8. Ivy
IVY
THE NEXT DAY
H e’s been here.
I know it the moment I step into the house.
That leather, citrusy, summer breeze scent permeates the air, hitting me the moment I nudge the door closed behind me.
And for some reason, I inhale it deeply, taking it in and holding it in my lungs.
My body relaxes, all the tension of the day melting away.
Because the house seems less empty, less lifeless—the way it has felt since Drew died.
I pause for a moment and listen for any signs that he might still be here, holding my breath for one heartbeat. Two. But his bike isn’t parked out front. And there isn’t any sound or light coming from the open office door.
The air I’ve been holding in rushes from my lungs as my shoulders deflate with the realization that I’m alone again.
Deep down—in a place I’m not ready to examine—I had hoped he would be here today. Hoped I wouldn’t come home to this quiet loneliness. Hoped that maybe Cam would give me some more stories, open up about their rift, and help me understand what really went down.
So much for wishful thinking…
I set my purse on the counter and find a note, written in almost the same scratchy scrawl his brother had resting in the center of the granite.
I replaced your porch light. I also left something for you in the office.
And in the fridge.
Please eat.
Please eat?
His words from yesterday come back.
“You need that, to laugh, to sleep. And to eat.”
The worry in his voice then still echoes through me now, sending a little shiver across my skin.
Because it’s all true.
I forgot what it felt like to laugh. I forgot what it felt like to have a good night’s sleep and wake up content. And I haven’t enjoyed a meal since that final night I ate with Drew…
“Just take care of yourself.”
As if it’s that easy…
I definitely haven’t been. It’s hard enough to get out of bed, to breathe, to keep going when everything I lost sits on the mantle, reminding me daily of what should have been.
Nancy and Marlo have both expressed their concern, the same way Cam did, but he’s the first complete stranger who saw it and seemed to understand. The only one who offered any form of relief simply by being here and telling me a few stories.
“Drew wouldn’t want to see you like this.”
He’s right about that.
And apparently, he tried to do something about it.
I move toward the fridge and tug it open. Takeout containers sit piled on one of the shelves, and I reach in and remove them, checking to see what’s inside.
“Oh, my God. Dante & Luigi’s? How did he?—”
My eyes dart around the kitchen for anything that may have alerted him to my favorite restaurant and usual order, which I’m currently staring down at—eggplant parmesan, with a side of baked rigatoni.
But there isn’t a menu clipped to the fridge with a magnet.
No leftovers he could have seen since I haven’t been able to bring myself to order anything I knew I wouldn’t eat the past month.
Not an old note to Drew asking him to grab it for me on his way home from a shift at the hospital.
Nothing.
So, how did he know?
There’s likely some simple explanation. Perhaps Nancy mentioned it to him during a phone call over the past several years. Or maybe Drew and Cam were speaking and just keeping it a secret for some unknown reason and the topic somehow came up.
Regardless of how he learned the information, I’m glad he did because my mouth waters looking at it.
The first time in forever that I’ve actually felt hungry .
Because of Camden.
Another tiny piece of that wall of anger I put up between us chips off, slowly melting away to join the one that disappeared yesterday when we sat on that couch together and he told me those stories.
When I saw how much he loved Drew, no matter what I might think about how he’s handled his passing and the situation with Nancy.
As much as I want to dig into the very thoughtful meal he’s left for me, curiosity makes me push the food back into the fridge and head into the office to see what he found today.
Hoping, praying, there’s something in these boxes that might be able to do what Cam did for me yesterday…
I flip on the light and find several more boxes stacked in front of the coffee table. Another note sits next to a few items laid out across the smooth, polished wooden surface.
In here, Cam’s scent mingles heavily with Drew’s, somehow tempering the overwhelming sadness that hit me when we came in yesterday. I inhale them both, squeezing my eyes closed as I do it, taking several long, deep breaths, trying to steady myself.
To remind myself that today at work was good.
It was a good day.
It was a good day.
The best you’ve had.
Better than things have been any other time I’ve been at Buds & Blooms.
I actually made it through the day without any tears, but now that I’m home to this , I don’t think that’s going to last very long.
