6. Ivy
IVY
I thought I had prepared myself this time.
Last night, after I finally got home from work, I spent hours looking at photos of Drew and me together, reminding myself of all those minute details about him that make him so different from Cam.
Even through the tears and sobbing, I could see them.
The way the corners of Drew’s eyes crinkled because of his ever-present smile.
The fact that his lopsided grin was slightly more crooked than the one Cam gave Marlo in the greenhouse.
The pains Drew took to ensure his hair was always slicked back and perfectly professional looking, while Cam’s seems so wild and unruly. And most importantly, their eyes.
In dozens of pictures taken over the past four years, Drew never looked at the camera—or at me—with the barely repressed darkness that seems to want to overtake Cam’s gaze every time he looks at me.
Whatever torments Cam, it does so in a way Drew never experienced—at least, not when we were together.
So, no matter how much he may look or even sound like the man who was my everything, I can’t let that affect me the way it has during our previous two encounters.
I won’t.
He needs to work through Drew’s death in his own way, which includes searching the boxes in the office to find whatever meaningful possessions and memories might be in there.
Just like I need to handle it in mine, which mostly consists of lying in bed alone, clutching his pillow and wondering if it will ever lose his scent, or sitting on the couch staring at the unopened cardboard box that sits on the mantle and trying not to think about what’s inside of it.
I did all this work so that when I opened the door this morning to his hesitant knock, I wouldn’t end up flat on my face on the porch like I would have last time—if Cam hadn’t stepped in and caught me.
Yet, here I am, left hand gripping the doorknob so tightly that my knuckles throb just to keep myself upright as I stare at the man waiting for me to invite him in.
My knees don’t seem to remember all my mental preparations.
And my brain sure as hell doesn’t either.
He isn’t Drew. He isn’t Drew. He isn’t Drew.
I repeat the mantra incessantly, hoping that the more I hear it in my own head, the easier it might be to remember it’s true.
But my stomach flips, twisting violently like I’m stuck on a Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair after gorging on fried foods.
My heart stutters, as if it isn’t sure whether to beat faster at the sight of him or stop altogether.
Every nerve-ending in my body flares to life looking at him as he runs a hand through disheveled hair and offers me a sheepish smile that in no way matches his appearance.
He shifts nervously, glancing around the front yard that desperately needs to be mowed and over the bushes that have begun to grow out of control in Drew’s absence. “Um…hi.”
I somehow manage to swallow, despite my throat being as dry as the Sahara. “Hey…”
Cam’s black brows draw low over his blue eyes, his unease as palpable as my own. “Is it…still okay if I’m here?”
Shit.
“Yes, of course. Come in.”
I force a smile that I hope doesn’t come across as such.
Cam doesn’t know me, so maybe he won’t notice how this entire situation has put me on a perilous edge. I was already walking a thin line between full-blown depression and something worse. And this man showing up so unexpectedly that night has created a new dangerous tightrope for me to balance on.
He takes a step toward me, close enough now that his scent hits me full force.
I retreat enough to give him room to enter, and his shoulder brushes against mine as he passes. He quickly issues me an apologetic half-smile and steps farther in, leaving me reeling as I clutch the doorknob.
Apparently all my preparations couldn’t do shit for the way I react to seeing him. For the way it feels to have the other half of Drew in the home I shared with him…
Breathe.
But that’s a very bad idea.
Because he’s still close enough that when I do, his scent infiltrates my lungs—somehow soothing as it simultaneously wrenches my soul and twists it violently.
My body somehow remembers waking to that scent the other night and how safe and warm I felt.
How for a brief moment, things felt like they were okay again.
I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes closed, trying to give myself a minute to control the clashing emotions threatening to go into a full-on war right here, right now, with him standing in my entryway.
Because I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about Cam being here.
We never even met when Drew and I were together, never spoke a word to each other via phone, never exchanged Christmas or birthday cards. He was always this person who should have been the most important one in Drew’s life but who had somehow become a pariah.
