part two

note: hi again. this fic now has three parts. part three is about 1/2 done, but for me it could take anywhere from 2 days to 3 years to finish, so we'll see! i'm hoping to have it up before june ends but who knows lol. enjoy.

Thirty-seven in one hundred thousand people die from falling off rooftops each year.

I read it in a National Geographic when I was thirteen; I'd scoffed at the odds then, but I could imagine it now—losing my footing ninety feet in the air and then falling to my deplorable demise, dropping onto a garden gnome and giving up the ghost.

Cam Fisher, however, seemed utterly unperturbed in spite of the ominous fraction that made me contemplate shitting my pants.

"Get up here," Cam snapped, jolting me out of my reverie. "I need to talk to you." Even disgruntled, he was out-of-this-world attractive. In mere moments I found myself scaling the ladder in my Burberry Check Chemise.

Jesus, what next? Devouring Slim Jims by the pack? Attending public school?

Once I was close enough to curl my dank fingers around the overhanging eaves, I pulled myself up with an offhand grunt. As I tried to avoid thinking about detonating garden gnomes, I struggled to appear both pleasing to the eye and composed in my flaccid squat. Still, he ogled me like I'd tattooed I'm a Fuck-Up across my forehead.

"So," I began, pretending like I was thoroughly engrossed in the enthrallments that were my expiring nail beds. "You don't look hung-over." I cursed myself and bit the inside of my cheek when he crumpled his nose disdainfully.

"Are you kidding? I feel like shit," Cam scoffed. He rubbed his eyes jadedly, frowning. "Your room was too bright; it was hell." He snorted unceremoniously. "Hell with a sun."

"And the roof was your brilliant idea of pain alleviation?"

Cam's sneer stung like an abrasive splinter, but it didn't prepare me for what he was about to say. "Don't be such a bitch."

It was a slap in the face and a few knocks to the shins in patent flats. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, hot and thoroughly unpleasant. Standing indignantly with a bitter scowl, I muttered, "Bye," a wet snivel filling my throat.

A bitch? Taking him in last night was a mistake, but I wish I'd known that before. I didn't care that was crabby and hung-over—I wouldn't tolerate it. My teeth caught on corner of my lower lip. Five minutes ago, I would have killed for a thank you. Now I only wished he would leave.

"Christ, Alicia! It came out wrong," Cam sighed. "Hold on." I heard him trying to scramble to his feet, working against the slight stratum of sleet— graceful of him.

"Leave me the fuck alone."

"'The fuck alone' sounds pretty hopeless," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Seriously Alicia, I need to talk to you."

He said the last bit in a voice like honey, tender and sweet, imploring with his wide round eyes as his fingers unfolded to press against my elbow.

"…Leesh," I said finally, stiffening. "It's Leesh." Flurries coasted through the wind and melted on my eyelashes. Disconcerted, I smeared the droplets against my cheeks and didn't turn around.

"Leesh?" Cam mocked, aloof and remote as he played the name on his tongue.

My heart leapt when he said my name. It shouldn't have.

Sighing, I dropped to the brick and wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them to my chest. "How did you even get up here?"

"Your window."

Jesus. "What do you want?"

Finally I spared a glance in his direction. I saw twisted lips, whorling curls, and angry eyes— the green narrowed and the blue exaggerated by a supercilious eyebrow —and felt a twinge in my chest.

Cam hunkered down beside me. He was close enough that I could inhale the remnants of his cologne that hadn't yet been adulterated by alcoholic fermentations. He kind of smelled like the stuff that oozes from your body after it's become septic from an intestinal surgery gone wrong.

"I just wanted to say…" He rubbed his face with his pan-sized hands and glared at me like he'd just caught me clubbing baby seals. "Thank you."

My throat constricted; despite his disgruntled expression, I found it hard not to smile—not to like him. He exhaled vociferously and wrung his hands when I didn't respond. I wished I didn't find it cute.

"I really appreciate what you did for me," he continued in a monotone, looking fiercely ahead. "Like, uh, not calling the cops."

My stomach twisted at his words. "Okay," I said at last, looking away so as to keep the lust-induced marriage proposal at bay. "You're welcome."

"Yeah." He frowned and pushed himself to his feet. "I'm just going to…go." Hesitating briefly, Cam met my gaze. "Nice seeing you."

"Bye," I whispered as he hobbled down the rutted brick layers.

He was halfway down the ladder when it began to pour.

.

The heavy shower fell as one sheet, dropping harshly, swiftly and all at once. I heard Cam curse from his perch on the ladder and I very nearly laughed. Slicking my plastered hair to one side, I peered over the ledge.

"You've got to be fucking kidding," Cam seethed. "Fucking hell." I watched as he balled a portion of his T-shirt in his palm, wringing water from the fabric. Irritably, he pushed his eyebrows together and carefully inched to the ground.

I grinned indolently and screened my face with both arms. "Do you need a ride?" There, I said it. My pulse pumped in my ears as I waited for his answer.

