Chapter 52 Cam
CAM
The house was quiet by nine-thirty. I’d somehow managed to get the girls through their bedtime routine on autopilot, my mind stuck on Emily.
She’d been too quiet on the drive home, staring out the passenger window while I’d snuck glances at her profile in the dim dashboard lights.
When I’d reached for her hand, she’d linked her fingers through mine immediately and held on tight, but she hadn’t looked at me or said a word.
I changed into sweats and a t-shirt, climbed into bed, and stared at my phone.
Watching my family fall a little bit in love with Emily had left me feeling unsteady, like I’d had one beer too many even though I’d been nursing the same bottle for an hour.
At one point she’d turned to me mid-laugh, her whole face lit up, and I’d had to grip the arm of my chair to stop myself from dropping to one knee right there in front of everyone. The urge to make her mine forever had hit me so hard I’d actually felt dizzy.
But Emily McIntyre was far from ready for a declaration like that from me.
I knew enough about her past, with the scars, and the terror of garden sheds, to know that she was dealing with some big stuff. Or not dealing.
The way she’d been on the drive home, how quietly she’d said goodnight to the girls, let me know that something about today had gotten to her.
And that was the big, capital P Problem, wasn’t it? I had no fucking clue what to do about it.
Should I text her? Give her space? Before I could decide, my phone screen lit up.
Hey.
My fingers flew across the screen.
Hey
I just wanted to say I had a really nice time today. Your family is great.
Ok, well, it was a start, I guess. But now what?
They are, and you’re welcome.
You’re very lucky.
I feel like I am.
Your mom hugged me when we left tonight. Like a real hug.
She’s good at that.
Yeah.
I thought she was done, then three dots appeared again.
My mom doesn’t hug me like that.
I read that sentence three times, the words sitting heavy in my stomach.
How does she hug you?
She doesn’t. Not really. Sometimes she’ll do this weird side-pat thing if other people are around. But it’s for show.
I stared at the screen, trying to imagine hugging Alice or Audrey for “show.” The thought made bile rise in my throat. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
That fucking sucks.
I’m used to it.
Well, for the record, you’re very huggable. And being used to something doesn’t make it okay.
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared. Disappeared. Finally:
No. I guess it doesn’t.
Another pause, and then…
Can I ask you something?
Always.
Do you think it’s normal for parents to not love their kids?
I sat up straighter against the headboard, my grip tightening on my phone.
No, sweetheart. That’s not normal at all.
What if the kid was difficult?
Kids are supposed to be difficult sometimes. That’s literally their job. Parents are supposed to love them anyway.
The typing indicator showed up and stayed for what felt like an eternity, until,
What if they weren’t just difficult though? What if they ruined everything?
My breath caught. This was about to go very deep and I knew I had to tread very carefully, or I’d scare her away.
How do you mean?
A longer pause this time.
Nothing. Never mind.
Fuck.
Don’t do that, sweetheart. You can talk to me.
It’s heavy.
I can handle heavy.
Can you? Because this is shit I’ve never told anyone else. Not even Mia.
Try me.
Another long pause. Then:
Remember how I told you my mom wanted me to be a beauty queen? Like, really wanted it. Put me in pageants when I was little?
I remembered every goddamn word she’d ever said to me.
Yes.
I remember you mentioning that.
Yeah, well, she had this whole vision. Her perfect daughter, winning crowns, making her proud. Living the dream she never got to have.
But you didn’t want that.
No, I hated it. The costumes, the makeup, the men leering at me from when I was ten years old. All of it. But I was good at it, which made it worse because she pushed harder.
My jaw clenched as I typed.
That sounds fucking awful.
It was. And when I told her I wanted to quit and do art instead, she told me I was too stupid for that. All I had going for me was my pretty face, and I’d better not blow my one chance at making something of myself.
You sure as shit did not deserve that.
I suppose not. But I felt like there was no escape.
She controlled everything. What I ate, when I ate, how much.
If I gained even a pound, she’d lock the pantry.
Sometimes she’d lock me in the garden shed for hours.
Like, if I hadn’t smiled brightly enough at a show. Or if I didn’t practice hard enough.
The phone felt too hot in my hand. Or maybe that was just my blood boiling.
I looked around my dark bedroom, listening to the silence of the house. Safe. Warm.
The idea of her being locked away in the dark, hungry and terrified, while her mother... did what? Sat inside and watched TV?
My vision blurred for a second. I had to take a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs, before I could type.
The fucking garden shed.
Jesus Christ, Em
She said it was discipline and that I needed to learn. That she was doing it for my own good.
I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that didn’t sound trite or uncaring, over text. If it weren’t for the girls, I’d be over at her place, dragging her into my arms and holding her tight.
I tried to be what she wanted. I really did. But it got to the point that I just couldn’t do it anymore.
Dread curdled in my gut as I typed my reply with shaking fingers.
What happened?
The dots appeared and disappeared several times. I waited, my heart pounding harder with each second that passed.
When I was 17, I had a really bad day. Lost a pageant I was supposed to win.
