Chapter 3 - Cam
CAM
The smell of coffee and harsh sunlight falling on my face jerk me awake.
A sledgehammer instantly pounds against my temples.
I release an agonized groan, rolling to the side of my bed, my stomach immediately roiling badly enough that I fight to swallow back bile that threatens to make me heave.
Fuck.
A heavy cloud of pain and regret envelops me, and I try to bury my head under my pillow to keep out the world longer so I don’t have to remember how I got into this state.
Because it’s bad.
Very bad.
I haven’t felt like this in so long that I forgot how awful it can really get.
Fuuuuuuuck…
My brain refuses to fire. It just flat-out declines to get on board with this whole waking up thing, but my gut continues to revolt, making me choke back its contents rather than have to leave bed to crawl to the bathroom and retch.
Which I apparently did already at least once, given the taste in my dry mouth.
Something clangs across the loft in the direction of the kitchen, and I finally lift my head from beneath the pillow to attempt an investigation.
I freeze, both because my stomach doesn’t appreciate the movement, nor does my head, but also because Mom stands at the counter, pouring coffee out of the carafe into two mugs.
What the fuck?
Squeezing my eyes closed, I reopen them in case I’m hallucinating, but she’s still there.
Her eyes flick over to me, and she presses her lips together in a firm line, giving me “the look” I always dreaded as a child—the one that screams disappointed, which is far worse than her mad look. “About time you woke up.”
“Mom?”
The word comes scratchy from my raw throat, as if it, too, can’t believe she’s here in my studio.
How the fuck?
I struggle to remember anything about how she got here…
But all I see is her.
Bits and pieces of my conversation with Ivy flash through my head so rapidly that it makes the room spin again and my nausea exponentially worse. But not because of my epic hangover. The roiling in my stomach comes from what I can remember…
I cringe, squeezing my eyes closed, and drop back into the bed, releasing another groan as I curl in on myself, pressing my hands over my revolting gut. But that sweet floral smell still clings to my sheets—her.
Us.
“I bet you feel like shit.”
Mom’s voice is closer this time.
So is the scent of the coffee.
I peel one eye open to find her standing at the side of the bed, a mixture of concern and confusion in her gaze. “I…don’t feel great…”
She holds out a mug, pursing her lips. “I would imagine not, given how much you apparently drank last night.”
How does she…
My head spins, my sluggish brain trying to process what happened to get her here, but I’m clearly still half-drunk. And the half that isn’t still lit is deep in a wicked hangover already.
I cautiously manage to push myself up onto my elbow and reach a shaking hand up to take the mug from her as my brain thumps against my temples viciously. “Thank you.”
She inclines her head slightly and watches me take a tentative sip. I wince at how hot it is, the harsh liquid searing my mouth and my throat, and my stomach twists brutally, not appreciating it, either.
The acidic black coffee doesn’t help the nausea situation, but Mom just stares at me expectantly. “Drink all of it.”
I know that tone, and I am not about to argue with her in my condition. Especially when I have no idea why she’s here, let alone how she found out where I was. “Okay…”
Did I call her last night after Ivy left?
Everything is a blur of tears, pain, and really horrific decisions.
Mom retreats from the bed and takes a seat on one of the stools at the counter in front of the other mug she poured, pointedly turning on it so that she’s facing the bed and watching me.
I shift up until my back meets the headboard, running my free hand through my hair to keep it off my face. The pounding in my head only increases the more vertical I am. The sledgehammer has now become a fucking jackhammer drilling against my skull relentlessly. “What are you doing here?”
A dark brow rises at me, the reprimand already there without her saying a word. She toys with the mug handle as she keeps her assessing gaze on me, almost as if she’s waiting for me to volunteer something. “Ivy called me last night…”
Shit.
I freeze with the mug halfway to my lips, watching her over the rim.
Her eyes narrow on me. “Imagine my surprise when she told me you were in town.”
“Yeah, about that—”
She holds up a hand to stop me. “She was hysterical. I tried to get her to calm down, to tell me what happened, what was wrong…”
Everything is wrong.
Literally everything.
I swallow thickly, really wishing I hadn’t taken that sip of coffee, as it now threatens to come back up. “What did she tell you?”
