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God almighty, why did you give the man with the blackest soul the most heavenly eyes? They’re long, narrow, and light gray in color. Lighter than his skin. The gray almost looks silver, shot through with darker bands that radiate out from the pupil like a starburst. He turns those eyes on me, sparing a glance from the road. It feels like a spike driving into my chest. For just a second, I wish that I were beautiful, so he’d want to look at me the way I’m looking at him.
The truth is that Camille isn’t my type at all. But I sort of felt like we might be becoming friends—a little bit. I kind of liked her. And I don’t like anybody. I barely like my own family. In fact, right now, I’m only 50/50 on Aida.
If you could see my whole life laid out on a string, this would be the one bright bead. The one moment of happiness.
“Camille,” he says. “I want you. But not . . . not like I usually do. Not to just fuck and get off.”
“I don’t ever want you to be jealous,” I tell her. “There’s nobody else, Camille. Nobody who ever made me feel like this.”
I want Camille like I’ve never wanted anything in my life. I want her to love me. She’s the only one who knows me, so she’s the only one who can. And I want to love her. I’m fucking awful at it—I’ve never had any practice.
“I’ve always felt things . . . intensely. Or I thought I did. But every emotion I ever had, my whole life through, is nothing compared to what I feel when I look at you. I don’t care about the car, or the money we just took, or anything else in this world. Next to you, all those other things just fade away.”
“But I love you, Camille. I’ll never hurt you. You can trust me for that, if nothing else.”
“I love you so much it hurts. I’m scared to tell you, scared to even let myself feel it. But I love you, and I have for a while.”
