26. Ivy
IVY
T he vast hall surrounds us.
Towering ceiling.
Highly polished floors traversed by thousands over the years to see the art lining the walls.
Masterpieces going back hundreds of years.
Some so stunning, they make me stop in my tracks—which I suppose is the intent the artist had in the first place.
A group of kids here on a school field trip dashes past, giggling as the teacher chases them and whispers at them to slow down and be quiet, and Cam tightens his grip on my hand, tugging me forward and leading me confidently around the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
Just like he was with his brushes in hand, Cam seems to know exactly where he wants to go, weaving through the maze of hallways and galleries as if he’s memorized them.
I scan the works on the walls as we pass, trying not to get too distracted by them when Cam clearly has something specific he wants to show me.
But that’s hard, given my newfound respect for the art world that suddenly developed in the last twenty-four hours.
“I haven’t been here in probably twenty years. ”
Cam grins, giving my hand a light squeeze. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
Raising a brow, I allow him to move me through another gallery, past several groups on tours who stand intently listening as the guide talks about various pieces of priceless art. “Why is that?”
He shrugs. “It’s kind of one of those ‘you go once, you see it, and you’re done with it’ kind of thing for most people.”
Sadness laces his words, and he doesn’t have to explain why that thought is so depressing for him.
This man’s life revolves around expressing himself through his art.
Paint and canvas—or a bare wall in a city somewhere around the world—are his entire focus.
To think people don’t appreciate it—despite the notoriety he’s gained with his works—has to hit squarely in the gut.
“But not you?”
Cam shakes his head, the corner of his lips twitching slightly.
“I still vividly remember the first time I came here. I was six and on a first-grade class field trip.” He stops walking and pulls me to the side, out of the way of the flow of patrons, and points across from us to a Monet.
“I saw that , and my heart just stopped .”
“Really?”
But looking at it, I can see why.
The loose brushwork, fleeting moments of light and color, all combine to create a stunning landscape that somehow screams to be looked at, even with the muted palette and soft touch.
He gives me a moment to examine every detail of the painting, and the longer I stare at it, the more my eyes start to burn with unshed tears.
When was the last time I stopped and looked at something just because it was beautiful?
Day in, day out, I’m surrounded by life—flowers, plants, endless greenery—and I spend my entire career putting together bouquets and arrangements to celebrate the love people have for each other, but at some point, I stopped seeing it.
And I know exactly when that happened.
It was the moment I got that call from Nancy.
The second I knew Drew was gone, so was my ability to appreciate anything beautiful anymore.
Cam wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder, his lips feathering over my ear.
“I knew that’s what I wanted to do—create things that were that beautiful.
I didn’t know what a soul was at that point, but I understood what looking at it did to me”—he presses his hand over my heart, which picks up its beat under the warm press of his palm—“ here. ”
A single tear falls from my eye, and he leans in and kisses it away so gently that I practically collapse back into his hold.
I don’t know how long we stand, looking at this single painting.
Minutes…
An hour…
People stream past us.
More school groups.
Couples with their hands clutched or arms linked.
And still, I can’t look away.
The longer I examine it, the more I see those little details and expert precision that make it so breathtakingly spellbinding.
Cam finally squeezes me, breaking the spell, and I glance back at him.
“Is that what you wanted to show me?”
He shakes his head and drags his lips over mine so softly it makes my knees quiver. “No. Come on.”
When I climbed onto the back of his bike, he was very cryptic about why he was bringing me here, and even now, he seems tense, like whatever his reason, he isn’t quite sure he wants to expose it to me.
Given everything he’s revealed since I showed up at his studio last night, thinking about what that could be has left my stomach churning even more than it did earlier at the diner.
Cam takes my hand in his again and leads me around a few more corners until we pause in front of a massive canvas that drags my eyes up and up and then across its vast size. “ This is what I wanted you to see.”
It takes me a few seconds to truly take in what’s hanging in front of us, the macabre scene tightening my gut the longer I stare at it. “What is this?”
A naked man sprawled out…
Chained to a rock…
With a hawk yanking what appears to be intestines from a cut in his side…
Cam stands behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Prometheus.”
