Chapter 17 Cam
CAM
I shouldn’t be here.
I shouldn’t be intruding.
I shouldn’t be letting myself in—uninvited—yet again.
I shouldn’t keep inserting myself into her life.
Especially after what happened last night…
But that’s exactly why I’m here again.
Because seeing her that way, knowing how much she must have been suffering to want me to stay so badly, to need that so much from me, of all people, means I haven’t been able to stop worrying about her all day.
This boulder of dread has sat in my stomach since I got home from painting the mural just before dawn broke, and nothing I did has been able to shake it.
Not a long, hot shower to attempt to wash away her scent while I scrubbed the paint from my skin.
Not smoking half a fucking pack of cigarettes.
Not pacing the studio until my bare feet ached.
It wasn’t until I turned onto her street that the unease finally started to ebb, that it finally felt like I could breathe again because I knew I would see her soon—even if that isn’t what she wants.
I push open the front door, bag with her dinner in hand, and pause, tilting my head and listening for her.
She’s usually home by now…
And I was half-expecting her to be sitting on the couch, waiting for me.
To tell me what a mistake last night was.
To remind me how much she hates me.
But there isn’t any sign of her, save for her purse sitting on the counter just inside the door that leads to the garage and her shoes on the floor near it, like she came in and kicked them off haphazardly.
The way I found her last night flashes through my head, and my gut tightens as hard as my hand does around the bag.
Is she in bed again, practically catatonic?
Leaving her was one of the hardest things I ever had to do, but if she had woken and I was still in her bed—in their bed—wrapped around her, it would have only complicated things even more for both of us.
And I had to paint.
I had to get that out after all this time, or I would have imploded.
Still, the guilt remains.
At walking away when she still needed me…
She may need you tonight.
That little voice whispers as I set the bag on the counter and proceed down the hall toward the bedroom. Each step that draws me closer to the open door only amps up the apprehension over what I might find.
If she’s like that again…
But the rumpled bed is empty.
Her scent permeates the room, though—that sweet, floral smell that can act like a soothing balm for my soul or attack it violently depending on the mental state I find myself in when it hits me.
Tonight, it brings tears to my eyes that mirror those we both shed last night, and when an all too familiar sound draws my attention across the room to the closed bathroom door, they finally fall.
A sob.
Filled with anger, frustration, and anguish.
One I recognize all too well.
Ivy has cried enough tears to fill the world’s oceans a hundred times over, and no matter how much I want it, how many times I pray to God for it, they aren’t going to stop.
And I’m the reason her world has fallen apart.
I’m the reason she’s here, alone and pregnant, when Drew should be at her side through what should be the most joyful time of their lives.
Which is why I should turn around and leave.
I know deep down that it’s the right thing to do, yet I rub at the sharp ache in my chest and slowly move toward the closed bathroom door. Now that I’m closer, I can hear the water running in the shower, mixing with the sounds of her distress.
Just like it always seems to where Ivy is concerned, memories overwhelm me. Her pain last night, mixing and twisting together with the feel of holding her in my shower, of washing her smooth skin clean after I fucked her on the canvas.
My ribcage tightens until I can barely draw in a breath.
Fuck…
I press my hands flat against the wooden panel and lower my forehead to it, listening to the sound of the rushing water and Ivy’s sobs.
Tears trail down my cheeks.
My stomach turns.
I want to go to her.
I want to make sure she’s all right.
I want to take her into my arms the way I did last night and offer her whatever it is she needs to make it through the night.
But I can’t.
Her sobs only increase the longer I stand frozen by regret and indecision. Each tortured sound that floats through the door hurts more and more until I’m trembling violently to hold myself back from running to her.
Something clatters hard against the tiles, and I jerk my head from the door, my heart racing as worry twists around my spine and forces my hand.
I turn the handle and push it in without considering what I’m doing. If she’s pissed at me for being here, I’ll take anything she throws at me. Because anger is better than her agony.
“Ivy? Are you all right?”
A wall of steam hits me immediately, but as I step in through it, the vision beyond the glass separating us robs me of the ability to see anything but her.
Standing in the shower, water cascading over her smooth skin, face buried in her hands, as sobs continue to wrack her body. “Ivy?”
