Chapter 7
CAMILLE
"I’d like to talk to Simon, alone," Chevy asks.
We're standing in my kitchen on a Monday evening, the remains of takeout between us.
Simon is upstairs doing homework, or more likely staring at his phone with the textbook open nearby as a decoy. He hasn't spoken to Chevy beyond monosyllabic grunts since they met, and the tension in this house is thick enough to spread on toast.
"Chevy—"
"Just hear me out." He leans against the counter, and even though I'm terrified, the calm in his voice steadies me. "I know what he's going through. Not because I read about it or someone told me. I lived it. I was that kid, Cam. Let me at least try."
Every maternal instinct I have is screaming to protect my son from one more hard conversation, one more adult making promises his little heart isn't ready to trust.
But then I look at Chevy's face, and I don't see a man trying to play hero. I see the boy who sat on a front porch waiting for a truck that never came back.
"When?" I ask.
"Tomorrow. You've got that school event, right? The literacy night thing?"
"How do you know about literacy night?"
"You told me about it three weeks ago when you were complaining about having to make a display board." He raises an eyebrow. "I listen."
He does. That's the thing. He always does.
"Okay," I say, and the word feels as if I’m stepping off a cliff.
Thursday arrives and I'm a mess.
I set up my literacy night display on autopilot—laminated posters, a basket of bookmarks the kids decorated, a sign-up sheet for the summer reading program—while my brain runs worst-case scenarios on a loop.
What if Simon shuts down completely?
Or he says something cruel to Chevy that can't be taken back?
What if Chevy pushes too hard?
What if the whole thing implodes and my son hates me even more for letting a stranger into our messy lives?
Beth finds me rearranging bookmarks for the fourth time and puts her hand on my arm.
"You okay? You look like you're performing surgery on that display."
"I'm fine. Just want the font sizes to be consistent."
"Camille. They're handmade by eight-year-olds. One of them is shaped like a hotdog."
I smile weakly. "And it deserves proper placement."
I can tell she knows something’s off. But she also knows that if I need her, I’ll come to her. She squeezes my arm before wandering off to help another teacher.
The event ends at seven thirty. I'm supposed to stay until eight for cleanup, but by seven forty-five I've organized the entire classroom, wiped down every surface, and run out of things to clean and do. I tell the other teachers I need to get home to Simon, and leave.
I spend the entire drive home talking to myself.
They're fine.
Chevy knows what he's doing.
You trust him.
So stop white-knuckling the steering wheel, Camille.
I pull into the driveway and a wave of relief hits me when I see that the house is still standing. That’s good. Low bar, but we're clearing it.
I let myself in through the front door as quietly as possible—the back porch light is on and I can hear voices through the screen door.
Out of sight, I stand in the kitchen, my purse still on my shoulder and my heart in my throat.
Chevy's voice comes first.
“My dad left when I was four. No goodbye, no forwarding address. Nothing. I never saw him again.”
I don’t hear a reply or anything from Simon.
"I spent years being angry about it. At him, at my mom, at the world.
I was pissed at kids in my class for having dads who showed up to their baseball games.
I was pissed at my mom for not being enough to keep him around—which is garbage, by the way, because she was so much more than enough. I was just too angry to see it."
There’s another pause. Possibly, Simon or Chevy shifting positions.
"I know how you're feeling," Chevy continues. "I felt it too. And I know you don't want to hear it from some dude your mom's dating, but I wanted to say it anyway because somebody should've said it to me back then."
I press my hand over my mouth.
Simon's voice, when it finally comes, is small and rough. "Did you ever stop being angry?"
The question hangs in the air, and I can feel the weight of it from the kitchen…years of swallowed fury packed into five words.
"Not all at once," Chevy answers. "It took a long time. But I stopped letting the anger make my decisions for me. And eventually I realized my mom was happier without my dad, and that being angry at her for moving on was just punishing the person who loved me most."
My throat is so tight I can barely breathe.
"I know it might not feel like it right now, but you're incredibly lucky, man. Your dad didn't disappear. He's here for you. He wants to be in your life. He shows up for you—maybe not perfectly, and maybe not on the schedule you want—but he tries. I would've given anything for that."
Simon doesn't respond. But I know my son. He typically would lob a sarcastic remark or say something rude if he didn’t really care.
I'm tearing up, my hand clamped over my mouth, crying as silently as humanly possible, which isn't very silent at all.
But the back door is closed and they can't hear me, and I let myself have this. Hoping against hope that someone can reach my son in a place I couldn't get to.
There's a long pause.
"I hear you think you're good at basketball." Chevy's tone is lighter, warmer, as if he's opening a window to let the heaviness out.
"I am good." Simon's voice is guarded, but curious.
"Bet I can kick your ass."
He lets out a long scoff. It’s the most animated sound I've heard from my son in weeks. "No way, old man."
"Old man?" Chevy laughs. "Oh, it's on. You and me. This weekend."
"You're on." I know Simon is trying to fight the smile. I can hear it in his voice—that grudging almost-amusement that pre-teens deploy when they refuse to admit an adult got to them.
I retreat down the hallway before Chevy comes inside, ducking into the bathroom to splash water on my face and compose myself.
My eyes are red. I look like I've been emotionally ambushed, which is accurate.
I'm dabbing under my eyes with a tissue when I hear the screen door close and footsteps in the kitchen. I take one more breath, and walk out.
Chevy's standing by the counter. He looks at me and knows immediately.
I don't say anything. I just cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around him tightly, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in the back of his shirt. He holds me without a word, one arm around my waist, the other hand cradling the back of my head, and his lips press against the top of my hair.
We stay that way for a long time. Long enough for my breathing to steady. Long enough for the tears to dry against the cotton of his shirt, and for the gratitude and the relief and the tenderness to settle into something I can carry.