“The titan?”
He nods, pressing his cheek to mine. “This is Prometheus Bound by Peter Paul Rubens and Frans Snyders. It depicts the torture Zeus inflicted on him after he gifted man with fire and the arts.”
I slip from his hold to move closer, examining every facet of the breathtakingly disturbing piece.
Despite the violent imagery, there’s something so beautiful about it that I can’t tear my eyes away.
Cam shifts to my side, staring up at it. “It’s my favorite painting.”
“Here?”
He shakes his head. “Anywhere. I’ve been to the Louvre more times than I can count, and to just about every other fine art museum in the world over the last fifteen years, but I still come back here, to this one, to this painting, for the feeling I have right now.”
I glance over at him, the way his eyes rake over the image with so much fascination, reverence, and appreciation. “Which is what?”
It’s what I’ve been wondering all day, ever since I woke in his bed and his arms…
At breakfast, he pushed me to face the questions that were plaguing me, spent an hour trying to get me to accept that the life I thought I knew with Drew was real.
But he must be feeling something, too.
About me.
About what happened.
About the future that seems so uncertain and complicated.
But he said he wanted to show me something about him.
This is it.
Cam gives me a sad smile and returns his attention to the painting. “I guess I feel like I understand him, his pain, how he suffers. Even more so now than I did when I first fell in love with it.”
His enigmatic words move through me like a tsunami rolling across my heart. I can feel the agony in them, but I don’t understand it. Can’t understand the enigmatic man standing beside me. Because he won’t let me in, not really.
He keeps so many things locked away, so many secrets that I know he hasn’t told me. Things that go far beyond what he revealed about that night four years ago, and I want to know them.
I want to know him.
I want to understand what makes him tick.
What made him so different from his brother.
Why he turned in on himself when their father died, while Drew sought out others for comfort and became that comfort for other people—including me.
I want to know why Cam always looks so haunted.
But I’m afraid to ask, afraid I’ll send him running if I probe too hard.
Deep down, I’m afraid of him and what his answers might hold.
I ask anyway. “Why?”
He stares at the painting for a while, long enough that I don’t think he’s going to answer, but he finally does, never tearing his eyes from the gruesome display. “He thought he was doing the right thing…”
“Who did?”
“Prometheus.” He tilts his head slightly, taking it in at a different angle, even though I have no doubt he has every single brushstroke memorized.
“A lot of people consider him kind of a god of unforeseen consequences. It’s something that, the older I get, the easier it becomes to recognize in my own life. ”
Unforeseen consequences…
“Like what happened with us.”
It isn’t a question.
He slowly turns to face me, his eyes hooded, that darkness overtaking them as he examines me. “One example in a long line and many years of them, Ivy. It isn’t just about you and how badly I fucked things up.”
I open my mouth to ask him what else it’s about then, but the clicking of heels and a gasp cut through the noise around us.
“Camden?”
The woman’s voice floats over us, and my back stiffens as we both turn toward her.
Cam’s eyes widen slightly at the stunning woman standing to our left, red hair floating down over her shoulders, tight black dress hugging every curve of her body, and bright-green eyes locked squarely on him.
“It is you!” She rushes forward and throws her arms around him, giving him a hug that says they are definitely well acquainted.
He returns the embrace, pulling away from her slightly to look her up and down. “What are you doing in Philly?”
She smiles brightly at him. “I work here now.”
His brows rise. “Seriously?”
Her head bobs enthusiastically. “I got the job almost four months ago. I’ve been meaning to call you this whole time since I knew you had moved back a while ago, but I got distracted. You know…” She waves a hand toward the gallery. “It’s a large collection to keep track of.”
She laughs lightly and places a hand on his shoulder, so casually and intimately that my stomach roils.
I retreat a step, and my movement shifts Camden’s gaze from her to me.
“Oh, umm…Ivy, this is Roxy.” He rubs at the back of his neck, a strange look on his face that I can’t quite place. “We went to art school together in London.”
Roxy smiles at me, her eyes sliding over me in assessment, and she holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I accept it and shake. “You too.”