But it would have been impossible not to see how much it pained him when Nancy brought up Cam during our time spent with her.
Or to ignore the times I found Drew sitting in the dim light in his office, staring at a photo he would surreptitiously slide into his drawer as soon as I entered the room—one of the two of them with their mom that couldn’t have been taken long before he and I got together.
All this time, Cam has been an enigma.
The mysterious “other half” of the man I loved.
And now he’s just here .
And Drew is gone.
“Ivy? Are you all right?”
Shit.
My lids fly open, and Cam stands only a few feet from me, his brow deeply furrowed as he assesses me with eyes now filled with concern in a way that reminds me so much of how Drew looked when he was in “doctor mode” that I have to swallow a sob.
“I’m fine.”
Another forced smile.
A deep breath.
I give him my back as I shut the door, offering myself a few precious seconds to try to gather some semblance of control over my volatile emotions.
“If you want me to leave?—”
“No.” I whirl to face him so fast it makes my head spin—or maybe that’s because I have barely been able to bring myself to eat anything since Drew’s death. “Please. I’m just tired. It’s fine.”
Cam doesn’t look fully convinced, his gaze roving over me in a way that feels somehow both clinical and profoundly invasive at the same time. “Are you sleeping?”
Of course not.
Eating. Sleeping. Breathing. It all feels so impossibly hard.
Every single day is utterly exhausting just being here without him.
If anyone might be able to understand my agony, it would be Cam, but this is the same man who didn’t speak to his brother for four years, who couldn’t even be bothered to come to his funeral, who is lying to his grieving mother about still being in London instead of here in Philly where he could offer her some comfort and support.
So, I bite back those truths that sit on the tip of my tongue.
The best thing to do is give him what he needs and let him get on with…whatever it is he does that keeps him so busy that he couldn’t show for the service.
I push past him into the living room and lead him to the first closed door on the left in the small hallway that leads back to the bedrooms. He follows slowly, his eyes sweeping over the house now that he can see it in the daylight.
Each step he takes ratchets up my anxiety. Every booted footfall on the hardwood floors seems to echo in the tense silence between us. But it isn’t merely about having a Drew look-alike in this house; it’s about the fact that I haven’t had the courage to open this door since the day Drew died.
This was his place.
Where he went to decompress after a bad shift or when he simply needed some time alone.
I do the same with the greenhouse.
Something about digging my hands into the dirt and the scent of all the flowers, the vibrancy of the life there, always seems to pull me out of whatever mood I might be in.
But I haven’t been able to enter Drew’s space.
Haven’t been able to bring myself to see that desk and know he’ll never sit behind it again.
To look at the couch he used to lie on with a book in his hand and a beer on the coffee table, relaxing on a day off, and have to accept it’s going to remain empty.
My hand shakes as I turn the knob and push the door open. I hold my breath and step inside, my bare feet sinking into the carpet. Cam moves behind me, his heavy footsteps fading once he’s left the wood floor in the hall.
I scan the room, afraid to breathe because Drew’s scent lives in here.
Everything is permeated with it. Each piece of furniture. The sweatshirt slung over the back of his desk chair. Even the soft carpet under my feet will hold on to it the way I desperately cling to each memory.
Tears sting my eyes, threatening to fall, and my lungs burn, begging for oxygen even as I fight the need for it. But it finally wins out, forcing me to suck in a long breath.
And just as I had anticipated, Drew’s scent hits me so strongly that I stagger a step. But Cam moves closer, the shift of the air forcing in the smell of leather and citrus and the summer wind instead, helping bring me back from the verge of collapse.
“Th-this is Drew’s office.” Was. I swallow through the tightness in my throat.
“The boxes are all in the closet.” Motioning toward the closed door in the corner, I rapidly blink away the few tears that had coalesced.
“I think there are like thirty of them, so I hope you can find what you’re looking for. ”
When I turn to face him, he stands behind me, feet braced apart slightly, arms hanging at his sides, his eyes locked on me in a way that makes goosebumps pebble across my skin.
He sees me.
