Chapter Twenty West #2
Tony is the one I probably would’ve found least stressful, but he replied to Cam’s initial email with an apologetic note about not thinking he’d be able to make it.
Paolo, the seafaring enigma, was also unresponsive to Cam’s one effort to reach out.
We figure he didn’t know what to say, given that she’d never revealed her identity as his ex-girlfriend’s grown-up child until she tried for a “Hey, remember me? Well, I just realized the craziest thing…” approach in her message.
Cammie joked that he probably thought she was a scammer trying to profit off his boat tour empire.
So unless Dr. Constantini somehow finds his way here—Cammie is convinced he isn’t the type to check his email more than twice a year, and she’d have been better off sending his invitation via carrier pigeon—there will be no surprises on tonight’s guest list after all.
This leaves me considerably more relaxed than I’d hoped to be, as I step outside to the same space where we had the Welcome Dinner.
The first night I saw Cam again and began to realize, however much I shrouded it in insults and snark, that none of my intense feelings for her had been squashed by time and distance.
I slowly scan the area, groups of students, faculty, and staff mingling and enjoying the first cocktails of the night.
A jazz band provides live music from their spot between two sets of open French doors off the dining room.
Inside on its own honored table is some large, brown, rectangular object that I’d wager is the scale model of Villa di Bronzo, made entirely out of chocolate.
I’m about to make a beeline to check that out when my eyes catch on the only part of this evening more exciting than a giant chocolate sculpture.
Cammie is an almost otherworldly vision in a green dress, doing her own perusal of the terrazzo, not far from the band.
Her red hair is pinned up except for a few loose tendrils that I want to twist around my fingers, her wealth of sun-darkened freckles highlighted rather than hidden by the elegant makeup that she said in an earlier text would be impossible to replicate on her own without years of training “and possibly some dark magic.” The twinkle lights catch the shimmer on her cheekbones when she turns her face, her eyes looking bigger and bluer than ever under dramatically darkened lashes.
I think I swallow my own tongue, taking her in. But I try to pull my shit together enough to cross the paving stones to her, certainty settling in that it doesn’t matter the number of decades or thousands of miles that could separate us—my feelings for Cammie are never going away.
“Cam,” I say when I draw near, and only when I hear the gravel in my voice do I realize it’s the first word I’ve said out loud since she left my room this morning.
The thought gets an almost guilty laugh out of me, for how much I’ve enjoyed a successful day of seeing and speaking to no one.
No one but the only one who matters, anyway.
She spins on one shiny-sandal-clad heel, and if I thought she looked gorgeous from afar, it’s nothing compared to the full-on, close-up radiance of the smile that takes over her face when she realizes it’s me.
I rub a hand over my jaw, sparking the less satisfying realization that I forgot to shave.
See? Scrub behavior. I don’t know what this angelic girl is doing, looking at me like I’m the only guy at this party, this villa, maybe on this earth.
If she doesn’t realize how much better she can do, I’m certainly not going to tell her.
“You look…unbelievable,” I manage, still a little gruff despite multiple throat clearings.
A blush blooms on Cammie’s cheeks, and I look down to where her fingers fidget around her waist to confirm that, yes, the shade perfectly matches her nail polish.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” she replies softly, like a secret between us.
But lest I think she’s shy or self-conscious about being with me in semipublic like this, she reaches up to finger-comb some curls that have evaded my efforts to civilize them.
I bend my knees slightly to make it easier for her to reach until, apparently satisfied with her touch-ups, she brings the hand down to my cheek and gives it a quick pat.
“Better,” she says with a wink. The word settles over my racing heart like a weighted blanket—heavy, but the comforting kind.
I had a good day of being mostly in solitude, yes.
But being back with her, this is better.
Always better. We lace our fingers together and I follow her to the bar, where we both order limonata for old times’ sake.
After the first refreshing sip, I dismiss my fear of smearing her makeup and give in to the impulse to steal a swift kiss. She tastes like lemon, and smiles like she couldn’t be happier to share her lipstick with me. But she still reaches up to swipe the smudge of pink from my skin with her thumb.
“I knew it,” a voice chirps from somewhere nearby.
Cammie and I both turn to see Lila, the girl who sat beside me at the Welcome Dinner and witnessed the hostile spectacle I made with the girl I was just kissing.
Lila’s mouth is open in a laughing smile, and she delivers a playful swat to the guy beside her—the one who’d sat by Cammie, whose name neither of us held on to.
“I knew you two were into each other at that first dinner,” Lila continues, looking back to Cammie and me with glee and maybe a little pride.
“But he said I was being ridiculous and clearly you were enemies, and I was like, ‘yeah, the kind who want to jump across this table and go at it,’ and he was all ‘and you wonder why you only have messy situationships,’ but look. Who’s. Right!”
Cam and I are both frozen, unsure how to respond to a stranger who’s nearly as thrilled about our relationship as we are.