Look at You

Chapter 18

18

I feel like I'm 10. I feel like I'm sitting in the scratched-up, beat-up, one-leg-too-short school desk in Mrs. Laviola's 5th grade English classroom. I feel like I'm sitting at that desk, lining up my erasers and my pencils in my pencil case, watching the second hand on the classroom clock tick by, counting down the minutes until summer break.

It's 4:54. My right foot's murdering the thread baren rug beneath my feet. I've been trying to play with a new bug for the past 15 minutes, but every time I take one look at the description or the code, my eyes flicker back to the clock. 4:55.

I double tap the screen of my phone. Nothing but Gmail alerts. I take a deep breath and turn back to my computer, figuring I see if Gmail can keep my attention off the clock.

I'm reading every letter in the body of this email. I am so focused on not looking at the clock, that I don't hear the footsteps behind me. All I feel is a hand squeezing my shoulder.

"Hi, Simon."

My heart falls to my stomach. By the time I collect myself enough to turn around, Cam's hands are off me and back at his sides like they never left. His head's tilted and he's smirking, like every emotion I've ever had is written on my white crewneck in neon pink.

"Cam Cameron." I clear my throat because for some reason I have chosen to say his name in a whisper. "To what do I owe the pleasure of you quite literally picking me up from work?"

"I miss the old eighth floor." He theatrically looks around, his eyes lingering on Marketing Squadron. My snort has his eyes flashing back down to where I'm sitting in my wheelie chair. His smug little schoolboy grin tells me he is quite pleased with himself.

Cam had been working in Doug's office for most of last week, so I say, "We mourned your absence last week. Every last one of us lit a candle."

Cam bites his lip to keep himself from laughing. "Alright, I've said my piece, showed my face." He nudges my foot with his. "Can we go?"

I nod, spinning around to face my computer. "One sec."

I log out of all systems and power down the computer. I shouldn't be leaving yet—the mound of work that awaits me tomorrow is already making my stomach churn—but I slam the computer shut anyway.

I shoulder my backpack and give him a quick toothless smile. "Alright. Let's go."

We're alone in the elevator, and strangely we've decided to stand so we're facing each other. "I like the sweatshirt."

Today, I'm wearing white. It's new, and it's embroidered with a black heart in the top right corner. "Birthday gift from Callie," I explain.

"Tonight can be my birthday gift to you," he tells me. He doesn't give me time to protest. "The movie's at 7:30, so I got us reservations at the best pizza place in the tri-town area before."

The elevator dings and we eye the monitor at the top. Lobby. As it opens, he lets me step out first.

"The best pizza in the tri-town area," I repeat, staring at him over my shoulder as we cascade down the lobby steps. He nods vigorously. "Say no more."

We get in the car, and he immediately tosses me his phone, which appears to be more cracked than it was the last time I used it. "Open Spotify for me," he says, pushing his car out of the parking spot. He puts his arm behind my seat, but this time he watches himself back up on the camera.

I open Spotify. "Anything in particular striking your fancy this evening?"

I start scrolling through his library of playlists. They all look handmade (not the ones Spotify creates for you) and they're all standard and very Cam. Workout. Cardio. 80s. 70s. College days. Playlist for the Car.