It’s impossible when everywhere I look, I see Drew and relive our memories built here together.
When I imagine the ones we would have made if he hadn’t left me here alone. If he hadn’t had so many secrets…
But if I concentrate on that, I absolutely will end up in tears again tonight, and I so desperately need another break from that. Just one full day and night of happiness rather than gut-wrenching pain and sadness.
I slowly peel my eyes open and examine Cam’s note.
I thought you might enjoy these. I explained each on the back.
Because he knew I would want to know.
Because his stories made me laugh yesterday and he wanted to give me more.
Another little shard of that wall falls.
I set down his note and reach for the stack of photos to my left.
The first one draws a grin across my lips—likely taken by Nancy, it’s of the two of them dressed as Mario and Luigi on what must have been Halloween, both beaming at the camera. Though she’s shown me a few photo albums over the years, I know I never saw this one.
This, I would have remembered.
I flip it over and find a Post-it stuck to the back with more of Cam’s writing.
Halloween. Third grade. He was Mario, of course, because he’s older and got to choose. I was stuck being Luigi.
My smile widens picturing the argument that must have ensued over who got to be the “better” of the fictional brothers.
And they no doubt had disagreements over things like that throughout their entire childhoods.
But they must have gotten over it quickly, given the pure joy that radiates from their little faces.
I set that photo aside and move to the next one, narrowing my eyes on the striking image of one of them in a baseball uniform standing against a chain-link fence, looking out at a field.
Is this Cam or Drew?
The fact that I can’t tell them apart at all in most of these photos makes me feel a little less like an asshole for passing out when I saw Cam that first night.
They really are carbon copies of each other, yet their personalities are so different.
This twin looks worried. His brow furrowed as a game is played in front of him. His fingers twined in the links of the fence, face pressed in tightly.
I flip it over.
Drew, the year his little league team made it to the state finals. I never played. Zero hand/eye coordination.
For some reason, that makes me chuckle.
I guess it makes sense, though.
Sort of.
Drew was always so good with his hands.
It was part of what made him such a fantastic doctor.
Yet, Cam’s an artist…
I would have thought he wouldn’t have had any problems with that, either.
But I guess I don’t really know much about him or his art.
Nancy always said she was so proud of him for pursuing his passion and going to art school in London instead of a more standard tertiary education route, but other than a few pieces he drew or painted in high school that she kept, neither she nor Drew ever showed me anything he’s created.
Just more secrets to add to the pile that surrounds Camden Usher.
Whatever he’s been doing at the gallery he runs in London, it apparently kept him busy enough to keep him away for the past four years, or at least that’s the way he wanted everyone to believe it was.
But after how he reacted to my question that first night about telling Nancy he was home and yesterday when I pressed him about what happened with Drew, I’m confident there’s more to it.
He stayed away because he didn’t want to put his mother in the middle of their argument.
So now that Drew is gone, why keep Nancy in the dark?
That question rattles around my brain as I stare at the photo, and now that I know it’s Drew, I can see all the little tells.
Always so immensely focused, like this little boy.
Always so concerned with coming out on top—whether it be valedictorian or—apparently—on a little league field.
He wears that same furrowed brow. That same ardent concentration Drew needed to succeed in the fast-paced ER on a daily basis, handling trauma.
And I have no doubt this boy already had his massive heart, too.
I know part of that concern on his face is for his teammates. For how they worked to get to that championship game. For the devastation they would all feel if they lost. And I’m positive he would have been the first one to offer hugs and kind words to them or the other team after.
Because that was who Drew always was.
A tear slips down my cheek, and I allow it to fall, not wanting to put the photo down to try to wipe it away.
Why bother when more will just come anyway?
My phone rings out in the kitchen, still somewhere deep in my purse, and I reluctantly set down the photo and hustle back out to drag it from the confines of the bag.
Marlo’s name flashes across the screen.
Why is she calling?
I answer it on the third ring. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Oh, good. Are you home yet?”
“Yeah. Why?” I rest my elbows on the counter, eyeing Cam’s note. “What’s up?”
“I just got a call from Kari Webber. She wants to change the wedding flowers.”