I should have won by a landslide, because it was just a small town one.
Mom was so angry, she didn’t speak to me the whole drive home.
When we got there, she told me I was an embarrassment.
and that I’d never amount to anything if I couldn’t even win a small-town pageant.
Em.
I went to my room and I just... I couldn’t take it anymore. The pressure. The constant disappointment. Feeling like I was never good enough no matter what I did. I just wanted to crawl out of my own skin.
I knew where this was going. The scars. Christ, the scars.
I hurt myself. Not for the first time, but worse than I ever had before.
I’m so sorry.
I tossed the phone onto the duvet and rubbed my hands over my face, pressing my palms into my eyes until I saw stars.
I’m so sorry.
The words were pathetic. Useless.
There was a hot band around my chest that made it hard to breathe. I picked the phone back up, my grip tight enough to crack the casing.
Jesus fuck, this hurt.
The scars meant I couldn’t compete anymore. No more pageants. My mom’s dream died because of what I did.
That wasn’t your fault.
Wasn’t it though? I’m the one who did it. I’m the one who ruined everything. She’s never forgiven me. It’s been over ten years and she still looks at me like I’m scum.
I wanted to throw my phone across the room. Wanted to drive to wherever her mother lived and tell her exactly what I thought of her. Wanted to wrap Emily in my arms and never let go.
I stared at those words until they blurred. My fingers hovered over the keypad, trying to find something, anything, that would help. That would take away even a fraction of the pain she was carrying.
But what could I say? What combination of words would be enough?
I started typing. Deleted it. Started again. Deleted that too.
Every response felt inadequate. Hollow. Like trying to patch a gaping wound with a fucking band-aid.
The three dots never appeared on her end. She wasn’t typing. The silence stretched between us, heavy and awful.
I set my phone on my chest and stared at the ceiling. She was over there alone, drowning in all of this, and I was stuck here because I couldn’t leave two sleeping kids.
I should go to her. I needed to go to her. But I couldn’t.
My phone stayed dark. No new messages. The minutes crawled by.
I picked it up again, typed out a message. Stared at it. Deleted it.
What the fuck was I supposed to do?
The soft squeak of the side gate opening cut through the silence.
I sat up, my heart jumping. The quiet slide of the back door whispered through the house, then footsteps on the stairs and down the hall toward my room.
Emily appeared in my doorway, and the sight of her damn near broke me. Her face was wet with tears, mascara smudged under her eyes. She wore an oversized sleep shirt and flannel pajama pants, her hair messy around her shoulders.
She looked young and small and so fucking sad that my heart twisted so painfully I could barely breathe.
“I’m sorry, I…”
Without a word, I lifted the blanket. She crossed the room and climbed in beside me. I wrapped my arms around her immediately and she pressed her face into my chest, trembling as she wept silently in my arms.
I held her tight and kissed her hair, one hand stroking her back while the other cradled her head. “I’ve got you.”
She cried harder, her fingers fisting in my t-shirt.
I just held on, letting her fall apart in my arms. Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Eventually, her breathing evened out and the shaking stopped.
“This is heavy stuff, sweetheart,” I said quietly. “Maybe you should speak to someone about it.”
She pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes red and swollen. “I know I should.”
“But?”
“I feel like, if I drag it all out in the open, I won’t have a mom anymore. Or a dad either. I don’t... I don’t think I can deal with that.”
I cupped her face, brushing away her tears with my thumbs. “You’re allowed to grieve the mother you deserved. The one you should’ve had.”
“I guess.”
She settled back against my chest, her head tucked under my chin. I pulled the blanket up around us and held her close.
“Tell me something good,” she whispered. “Something that has nothing to do with any of this.”
I thought for a moment, then smiled against her hair. “Alice tried to put glitter on her vegetables the other night. Said it would make them taste better.”
A small, wet laugh escaped her. “Did you let her?”
“Hell no. But I did let her put edible glitter on her ice cream after dinner.”
“How was it?”
“Sparkly. And according to Alice, the best ice cream she’d ever had.”
Another small laugh. She shifted slightly, getting more comfortable. “Tell me another one.”
So I did. I told her how, when Audrey was four, she’d developed an obsession with learning French, which consisted entirely of her yelling “BONJOUR” at everyone she met.
I told her about the time I’d accidentally shrunk all of Alice’s favorite shirts in the dryer and she’d declared them “belly shirts” and worn them anyway.
And on it went, until her breathing grew slower, deeper. Her body relaxed fully against mine.
“Cam?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
I kissed her forehead. “Always.”
A few minutes later, her breath hitched once, then slowed into a deep, steady rhythm. She was asleep.
I held her close and stared at the ceiling, my mind racing. This woman had survived hell and somehow still had the capacity to produce the most stunning art I’d ever seen.
I’d protect her from anything I could.
But I couldn’t protect her from the past. From the damage already done.
All I could do was be here. Hold her. Remind her she was worthy of love.
So that’s what I’d do.
For as long as she’d let me.