Chapter Fifteen Cammie #2
But his next words bring some of the weight back. “Cam,” he says, reaching out to rest a hand on my knee where it nearly touches his. “Are you sure this is the way to get your answers?”
I feel my smile fade. “Of course I’m not sure. But it does feel like we’re getting closer…” My voice fades into something small and insecure, and I cringe at the sound as I add, “Doesn’t it?”
He sighs, and my heart sinks a little further at the weariness in it.
“Maybe, but neither of our leads is guaranteed to go anywhere—for all we know, we might never see them again. And even if we do, on a practical level—what’s the plan for rounding up all the suspects and getting to the bottom of who the one true father is?
Like, say they arrive at the party, to everyone’s surprise, and then what?
We just hope Dr. Alex greets one of them with ‘Hey, Cammie’s dad’? ”
The steady rise in the volume of his voice conveys the growing sense of worry that he’s kept close to his chest. Like now that he’s uncapped these bottled-up concerns to let one out, they’re all bubbling up and over.
The guilt I feel for causing him stress is mixed with a touch of defensiveness at his tone, which veers toward condescending.
Irritation—especially toward West—is a feeling I’m much more comfortable with than self-doubt, so I lean into it, raising my voice to match his.
“I’m not stupid. I know that’s not going to happen.
I know I haven’t figured it all out yet.
So if you have anything helpful to contribute, feel free.
Otherwise”—I swivel my legs around so that I’m kneeling instead of sitting with them crossed, one step closer to making a run for it if he keeps this attitude up—“no one’s forcing you to be here.
If you think this search is such a terrible idea, then just go back to the villa.
Hole up in the library with your math problems and the friends in your phone.
If you hate spending time with me so much, you can just stop. ”
“If I hate spending time with you—” he starts to echo, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes before shifting to bend one leg at the knee, ready to push up to standing and run right after me.
We’re fighters in a ring, circling each other and seeing who’s going to lunge first, or give up and hit the locker room.
“Of course I don’t hate it—being with you is the only thing I want to do these days, after years of thinking I’d never get the chance again.
I’m just struggling with this because I see you struggling, and it’s like I’ll do anything, even make myself the bad guy who tells you things you don’t want to hear, if I think it’s going to make you feel even an ounce less pain in the end. ”
“I’d rather you just be the good guy,” I cry.
“The one who trusts that I’ve already thought of all the risks and bad outcomes and has my back when I keep going after what I want anyway.
The one who believes in me and helps me believe in myself.
I need that guy more than the devil needs another advocate. ”
“You have me, Cam!” he shouts back, maybe the loudest I’ve ever heard him. “Don’t you see that? I wouldn’t be here right now or following you onto every train or bus or boat or off a goddamn cliff if I wasn’t determined to be everything you need.”
His arms are flung out wide, pulling his T-shirt taut across his chest and emphasizing its rapid rise and fall. Almost as rapid as my own heartbeat. But West isn’t done.
“So yeah, I’m worried, but I’m also not going anywhere, not ever going to stop believing in you, supporting you, loving you—”
The words are like a clap of thunder, the silence that follows them all the more profound in comparison.
I know there are other people no more than a few yards away, but West and I might as well be the only two left in the world, any other noise on this night drowned out by the echo of loving you, loving you, loving you in my ears.
His dark eyes are wide and wild, like he can’t believe what he said, either.
I don’t know how much time passes before his intense stare is ripped away as if by force, and before I can even close my gaping mouth, he’s leapt to his feet and turned for the stone staircase leading up to street level.
When he hits the first step, my own feet finally move.
“West, wait,” I call after him, not caring that we are an absurd American melodrama playing out on a busy city street on a random Tuesday night. West doesn’t wait, and the focused, determined strides he takes make me think he could easily ditch me again if I don’t get my ass in gear.
“Weston Jacobs!” I emphasize every syllable, like I’m scolding a child.
Whatever it might take to stop him before he’s crossed the distance from here to Villa Russo on foot, bypassing the half-hour train ride entirely.