"Thank you," I whisper into his chest.
He just holds me tighter.
Later that night, after Simon has gone to bed—voluntarily, at a reasonable hour, without slamming his door, which feels like a miracle of biblical proportions—Chevy and I are on the couch.
I've got my legs across his lap and he's rubbing my feet, which shouldn’t be allowed because it makes my brain go completely offline.
He looks at me, his eyes serious and a little vulnerable.
“I wanted to tell you…I’m not here to replace Simon’s dad.
I'm not here to fix your life. I just want to make you happy.” His fingers trace a circle on my ankle.
“You're the first person who ever saw me for who I really am…not the face, not the jokes, not the version everyone assumes I am.”
My heart does something it hasn't done in years…it expands, making room for him. "You don't have to pretend with me," I say. "Ever."
He pulls me closer until I'm practically in his lap, cups my face, and kisses me…a slow, tender kiss that says I choose you with my eyes wide open.
I kiss him back with everything I have…without panicking or spiraling. Just me and this man and the intentional, extraordinary choice to let him in.
When he pulls back, he strokes over my lower lip with his thumb. "I'm going to make you come tonight," he murmurs against my mouth. "But you're going to have to be quiet. Your kid's down the hall."
The look I give him is equal parts challenge and desire. "You think I can't be quiet?"
His grin goes wicked. "I think you have a track record that suggests otherwise."
We barely make it to the bedroom.
His mouth is on my neck before the door clicks shut, and I'm pulling his shirt over his head before my brain catches up to my hands. We're a tangle of whispered laughter and frantic shushing as we stumble toward the bed in the dark.
"Lock the door," I hiss.
"Already did." He grins against my skin. "I'm a professional."
"A professional what?"
"We'll discuss my credentials later."
He eases me onto the bed and peels my shirt off, then my bra, unclasping it with that infuriating one-hand move that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. He kisses his way down my throat, between my breasts, over my stomach, and hooks his fingers into my waistband.
“These need to go,” he whispers, tugging my leggings down my hips.
“I love when you’re bossy. It’s adorable.”
“I love it when you’re sassy.” He grins and drags the leggings off, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then he slides my panties down my legs, and his hands are spreading my thighs open. His mouth descends, and I have to shove a pillow over my face to muffle the sound that rips out of me.
“Shhh…” he says, then continues to drag his tongue through me, my hips pressing upward to meet him.
"Chevy…” It comes out strangled, as I grip his hair.
He picks up the pace—circling, flicking, sucking and driving me out of my mind. My hips roll against his mouth and his hands grip my thighs to hold me steady and I'm biting my lip so hard I might draw blood.
"I can feel you getting close," he whispers against me. "You're trembling, baby."
"Because you're—oh god—you're so good at this."
"That sweet little pussy is throbbing and loves being ravished by my mouth. Give me that delicious cream."
This man is a master.
He spreads my thighs further apart and devours me, and I’m gone.
I just barely get my hand over my own mouth as the orgasm tears through me, my whole body clenching and releasing while he works me through it, relentlessly.
A sound escapes into my palm that's somewhere between a sob and a moan, and he gentles, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs, hips, and belly.
He climbs back up my body, grinning, as I reach between us to shove his jeans down.
"Pants. Off. Now."
He kicks them off along with his boxers, and I wrap my hand around his cock—hard and hot and straining—and the groan he lets slip is deeply satisfying.
"Now who needs to be quiet?" I whisper.
“I see how it is,” he chuckles, and reaches for the nightstand, where we’ve stocked some condoms in the drawer. He rips open the package and rolls it on. When he settles between my thighs and pushes inside, we both exhale as if we've been holding our breath for days.
"You feel like heaven," he whispers against my ear, starting to move. Every thrust deliberate. "Every single time."
My arms wrap around his neck and my legs wrap around his waist and I pull him as close as physics allows. His forehead presses against mine and we're breathing the same air, moving together in a synchronized rhythm.
"More," I whisper.
He obliges, and the bed frame gives a traitorous creak that makes us both freeze.
"Oh no," I breathe. “Hold on.”
We hold perfectly still, listening.
But I don’t hear anything. No footsteps. No young voice asking what that noise was. We both exhale.
"We need to be more careful," I whisper.
"Or we need a new bed frame." He shifts his angle, plants his knees wider, and rolls his hips in a way that hits so deep I have to bury my face in his neck to keep from screaming. "Better?"
"Better is—oh—a criminal understatement."
He picks up the pace, one hand braced beside my head, and I’m unraveling fast.
"You gonna come again, baby?" he asks, against my ear. "Gripping my cock and milking me, you sexy little vixen."
"Yes, yes, don't stop…right there."
"Not going anywhere.” He drives into me, and nibbles my earlobe.
I start to moan and his hand clamps over my mouth just as the orgasm hits, and thank god, because the sound that tries to escape would've woken every mammal on this mountain.
My body convulses around him, and I hear his breath hitch—a sharp, desperate intake—before he buries himself deep and comes with a groan muffled against my shoulder, his whole body shuddering.
We lie there afterward in a tangle of damp limbs.
And the house is still quiet.
"We survived," I whisper.
"Barely." He presses a lazy kiss to my jaw. "This bed frame is a snitch."
"I'm buying a new one tomorrow."
"Buy something sturdy. I have plans for you."
“Oh?” I laugh into his chest…soft, giddy, the kind of laugh that belongs to a woman who just let herself have something she didn't think possible.
He pulls me against him, my back to his chest, his arm heavy and warm around my waist. He nuzzles my hair.
"Cam?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
I lace my fingers through his and press his hand against my heart.
"I love you, too."
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, the quiet of this house doesn't feel lonely.