8. Amie
eight
Amie
I lean against a pillar in the terminal building’s arrivals hall. Through the haze of overwhelming emotions, the one thought that sticks out to me is how odd it is to be at an airport—at my airport—in my own clothes, without my work gear. It happens so infrequently these days and it makes me feel off-kilter, as though I’ve forgotten something important.
I’ve been killing time people-watching. That old movie, Love Actually—they got it right. There’s nothing quite like witnessing the sheer joy on display at an airport arrivals lounge; lovers reuniting, sons and daughters coming home from their travels. It’s heart-rending and heart-wrenching in equal measure. It feels like a punch to the gut, seeing all this love on display so freely and unabashedly, all the while not knowing what to expect when Cam arrives.
I pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and idly scroll through apps, sipping at the still-too-hot peppermint tea in my hand. Cam’s plane landed forty-five minutes ago; with any luck, he’ll be strolling through those automatic doors any moment.
As if on cue, he appears, handsome as ever. God, he’s gorgeous. He’s wearing black, straight-cut jeans that hug his strong thighs and a casual navy button-down that stretches deliciously over his broad chest and shoulders. He’s rolling his corporate black carry-on beside him, with an olive-green backpack slung over one shoulder and a gift bag sitting atop the suitcase. As he gets closer, I see something yellow and fuzzy peeking out of the top. Tired green eyes sparkle at me with something that looks oddly like gratitude. The man looks like a damn snack. And he’s right here in front of me. I shove my phone back into my pocket.
“Hi,” he offers in greeting. He reaches out to pull me into an awkward hug, surrounding me with that citrus and cedar scent I can’t rinse from my memory. It takes a second for my brain to get the message, but I lift my arms to return his embrace and I feel his muscles relax as my arms close around him. Memories threaten to overtake my barely-checked emotions, but in his arms—however awkward and distanced the hug may be—I feel safe. We fit together like proverbial puzzle pieces, and I’m reluctant to leave the safety of his arms when we pull apart.
Just seeing his face has assuaged my fears and bolstered my courage. I had arrived at the airport fearful, with knots in my stomach. I had been torn between needing to do this and not wanting to all at the same time; terrified of handing him the opportunity to break Maisy’s heart. But seeing the relief in his eyes when he spotted me waiting for him did something to me. Was he relieved that he’d made it? That I had shown up instead of leading him on and standing him up? The gratitude said thank you for being here, but also, thank you for letting me be here.
Hesitantly, he takes my hand and we fall into step beside each other, and I realise that I’m grateful he’s here, too.
We try to make conversation during the drive home. I don’t know whether it’s my anxiousness or whether Cam is jet-lagged, but it very quickly devolves into an awkward silence. I swing my white SUV into the driveway and kill the engine, sitting for just a moment in the suffocating quiet. Cam reaches across the centre console and squeezes my fingers in his. The single squeeze has become our thing —it’s a signal of support, of thanks, of quiet strength. I take all the comfort and strength that finger squeeze offers and breathe in deeply, exhaling through my mouth and closing my eyes. When I open them again, his eyes are focused on me.
“You got this, Amie,” he promises. His green eyes are earnest; he looks at me like the world begins and ends with the two of us in this car. It’s not quite stars, but it’s pretty damn close. “We do this your way, however you wanna do it. You’re in control.”
I offer a tight smile, squeezing his fingers once in return. It’s about as much as I can manage right now. My stomach churns uncomfortably and I open the car door, swinging my body out and unlocking the tailgate to unload Cam’s bags. In my periphery, I see my living room curtains twitch and two grinning faces appear, before the muffled sound of footsteps and the click of the lock. There’s definitely no turning back now. Cam balances his backpack on top of his suitcase and dangles the gift bag from his fingers, to the world a picture of calm, but for the rhythmic shifting of his weight from one foot to the other. The door opens and Maisy shatters any hope of a quiet entrance.
“MAMA HOME!” she cries, barrelling into my legs on the doorstep and knocking me off balance. Not for the first time in the last few weeks, Cam catches my elbow, steadying me as I right myself. “Who’s that?”
