20. Ivy
IVY
ONE WEEK LATER
T he old brick warehouse towers over me, mostly unlit and slightly foreboding from where I sit in my car at the curb, watching the door I saw Cam enter almost an hour ago now.
My knee bounces wildly under the steering wheel, and I chew on my lip until it hurts, continuing the debate that’s been relentlessly echoing in my head as the minutes have slowly ticked by since I followed him here after his meeting.
Stalked him, really.
Again…
I shouldn’t have done it.
If I were acting even remotely rationally, I would have just given him space and allowed him to come talk to me when he felt it was appropriate.
But it’s been almost two weeks since we spread the ashes, since he touched me like that and splintered me apart in the best and worst way.
And Marlo’s insistence over the last several days that I need to talk to him or I’ll keep obsessing over it and torturing myself has proven true.
I can’t take another sleepless night.
So, even though it’s wrong, I still found myself driving down to where I found his bike parked for his meeting that first time, hoping it would be in the same spot.
I still waited until he appeared again, sticking a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it up as he stalked back to his ride.
I still sat mesmerized as he smoked it slowly, leaning against the seat, looking absolutely destroyed with his hair disheveled and his hand shaking until he smashed the butt on the sidewalk and rode away.
I still followed him through evening traffic to Frankford and watched him park his bike on the side of this building and go inside.
I did it all, knowing it was wrong.
Just like I knew it was wrong to kiss him the other night, to push him to act when I needed him to be something for me that he shouldn’t have been.
He may have left me that note, but I’m the one who should be apologizing…for all of it.
For relying on him so heavily to get me through this when he’s struggling himself, which I could clearly see tonight.
His eyes were dark when he came out of that meeting. His shoulders were tight under his leather jacket. His entire body seemed to vibrate with a barely restrained tension that he needed to release.
But whatever he’s doing in this building, he hasn’t come out.
And I haven’t mustered up the courage to go in after him.
Night has fully fallen now, that last thin streak of light dipping behind the horizon, casting an eerie, unnerving darkness onto the street and the buildings that line it.
I can’t sit out here in my car anymore.
This might be my only chance to talk to Cam. My sole opportunity to make any sense of the madness that happened the other night and to apologize for my role in it.
And I can’t pass it up.
My hand trembles as I pop open the car door, and I step out onto the street, staring up at the building. No one else has gone in or exited since Cam arrived, the windows all unlit, save for some on the top floor.
I cross to that side of the street and stare at the entrance. Flaked-off lettering on the glass door announces it as a textile manufacturer, but given the state of the building and the signage, I don’t think that’s accurate any longer.
So many properties in this area have been abandoned, left to rot away rather than anyone taking on the task of trying to save them until more recently. This building appears to have survived the worst that time attempted to do to it.
It stands straight and tall.
Worn.
A little rough around the edges.
But strong.
There’s something almost charming about it, and I reach forward and try the door, which tugs open easily. Either Cam left it unlocked, or it never had a working one to begin with.
Goosebumps pebble across my skin as I step inside, instantly scanning the small vestibule for any evidence of where Cam might have gone and why.
Several hand-written signs taped to the wall and arrows pointing down a hallway indicate that the first floor is occupied by a ballet studio.
The list of class times below it shows there will be a late class in about an hour—likely why the door was left open.
The second floor appears to be occupied by a tech company that would be closed this time of night, if its hours of operation below the name are correct.
Which means Cam likely went to the top floor.
Music floats down the massive metal staircase to my left, and I take the treads up on shaky legs. The higher I climb, the louder the thumping notes and strong vocals become until I reach the third-floor landing.
Heavy steel doors stand slightly ajar in front of me, allowing the deep bass of the song playing from within to slip out to where I stand.
There isn’t any signage to indicate what lies behind them or why Cam might be here, why this is where he fled to after his meeting, when he appeared so shaken and out of sorts.
Holding my breath, I inch toward the opening and peek inside.
Camden stands with his back to me, halfway across a vast loft space—shirtless, barefoot, his dark jeans hanging low on his hips as he stares down at something on the floor in front of him.
