He half-turned away, scribbling on the pad, then putting down the pen, turning, and striding toward the door.I'll grab drinks.I had figured he meant from his own apartment, but a moment later, I heard his bike rumble to life, leaving me standing there, able to take my first deep breath since he showed up at my door.
"Well," I said to my empty apartment. "This is interesting."
So it was.
The badass biker dude.
Who could hear, but didn't speak.
Was it socially acceptable to call him mute?
I wasn't sure if that term was offensive or not.
Maybe it only was if you put 'a' before it. He was a mute. Yeah, that sounded worse.
But it was also presumptuous, wasn't it? To figure he was mute. Maybe he wasn't mute per se, someone who never could speak.
My mom once told me about her great uncle, a man I had never met because he passed right before I was born. But he never spoke. Not because he was born that way, but because he had this horrible accident as a child that cut half of his tongue off, making it impossible for him to get words out. They never referred to him as a mute, simply said he couldn't talk. Which was accurate, I guess.
So I couldn't assume that Cam was mute. I could only say that he didn't speak.
I wanted to know why. I think it was human nature to want to know the reasons for things that otherwise don't make a whole lot of sense. Yet I also understood that it might be a sensitive topic. One he didn't want to discuss with anyone, let alone me. His neighbor.
Though, I mean, could we really just be considered neighbors anymore? I'd never known so much about a neighbor before. Sure, there was friendliness. You said hello in the hallway, checked in when there was a bad storm or you noticed their mail piling up. You maybe even exchanged little Christmas presents.
But you didn't know their favorite movies and foods and what kind of weather was their favorite.
At least that had never been my experience.
Maybe he would tell me his story. One day.
My belly lurched at those words. Because I couldn't promise anyone a future. One where they could get comfortable enough with me to share their painful pasts. That wasn't the reality I lived in.
It never hurt quite as much as it did right then.
Cutting ties with Cam when the time came - and the time would come - was not going to be easy. Not by a long shot.
I shook off the thought when the bike rumbled closer once again, deciding to take a page out of Scarlet O'Hara's book... and think about that tomorrow.
Because right now, a very gorgeous biker was jogging his way up the stairs, coming down the hall, and knocking on my door.
The door I had forgotten to lock after he left.
I never did that.
Ever.
I wasn't that stupid.
Not anymore.
Rather than admit that I hadn't locked the door - though not knowing why I cared what Cam thought about door locking - I moved across the space, finding the chain that wasn't on, then opening the door to find him standing there with a plastic bag in his hand.
"Get anything good?" I asked, reaching for it when he held it out as an answer, finding inside a bottle of Mountain Dew. Definitely for him since I told him I could never seem to get a taste for that after flipping through a pamphlet at my dentist's office and came across something called 'Dew Mouth.' Not that any other sugary drinks were better for your dental health, of course, but I could never shake those images. Beside his bottle was a glass bottle of Yoo-hoo and an Arizona Sweet Tea.
Camden held out his phone where he'd typed a note.Figured maybe the Yoo-hoo wouldn't go with ziti, so I got the Arizona for dinner and the Yoo-hoo for dessert."Crap," I said, watching as his brows furrowed. "No. Not you. This is perfect. You have a great memory. Thanks for getting them. It's just... I totally didn't plan on dessert..."
Cam turned back to his phone, bringing up an app than showing it to me.
Abby's.
I had never tried it, of course, but I had seen the delivery guy come to Cam's door more than a few times. He'd told me that they were the go-to for comfort food. And judging by the page on the menu he had pulled up, that included dessert classics.
Brownies. Cupcakes. Apple pie. Cheesecake.
"I would never turn down brownies. Unless they're frosted. Why the hell do people frost brownies?" I asked, shaking my head as I turned away to go get the ziti out of the oven before the edges burned. "Now, are you one of those people who like... takes one scoopful of food and claims that is plenty for dinner?" I asked, reaching for the ancient gold-tipped plates the former owner had left behind. I found them gaudy and maybe worried a bit about just how ancient they were and if the coating and paint was safe. But they were all I had. "Or are you a normal person who fills the plate. And then clears it? Because, fair warning, I am the latter."