As the street begins to curve around, back toward the city center and train station, I finally reach his side in a quiet spot by a gently bubbling fountain.
Or get close enough to his side, anyway, to make a grab for his T-shirt, clutching tight when my fingers meet cotton, then pulling until he lurches backward and swings around to face me.
His gaze is hard and dark under equally dark, furrowed brows, but it doesn’t have quite the unfocused, unsettled quality of the last time he ran away from me, or earlier on the crowded street.
It sends a shiver through me, my stomach doing the kind of fluttery acrobatics reserved for rare moments when I’ve been totally, delightedly surprised.
It’s a new side to him, so far from chill and controlled, entirely due to his feelings for me.
Feelings that are messy and complicated and all the things he tries to avoid, but he couldn’t stop them—couldn’t even keep them to himself.
I’m breathing almost embarrassingly hard, and it has little to do with chasing after him.
West loves me.
I’m aware, in the back of my mind, this does not necessarily mean he is in love with me. But it does necessitate further conversation, at the very least.
“Did you not…just say…you weren’t…going anywhere?” I pant out.
West pushes a hand through his hair, looking up and away as he replies, “Yeah, but I hadn’t planned on saying what I did right after, and when you weren’t saying anything back—I mean, it was kind of an obvious rejection. It’s okay, though, I get it. No hard feelings, I shouldn’t have—”
“Um, no,” I argue, squeezing my eyes shut and giving my head a brisk shake. “That was a clear ‘holy shit you just said you love me and I’m gonna need a second to process.’ ”
“Okay.” He sighs, lifting his hands in acquiescence. “Then take your time. Maybe we should both cool off and, like, leave it for now. We can go back to the train and we don’t have to talk about it.”
“No, you beautiful dummy. I’ve taken my second.”
West blinks back down at me, confusion and alarm crossing his face. Before he can ruin both our nights by doing something monumentally absurd like retracting his love confession, I take matters into my own hands.
The matters, in this case, being West’s face. I reach up, grasp his jaw, and pull, while my feet roll forward until I’m standing on tiptoes. The slight widening of West’s eyes is the last thing I see before I close my own. Then finally, I press my lips to his.
He’s frozen at first, which in light of my own recent actions, I have to understand.
But after a couple moments, he melts into me like gelato under the Italian summer sun.
His body curves toward mine, head angling down to make it even easier on me to deepen the kiss.
I bring my arms around his neck, thread my fingers up into his hair, and grab on.
His hands find my waist, one sliding up my back while the other glides down to my hip, both pulling me in to him until it feels like there’s no part of the entire front of our bodies where we aren’t connected.
This is not the hesitant, fumbling first kiss of two kids who are still unsure what it means, whether it’s right, after spending their whole lives as close as friends could be.
It’s the pent-up hungering, missing, loving, caring, hurting, wanting of our older selves. It feels inevitable—the slide of his tongue over my bottom lip, the way our mouths fit together, pull back, lock in, again and again.
Until all at once, a loud boom rips through the night air. It startles both of us enough that we break apart and stumble back from each other in shock. We’re breathing heavy as our dazed eyes meet. A crackle follows the boom. Then another boom, crackle, boom, boom.
Fireworks. I whirl around, West’s hands coming to land on both my hips as he steps up behind me, the heat of his front at my back.
Pops of red, green, and gold light up the sky over the Castel dell’Ovo, a fitting finale to one of the most surreal days of my life.
I turn my head, leaning slightly sideways to see West more clearly.
I wait until I have his eyes—half lidded and wholly adoring—on mine before I speak.
“In the interest of only saying what I really mean this time around, I should add that I love you back.”
Slowly, his flushed lips lift on one side. “I was starting to suspect that.”
“And that you should kiss me again. Many times.”
“As you’re now aware,” he says, his heated gaze dropping to my mouth, “I always follow your instructions.”
He closes the distance between us to do exactly as told, while colorful explosions continue overhead. And together, we make our own kind of fireworks.