Mom holds my gaze, unwavering, cripplingly intense, the way it always was when I was a child and she knew I had done something wrong but was trying to get me to come clean without having to reveal she already knew the truth.
“Not much. Just that you were back, that you were at your studio, and that I needed to get over here as quickly as possible. She said that…” She sucks in a sharp breath, her throat working hard to keep her emotions in check.
“That you weren’t in a very good place, and she was concerned you might do something stupid if you were left alone. ”
Fuck.
Ivy wasn’t wrong.
I squeeze my eyes closed and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to breathe in through it and out through my mouth so I don’t pass out, or worse, throw up.
The incessant, driving pain in my head doesn’t even seem that bad when I consider what might have happened last night if Ivy hadn’t appeared.
If she hadn’t cared enough, even after everything I told her, to take the heroin from me…
A shiver rolls through me, the acidic bile that now tastes vaguely like coffee climbing my throat again.
I fight it down and force myself to take another sip of the scalding-hot liquid, as if it might shock my system into some semblance of being able to process. “Is…that all she said?”
Or did she reveal all my secrets?
I don’t look up at Mom as I ask it, but I hear her shift, the clank as she picks up the mug and sets it back down on the counter.
“No. She told me to tell you that it’s your story to tell, not hers.”
Shit…
It would be so much easier if she had just told Mom everything.
If the truth were already out there and I didn’t have to explain it in excruciating detail to the woman who always loved us and cared for us so deeply, without reservation.
No matter what we did. No matter how bad things got.
None of it mattered. She was always right there with open arms and a warm hug.
Even if she was mad. Or worse, disappointment.
This is going to hurt her more than it does me.
I’ve been living with the agony and the regret for so long, letting it eat away at me, letting it drive me to do things I knew I’d regret the instant I did them. Everything I fought so hard for could have gone down the drain last night. I was this close to throwing it all away.
How do I begin to tell her?
I don’t even know what happened after Ivy left.
All I remember is the world spinning, feeling like it was crashing down around me, like everything was coming to an end. Like I couldn’t breathe.
And then, darkness.
Mom clears her throat, and I finally lift my head, opening my eyes to find her brow furrowed deeply above her anguished gaze.
“I found you passed out over there.” She points to the corner near the windows where Ivy left me.
Where I had set up, intent on trying to wash away the pain with the things I had sworn to never touch again.
“You smell like you bathed in whiskey last night.”
I scrub a hand across my face with a groan. “I did.”
The mere thought of the taste going down is enough to make me gag.
Mom definitely notices. “I need you to explain what’s going on. I need you to tell me why you’re here, why you didn’t call, and why you look like you just got hit by a damn truck.”
It’s how I feel, too.
Like Jack Daniels himself drove right over me last night…
And it’s only going to get worse.
So much worse.
This isn’t going to be an easy conversation, and it’s one I’ve been putting off for far too long.
Both because it was too painful for me but also because Mom doesn’t deserve any of this.
She’s better off not knowing what I did and what’s happened in the last four years or having to live with the fact that I caused Drew’s death.
But last night was a tipping point in more ways than one.
I slowly nod and throw back the covers, then slide my legs off the side of the mattress and onto the worn wood floor. The movement makes my stomach slosh, and I grit my teeth and gulp back its contents.
Fucking hell…
Squeezing my eyes closed, I inhale a few long breaths, then allow my lids to flutter open and push myself to my feet, stumbling slightly, using my free hand to catch myself against the brick wall.
Definitely not sober yet…
I stumble toward the kitchen with Mom watching every step I take. Her keen gaze tracks over me, taking in what is undoubtedly disheveled hair, a face that hasn’t been shaved in days, my bare chest, and the rumpled pants I slept—or more accurately, passed out—in.
Each step hurts as my entire body screams in protest.
But I can’t stay in bed anymore.
I can’t hide under the covers while she’s sitting right here, waiting for an explanation she more than deserves.
The sunlight streaming in from the windows makes me wince, and when I finally reach the island, I intentionally choose a seat that will allow me to settle with my back to the window, facing her, trying to give myself a little reprieve from the pounding in my head however I can.
I set my coffee on the counter and slide onto the stool, releasing a long, heavy exhale filled with all the things I haven’t been able to say to her over the last four years.