Sees that I’m about to fall apart.
His worried gaze sweeps over my face, his jaw tightening the longer he examines me.
But this isn’t some purely distant, objective assessment from a stranger checking to see if I’m okay.
Like earlier when he arrived, this feels more like being stripped bare, like he can see straight through this wall of strength I try to put up so I won’t break down every second of every fucking day.
It’s too real.
Too intense.
Too much.
I wrap my arms around myself and rub at them, averting my gaze from his penetrating one, but all that does is make my eyes land on the wall behind Drew’s desk.
Where he has so many framed photos of us, along with random awards he received in college and medical school, and with his medical license—front and center.
He worked so hard for that.
Sacrificed so much so he could give back.
So he could save people.
But that didn’t help save him.
Tears well, and I reach up and swipe them away before I turn back to Cam. I motion toward the couch and coffee table. “You can stay as long as you’d like. I’ll be…around, if you need anything.”
Hiding.
His dark, stubbled jaw works, like he’s chewing on something he wants to say but can’t decide if he wants to swallow it or spit it out. Finally, his Adam’s apple bobs sluggishly, and he nods. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
He smoothly walks over to the closet and tugs open the door, exposing boxes stacked three across and five high that go all the way back as deep as the small space allows. “You weren’t kidding about the boxes.”
A grin pulls at my lips, despite the way my heart aches. “You know how sentimental your brother was. He never threw anything away.”
Cam’s eyes drift over to me. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
His voice wavers slightly, enough that the hint of anger and animosity I’ve felt toward him and whatever reasons kept him away before slowly starts to melt away.
He grabs one of the top boxes, then turns and sets it on the coffee table before he strips off his jacket and tosses it on the corner of the couch.
Lowering himself onto one of the cushions, he runs a hand through his hair.
For a second, he just sits there, staring at the box, until he finally seems to realize I’m still standing here, watching him—like a total creeper.
One of his brows rises. “Did you want to join me?”
I immediately raise my hands, staggering back a step. “Oh, no.” Shaking my head, I retreat toward the door. “I…uh…don’t think I can do that.”
Not right now.
Maybe not ever.
Drew had secrets.
The funny, affable man I fell in love with, who was always so open and giving in every aspect of his life, kept important things from me, and I can’t bear the thought that more might be buried in those boxes.
Better Cam find them than me.
He offers me a sympathetic look and nods, then watches me until I slip out into the hallway to find something else to occupy my day.
I wander to the living room, plop down on the sofa, and flip on the television, but even after an hour of mindlessly scrolling through channels, my gaze keeps drifting to the mantle.
What other secrets were you keeping, Drew?
The thought of what could have made him go down to that area of town that night when he told me he got called into the hospital makes my stomach roil.
I try to concentrate on the TV, on the romantic comedy with the klutzy yet lovable heroine and the dashing hero who finds her charming and adorable rather than annoying the way she thinks she is to everyone around her.
It’s exactly the type of movie I would have loved to watch with Marlo before. We would have laughed at the cheesy lines and swooned nonetheless. We would have talked about our love lives and her current flame, and it would have been easy.
But nothing is anymore.
I watch the movie almost in a trance. Barely seeing it while my own love story with Drew plays in my head.
The way he approached me at the nurses’ station when I was stopping by to deliver flowers and got hopelessly lost, since it isn’t usually something I do personally.
How his eyes sparkled as brilliantly as his smile as he introduced himself and asked if I needed help.
That slight curl of his lips as he shamelessly flirted and asked me out within five minutes of meeting me.
Despite the heaviness sitting on my chest, my lips pull into a smile.
Because that was what he always did to me.
Lifted me up.
Made me feel worshipped and worthy and wanted.
He completed me and my life in a way that I didn’t know could happen.
And as the movie comes to an end, so does my ability to sit here, pretending like I’m not miserable.
All I want is to climb into bed and close myself off from the world as much as possible for as long as possible. But as I climb to my feet and make my way down the hallway, one glance through the open door of Drew’s office stops me cold.