She doesn’t react.
Doesn’t respond to my abrupt intrusion or questions.
Oh, God…
Acid climbs up my throat.
What if it’s the baby?
I rush forward and slide open the glass door, frantically scanning for any evidence of blood or anything that might tell me what’s happening since Ivy seems incapable.
A razor and bottle of shaving cream lie on the tile at her feet, but as I scan up her legs and over her naked body, the only thing that appears to be wrong is the way mine reacts to her.
“Ivy…” My voice wavers, all the anxious energy I’m incapable of containing leeching out in my words. “You need to tell me you’re okay.”
The water continues to fall over her, running in rivulets down her naked body, across her full breasts and protruding belly, between her legs…the sound of it hitting the tile the only thing that breaks the silence.
Slowly, she lifts her face out of her hands, her eyes swollen, her lips trembling, her thick, dark hair plastered down her back and her shoulders. “I can’t do it…”
“What?”
She could be referencing a thousand different things: going on without Drew, having this baby without him…but another sob slips from her lips instead of an answer, and she squeezes her eyes closed, shaking her head. “I tried, and I just can’t.”
One of her hands slides to her distended belly, and I follow the movement, remembering what it felt like to have my palm pressed there last night, to feel that tiny, fluttering kick, to know the life growing inside her is the miracle she and Drew always hoped for.
“Is the baby okay?”
I hold my breath waiting for the answer, a silent prayer held in my heart.
Please, God, let her be okay…
Ivy nods, trying to control her breathing through her sobs, but they only seem to get worse. Gasping, short pants and a heaving chest that terrifies me for more than one reason. Whatever she’s so upset about, if she doesn’t get herself under control, she’s going to hyperventilate.
Shit.
I toe off my shoes, tug off my socks, and step into the shower before I can question the sanity of the action. The flow from the showerhead soaks me instantly, but it wouldn’t matter if it were fucking acid—nothing is going to stop me from getting to her.
But I won’t risk doing anything that might upset her further by touching her when she’s like this, so close to tipping over the edge of something so dangerous. Something I recognize all too well.
“Ivy…” Only a few inches from her now, the scent of her shampoo and soap fills my lungs along with that floral smell that always clings to her. “Look at me.”
It takes a few seconds before she lifts her eyes and does it.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” I try to keep my voice level, but my desperation slips out. “Please.”
Because the longer she takes to answer, to explain what the hell is happening, the harder it’s becoming to remain calm, like she needs me to be.
Water beats down on us, steam rising to fill the thick air heavy with unspoken words and a swirling storm of emotions that always seems to exist when we’re in each other’s orbit.
She sniffles, inhaling a few sharp breaths, and her hand motions down absently.
“I haven’t shaved in weeks.” Her lips tremble, like she’s struggling to keep herself together enough to speak.
“I feel like a goddamn sasquatch. And I just wanted to do it, but”—she sobs again, clenching her eyes closed—“I can’t reach right and then I dropped everything, and the thought of bending down to pick it up just—”
Another anguished sound echoes around us, cutting off her explanation.
Shit…
I release a relieved rush of air from my lungs that’s also filled with guilt at feeling that way. But the current situation is far more manageable than the thousand other worst-case scenarios I had worked up in my head.
She’s overwhelmed. Clearly upset and at her breaking point. But she’s fine.
Physically, she’s okay.
And so is the baby.
But her tears continue as do her heaving breaths, as if not being able to shave her legs is the worst she’s been through in the last several months, instead of all the horrific things she’s experienced, and my heart shatters for her for the millionth time.
“Ivy? You’re okay.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not.”
But you can make it okay for her…
There are so many things I can’t fix, so many things that can’t be undone, but this I can do.
Or at least, I can try.
I sink to my knees in front of her, reaching for the shaving cream, her swollen belly mere inches from my face.
“Cam”—her unsteady voice floats to me over the rushing water—“what are you doing?”
Something I probably shouldn’t.
I glance up at her as I pull the top off the shaving cream and spread some on my hand. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Her eyes widen, her soft lips parting. “You…you can’t.”
Shouldn’t.
Not can’t.