“Mae, go and play with your planes for a few minutes baby, let me talk to Katy before she leaves, okay?”
With a dramatic eye roll more befitting of a teenager than a three-year-old, Maisy flounces into the living room and seconds later, I hear her chattering away to her stuffed dinosaur. I quickly introduce Cam and Katy, and then hurriedly usher Katy out the door while Cam focuses on the photo gallery I’ve hung on the wall in the hallway, images of me and Maisy from the last three years.
“Thanks for looking after Mae this morning,” I say. Katy gets the hint, waggling her eyebrows in Cam’s direction when his attention is elsewhere. She makes a phone signal with her thumb and pinky, holding her hand to her face and mouths call me as she backs out of the house, turning to strut down the driveway with a cheeky swing in her hips. She turns back before she crosses the threshold onto the street and winks lasciviously. I grin with a shake of my head, and close the door.
“She’s…” Cam starts, then trails off. He doesn’t turn to me, still focused on the newest photo on the wall. Paloma took the photograph of Maisy just before her recent birthday. She’s dressed in lilac long sleeves under a pink pinafore. Her hair is in low, loose pigtails and she’s holding an ice cream cone, face pushed up towards the camera in a big, cheesy grin. She’s cheesing so hard her eyes are scrunched almost closed, but there’s no mistaking those deep green irises. It’s one of my favourite pictures of my sweet little girl.
“Yeah, she’s always looked just like you,” I whisper. He lets out a heavy breath. “You wanna meet her?”
His throat works as he swallows hard, taking a deep breath as though gathering courage, and then he nods. I leave his bags in the hallway and lead him into the living room, where Maisy is lying on her belly on the floor, surrounded by crayons, her attention focused on the outline of a dinosaur in a thick colouring book. She looks up when we walk in and I offer the sofa to Cam, perching on the edge of my favourite armchair, patting my knee. Maisy runs over and hops up, wrapping her tiny arms around my neck .
“Hi, sweet girl,” I whisper into her hair. Everything is about to change, and there’s no going back. My stomach churns again, but when two pairs of identical green eyes pin me with identical expectant stares, I clear my throat and choose my words carefully.
“Maisy, do you remember a few days ago when we talked about your daddy?” She nods solemnly, her eyes locked with mine, unconditionally trusting. My mouth dries out and I have to force the words to keep coming. This girl, this tiny, sweet whirlwind of a girl trusts me completely, loves me wholeheartedly and relies on me for just about everything. And I’m about to hand someone the opportunity to shatter her world. I push past the dryness, swallowing down the lump in my throat.
“And do you remember that I told you my friend Cam was coming to visit?” Another nod.
“Well…” I glance over at him, unsure of how to continue. His expression is unreadable, eyes fixed on Maisy, cataloguing every expression on her face.
“Baby, this is my friend Cam.” I try again. Before I can continue that thought, Maisy turns to smile at him and offers a small wave.
“Hi Cam,” she says shyly. “Do you like planes?”
Something indescribable colours Cam’s face. He opens his mouth to speak, then clears his throat and tries again.
“I love planes,” he answers. He glances up at me and I nod, loosening my hold on Maisy’s waist as she begins to wriggle. She slips down until her socked feet hit the carpet, then rushes for a basket tucked into the bottom of the TV console table.
“You wanna play?” she asks Cam. His face splits into a wide grin as he slides from the sofa to the floor, legs wide to create the perfect space for playing. Maisy hefts the basket from the shelf to the ground and then tips it unceremoniously, releasing toy planes of all types, as well as a few cars, some toy airport and street furniture, and an errant dinosaur or two. She pushes the eclectic collection between them and reaches for a plane with a blue and white livery. The paintwork is chipped and worn from regular play.
“This one is my favourite,” she announces seriously.
“That’s your favourite?” Cam repeats, shock and awe colouring his voice. “That one is my favourite too!”
The knot in my stomach begins to loosen, and I slip out of the room quietly, heading for the kitchen. From there, I can see and hear them play without interrupting, and for the first time since bumping into Cam in The Santiago Hotel three weeks ago, I allow tears to fall.