total of three times before the idea came to her. At that moment it was the best thing she'd ever thought of in her entire life. It was brilliant. It would be beneficial, she thought. It would be interesting and educational, she told herself. If things went right, it might even change lives. It would be an act of faith.

So she went to the park that day, after she wrote for the third time in the journal that was given to her as a present by her father, with every intention of spreading knowledge, of spreading stories. Of spreading inspiration.

Sitting there on that lonely bench in the middle of a deserted park, Imogen wrote in the journal for a fourth time. She used her best handwriting and a fresh page. The instructions, like her father's, were simple:
Write your story,
it said.
Write your story, read the others, and then pass it on.

She signed the date at the bottom: June 7th, 1998. She didn't put her name.

Yet when she saw the book in Cameron's apartment, on that bookshelf, stuck between a book on German philosophy and Stephen King's
It
, it took her less than a minute to realize that she laid eyes on a book she hadn't seen for thirteen years. And even though nothing was ever written to prove that it had once belonged to her, that book had her name written all over it.

Thirteen years and thousands of miles later, somehow it made its way back to her.

* * * *

Sleep came easily for Cameron that night. The day managed to both be extra-taxing and mind-numbing at the same time: three times he was reprimanded by Susan and put in his place. Twice that day he was chewed out by a customer because he couldn't keep his head straight long enough to take their information correctly while he opened up bank accounts for them. One child threw up on his shoes and left with his parents shortly thereafter; Cameron wasn't afforded the offer to be assisted in cleaning up another person's bodily fluids from his only expensive pair of shoes. He was given one fifteen minute break and was only able to shove a piece of toasted bread in his mouth, which would serve both as his lunch and breakfast. He was asked to stay after the bank was closed to help the new girl, Sophia, count and balance the money in the drawers.

His stomach was growling and grumbling by the time he placed the key in his apartment door and, pressing it firmly into the keyhole, pushed the door open with the precise shove of his shoulder. He tried to find something in the fridge but fell asleep standing up as he moved to pull out the carton of expired milk which sat on the top shelf; after that he decided he wanted to do nothing but sleep, and so, with closed eyes, he made his way down the hallway. He bumped into many walls and removed the confining clothing from his body, dropping his tie, his shirt, his shoes, his socks, and his pants in various places as he walked to his room.

He was already asleep before he hit the mattress.

When he woke up the next morning, he was annoyed. He dreamt of her: her,
her
, that nuisance of a girl. The girl he injured. Cameron frowned to himself. He hated that he still felt bad for spraining her ankle.

"Well, if she wouldn't have been in my way, she might have saved herself a lot of trouble," he grumbled to himself as he rubbed his eyes and shoved the covers twisted around his waist from him.

He looked at the clock. The red LED numbers reading 8:15 a.m. glared back at him, accusing him, challenging him.

Beat me, it seemed to whisper. Let's see if you can beat me today.

Cameron placed his feet on the floor and winced when the pressure of his weight made the heels and balls of his feet protest in pain. He was tender from being on his feet all day yesterday. With his eyes half-open and his brain still attempting to charge up for the rest of what was sure to be another bland, ordinary day, he dressed, pulling out his go-to pair of slacks and his white oxford dress shirt. He decided against ironing it. There weren't too many wrinkles and, well, he just didn't give a damn.

As he shuffled his way into the kitchen, he shook his head. Furiously.

"Get out," he growled. "Get out, get out, get out."

She was on his mind again. This woman, Imogen, with her bright smile and her sunny disposition, her high, clear as bells voice, her infuriating tendency not to get annoyed or offended by anything… she was torturing him and she didn't even know it.

Or maybe she did know it. Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing when he brought her here yesterday. She was kind to him, no matter what he said or how rude he was to her, with the intent to drive him insane. Nobody was that nice for no reason. Cameron couldn't believe that any person in the world could be that weak, that spineless, that naïve and forgiving on purpose. This was her punishment on him: she would stay in his mind and terrorize him psychologically; over and over again in his mind he would replay the scene from the day before and cringe at how nasty he was to her. The guilt would eat away at him, slowly and surely. She had even gone so far as to make him stop in his tracks for a moment and consider what his life might be like if he wasn't so short with everyone he ever came into contact with.

What kind of person would Cameron be if he stopped getting irritated at every little thing?

What kind of person would Cameron be if he learned to be nice to others?