He sneered like even the notion was derisory, and my heart sank. "No, I don't need a ride," he snarled over the spray of rain. "I can walk."

With a name like Cameron Fisher, you would have thought that the guy might have had some brains. Or at least a jacket. "If you get hypothermia and die, I'm not coming to your funeral," I replied, cautiously descending the ladder myself.

"You're not invited," Cam retorted, stuffing his hands into his flooded back pockets.

Ouch. My hands clenched. Soaked to the bone and quivering, I watched solemnly as he dripped down the driveway. The rain darkened his disheveled hair and teased his clothes. With leaden eyes and fumbling fingers, I pressed my face into my hands and turned around.

I had one hand on the doorknob, embarrassed and disillusioned, when I heard a thunderous splashing noise and an equally blaring "Shit!"

Whipping around, I had the decency to at least gasp. He was level with the ground, depressed into a silvery puddle, sputtering and waterlogged.

I rearranged my face into what I hoped was a look of blank apathy and picked at my fingernails.

"Do you want a ride now?" I asked lightly after a moment. Cam spat streams out of his mouth in dismay. He observed me vigilantly but said nothing. I added, "It's raining so hard, and unless you want to slip again…" I trailed off and waited for his response.

"Where's your damn car?" He spluttered at last.

.

On a good day, my '95 Corolla could hit forty miles an hour before dry-heaving. I realized, after the engine snarled when I tried to turn the key, that today was not one of those days.

"It—it's not working," I hissed through gritted teeth. "It won't even move past the first notch!"

Cam sighed, lifting his hand to screen an embellished yawn. "Can you move the wheel?"

"No!"

"Try jiggling it."

"Why don't you try jiggling it?" I spat, fed up with his blatant lethargy. He yawned again, leaning over and knocking my hand away. With one firm jerk, the engine revved eagerly and the wheel slipped loose. His arm slunk away, distinguishable muscle definition underneath a network of soft blue veins.

"Freak," I muttered, though my breath hitched at his proximity.

"I'm the freak? You're the one with cheetah print seat covers—I've never felt more emasculated!"

"God, don't be a bitch," I hissed, spitting out his words from earlier with just as much malicious spleen. He shrugged it off in a second.

Aggravated, I slammed my foot against the pedal and pulled out of the driveway.

"Take a left," he said after several extensive, silent minutes. It was our first exchange since we'd left my house. I did as he said, gripping the wheel tighter when I rolled into his neighborhood. Each cookie-cutter house was gated and rose 4 floors above indistinguishable manicured lawns, pickled green.

"This is me." Cam pointed to a house on the left. It stood stiff like an arrow, with long lurking windows. A red bike leaned idly against the wall.

I pulled into his driveway and put the car in park. "Uh, we're here," I muttered unnecessarily, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. I turned my head just in time to watch his Adam's apple bob. My own throat seized up and I dropped my eyes to the carpet.

"Thanks for…" Cam rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "You know."

"Right."

"Yeah."

We exchanged tight, thin smiles. Then, with a soft exhale, he detached his seatbelt and loped easily up his driveway.

.

His house was locked.

He wiggled the knob a few times, struck the door until his hand ballooned, and gave the brick wall an unmerited beating—all before turning around with pinched lips and streaks like cables impressed into his crumpled nose. His eyes were wide even from where I sat in my car; hope churned in the blue and fisted the green.

Reluctantly, I shifted gears and pulled up alongside his curb. It wasn't that I didn't want to spend time with him—I did, immensely—but it was analogous to torturing myself.

I slid the window down anyway and thrust my head out. "What's happening?"

"Listen," he began slowly, guardedly. "My parents are out and Harris took the spare key, but I swear he'll be home soon, so maybe we could just—"

I cut him off with a tense laugh. "Isn't there a roof you can sit on somewhere?" I was only half-joking. His sagging posture, his long upturned nose and pointed chin, the soft freckles on his pink skin, the way his pockets engulfed his pan hands—looking at Cam Fisher was like feeding an ache.

"Rude," he snorted.

"I'm rude? You threw up on my welcome mat."

"Yeah, one time!"

"You slept in my bed."

"You let me!"

I nearly grinned. "You bullied my car."

"How could I not? Those seat covers are a joke." He threw up his hands dramatically, and a soft, warm laugh filled my throat.

"Cam, you really aren't doing yourself any favors," I replied lightly, finally unlocking the doors.

He dropped down beside me and drew a hand through his hair. "Just drive," he complained. Cam knocked my shoulder good-naturedly with his, and I nearly ruptured the gas pedal in surprise.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and boldly lifted my gaze to meet his. "What—what do you want to do?"

"Do you have food? We can go to your place."

I groaned inwardly, resisting the intense urge to bash my head against the steering wheel. Mom was going to kill me.

"Sure," I mumbled after a steady silence. My voice was level but my thoughts whirred. "We can watch My Little Pony: The Runaway Rainbow."

Cam's eyebrows shot up his forehead like twin bullets. "As exhilarating as that sounds, I prefer SNL."

note: thanks for reading!