His shoulders and body are rigid as he tilts his head.
All the air rushes from my lungs at seeing him so tense, so intent on whatever his task may be.
Oh, God…
Whatever he’s doing here, I shouldn’t be interrupting him.
This was a bad idea.
I drag my gaze off him to turn back to the stairs, but a canvas against the wall near him makes me pause, then step forward instead of retreating. Even from here, it’s breathtaking .
I’m drawn in by the soul-deep need to see more, to experience the type of beauty he’s put on that canvas.
Cautiously, I turn sideways so I can slip in between the doors. And my eyes immediately scan the vast room, my jaw dropping as I take in everything.
Hundreds of paintings lean in stacks along the walls—in some places five or six deep.
All in black and white and varying shades of gray.
Landscapes.
Portraits.
Abstract images.
Statements about life, about the world, about people and the emotions they never want to talk about.
All of it laid out on these canvases with such precision and talent.
The sheer beauty and artistry covering almost every inch of the brick walls make my knees tremble as I move deeper into what is obviously Cam’s studio.
With the loud music filling the air and his attention focused on whatever lies on the painter’s tarps at his feet, Camden doesn’t notice my approach.
But my gaze shifts from the works along the walls to the man responsible for them.
He squats and dips the brush into a tray of black paint on the floor, then leans over and drags it across a massive blank canvas in front of him.
His muscular shoulders and back bunch and roll with every precise stroke, and he doesn’t take any time before he is pressing the bristles down again and again.
He grasps another brush from a tray of white paint, moving it with determined slashes.
Like he knows precisely what it should be and where each drop of pigment should go in order to create the image in his head.
The movements become more harsh, matching the beat of the music.
Almost aggressive.
He streaks black paint across the canvas with such determined focus and power that a shudder rolls through me as heat fills my cheeks.
I shouldn’t be watching this.
This is his work.
This is his space.
His release.
And I’ve just invaded it, uninvited.
What we need to discuss can wait.
I can wait.
But as I start to turn away, to try to slip out before he sees me, my eye catches a painting along the wall to the far left, and I freeze mid-step, a gasp falling from my lips precisely as the song blaring from the speakers in the corners of the room ends.
Shit.
Cam’s head jerks to the side, and he looks over his shoulder at me as I do the same, tearing my gaze from what stopped my retreat.
His eyes widen slightly.
But I can’t keep looking at him.
Not when that painting is standing there.
From the corner of my eye, I see him look away from me, dropping his head, resting his forearms on his knees for a moment before he pushes to his full height and turns from the canvas on the floor to face me.
The brush dangles from his right hand, black paint dripping from it onto the tarp at his feet, but he doesn’t say anything as the next song starts up, merely watches me as I slowly approach the painting that made me stop.
The one I’ve seen dozens of times—because it hung in the Oval Office under the previous administration and was shown on television constantly in the background.
A black and white image of a smiling little girl holding a heart-shaped balloon.
My gaze dips to the signature on the bottom right of the canvas.
Cush.
The name flashes through my head, along with dozens of newspaper articles and internet blogs about the mysterious street artist who no one has ever identified. Stunning images that just appear painted on the sides of buildings. Canvases that create bidding wars at auctions…
My breath catches, and I shake my head slightly, trying to get my thoughts to form into anything coherent as I turn back toward him. “I don’t understand.”
He clears his throat. “This is…what I do for a living.”
“Drew and your mom said you worked at an art gallery.”
The corner of his lips twitches slightly, and he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his cheeks pinkening as if my question somehow embarrassed him. “That’s half true. I own one in London that only features my work.”
Holy shit.
His work.
His work.
This is his .
Camden Usher is CUSH.
I open and close my mouth a few times as my mind continues to spin. “How did I not know any of this? Why didn’t they or you tell me?”
He releases a little sigh. “I asked them not to tell anyone, so I could maintain my anonymity. And as to the second part, why I didn’t tell you…” His shoulders rise and fall. “I don’t know. It just…didn’t come up.”
It didn’t come up.
I gape at him.