What kind of person would Cameron be if he smiled at people he never met before?

What would happen to him if he became…
agreeable?

Cameron shuddered and slammed a cupboard before opening another one and pulling a bowl out. The kitchen was alive with loud, grating metal noises as he poured cereal into the bowl and shoved his metal spoon into the mixture of bran and old milk, the harsh sound of metal upon ceramic glass pulsating in his ears.

He was angry and he couldn't give a rational explanation as to why. He wished he had never been late for work. He wished that he had never been in a rush to get to his stupid job where he worked for stupid people and worked for crap pay so that he might not have ever met stupid Imogen.

Cameron was brooding silently. Carrying his bowl of cereal and shoving heaping spoonfuls into his mouth, he made his way into his study, where he always ate his breakfast. As soon as he sat down in the chair, now indented with the shape of his body, the obnoxious sunlight which streamed through the window made something just inside Cameron's line of sight glitter.

He turned his head, cautious, as if he were about to come face-to-face with a sparkly, fire-breathing dragon or some other unthinkable monstrosity, until his eyes rested fully upon this shimmering offender. He noticed it was a sliver charm bracelet.

There was only one person in the whole wide world to whom it must belong.

Cameron nearly choked himself to death on the chewed up cereal that made its way down his throat at that exact moment.

Chapter Three
 I Would Rather Die Than be With You

Cameron sighed and ran a hand down his face in agitation. "Mom," he mumbled, his fingers digging into the phone in his hand. "My birthday isn't even for another two months. Why are you asking me this?"

"Is it so wrong for a mother to want to see her son once in a while? Do you even remember the last time you were here? I can't. Don't you find that a little sad? We hardly know you anymore, Cameron. One weekend- is that really too much to ask of you?"

"So asking me what my plans for my birthday are, two months in advance, was all just a pretext?"

"Jesus Christ."

Cameron heard his mother sigh on the other end of the line.

"Well, wasn't it?"

"No. I'm calling to make plans with you before anyone else does. Is that okay?"

"Well, Mom," Cameron said, balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he picked up a stack of bills from his kitchen counter and brought them to the study. At least this month the bills had gone down. He'd barely used the electricity or water at all because he spent most of his time either at work or sleeping in bed. "Unfortunately I already have plans for my birthday. Sorry."

"Two months in advance?"

Cameron didn't have to be face-to-face with her to know exactly the look his mom was giving him. He could almost feel its heat radiate through to him via the telephone, as if her energy were enough to reach him through miles and miles of wires.

"Yes. Drinks. Club. Sleep."

"That sounds fulfilling. I'm proud of you, Cameron."

Cameron rolled his eyes and threw the stack of bills on the desk. He leaned back in his chair as far as he could go without falling over, running his hands through the ubiquitous messy curls atop his head.

The truth was Cameron didn't have many friends. Actually, he really only had one. The whole story about the drinks at the club on his birthday was a complete lie. His plans were to hang around at home with a bottle of Jack and some Coca-Cola and a few DVDs full of violence and crime and other manly things.

"At first your father and I thought that your moving to Chicago would be a good thing, but I don't think that's the way it turned out. You've cut off all contact with anyone and everyone you've ever known back here at home. I don't think that's fair. Do you?" She didn't pause to give Cameron a chance to agree or disagree. "You sound more miserable than ever, you hate everyone and everything, we're lucky if we get to see you on holidays. Why do you pull away from us, Cameron? Believe it or not we care about what's going on in your life and we would like to hear about it once in a while."

Sylvia Moody had a way of using the word 'we' in order to make Cameron feel guilty. When she used that word, that terrible, heavy word, it implied that Sylvia wasn't the only one concerned with sticking her nose into Cameron's business. It wasn't just her being a mom anymore and prying where she didn't need to pry. No, that word, that
we
, meant that other people were worried about him too and that, in turn, placed both guilt and a sense of obligation on Cameron's shoulders. That word meant he wouldn't be disappointing one person, but many persons. Though he would never admit it aloud, Cameron couldn't handle letting people down. His father, a psychologist, realized this from the time Cameron was a young child, and his mother used it to her advantage whenever she felt it necessary, which, if you asked Cameron, was far too much.

"Why don't you ever call to say, 'hi, Mom, hi, Dad. It's Cameron. Work is going great, I met a pretty young lady in the bookshop the other day---"