I got out of Wellesley Station and walked home.
I lugged the half-full box of unsold books up the stairs, but when I put the key in the lock, the door opened.
“Oh, really?” Cameron said, taking the box out of my arms and looking dejectedly into it. “Man, how come a famous writer like you has to carry his own books back and forth?” He dropped the box in the entrance and went straight for the kitchen. “I’m getting us a drink,” he called back.
“It smells nice in here,” I said as he came back with two Boris beers.
“Yeah, I cleaned.” He looked around, but something in his eyes was different. He wasn’t smiling, and Cameron smiled through everything. Even his anger. “I aired everything out, and what you’re smelling is this candle.” He picked up a blue candle from the coffee table. “Berry Madn
