39. Amie
thirty-nine
Amie
T he night before New Year’s Eve—the night before Maisy and I fly home to London—Maisy begs for a sleepover with Granny and Grandpa, and they readily accept. It gives me and Cam a night to ourselves. We haven’t had a real “date” night since the night we met in Singapore.
In London, and here at Thanksgiving, we weren’t together, and Maisy was always with us anyway. Even in New York, the one night we had was lost to desperate lust, an urgent need to reacquaint ourselves with one another, inside and out. But tonight, Cam is taking me out, and for the first time in a long time, I’m taking my time to get ready.
My curls are in their natural state: loose spirals hanging just beyond the curves of my shoulders, pinned back from my face with a beaded hair slide I found at an artisan market in Mexico City. The beads are emerald green to match the slip dress laying on the bed, waiting to be worn when my makeup is done.
I lean close to the mirror, carefully lining my eyes with a dark brown pencil and smudging it for a smoky effect. It’s light and natural, with just enough depth to add a little darkness. Perfect. I keep my lips neutral with a soft, rosy pink balm, and dust my cheekbones with a little champagne shimmer. Then, I step into the dress, slip my feet into a pair of wood-heeled sandals, and cross the room to the sofa, where Cam waits.
He’s wearing a charcoal grey shirt with black chinos, sleeves rolled to his elbows and the collar unbuttoned. He looks delicious, and for a moment I’m tempted to forego the date and stay in, using our evening alone to make as much noise as we want.
But then he looks up at me.
His green eyes burn with something— lust— as they rove my body from head to toe, and when they settle on my face, they soften. Love.
“You look beautiful,” he says, and takes my hand. We've been driving for forty minutes before I realise I have no idea where we're headed or what he has planned for us.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he says, glancing quickly at me before turning his eyes back to the road.
“I hope it’s close because I have to pee,” I tell him, shifting in my seat. “And I’d rather not squat over a cactus.”
He snorts inelegantly, turning his head just slightly, the moonlight highlighting his strong profile through the car windows. He’s beautiful. He was handsome when we first met—gorgeous, even—but the years have been kind. I can’t take my eyes off him.
“We’re nearly there,” he says, tapping a finger against the steering wheel. “And don’t worry, they have restrooms.”
We slow at the entrance to a field and I frown as Cam rolls down his window. A teen in a neon jacket waves an arm and Cam steers the car through the gate, over a cattle grid and onto a field. It’s full of cars and hay bales, with street food stands at the back and an enormous projector screen at the front .
“Is this…”
“It’s not a true drive-in, but it’s the closest I could get. The open-air theatre has been running for a few years now over the summer and the holidays. I know you said it was on your bucket list…”
I lean over the console between us and kiss him hard, one hand on either side of his face.
“It’s perfect,” I tell him. “Truly. Thank you. But I really do have to pee.”
He laughs, and waves an arm out of his still-open window.
“Right over there, between Todd’s Tacos and the burger van.”
I hop out of the car, careful not to step in any soft patches in my heels, and pick my way through the crowd to the restrooms, which turn out to be far cleaner and more salubrious than I had imagined. It takes me a few minutes longer to return as I pick up a couple of cups of hot chocolate on my way, and then miscount the rows of cars before I finally catch sight of Cam, towering above the vehicle rooflines.
He grins as I approach, two cones of waffle fries in his hands. It takes us a moment to juggle them between us, but we manage to swap a cone for a cup, so we both have one of each, and after he kisses me softly on the lips, we climb back into the car to await the movie.
As the opening notes of the soundtrack fill the night air, I glance over at Cam to find him watching me with a soft smile. I know the movie by heart, but I still can’t help but get transported to Long Island, 1922.
Once or twice, I glance around; fellow movie-goers walk by the car to get food or use the bathroom, and I glance over at Cam when he rests a hand on my thigh. Every time I look up, he’s watching me with a small, goofy smile.
“Watch the movie,” I whisper, resting a hand atop his on my leg .
“I’d rather watch you,” he shrugs. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look, so caught up in Gatsby’s whatever?”
I feel a light flush rise from my throat to the tips of my ears, and I squeeze his hand once.
“You’re missing out,” I say. “It’s the greatest movie ever.”
Cam takes me for ice cream after the movie. He had suggested dinner, but after the enormous cones of fries, neither of us is especially hungry.
Then, on our way back into town, we pass by an old-fashioned ice cream parlour, lit up for the holidays and boasting some limited-run seasonal flavours. He swings the car around and we backtrack to it, parking in an empty space right outside the door.
Cam opens my door for me and offers a hand to help me out, and the way he looks at me, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so treasured in my life.
“I can’t choose,” I whine. “Please don’t make me.”
The flavours sound incredible. Spiced orange, candy cane, egg nog—I want all three. And the regular display offers a classic rocky road, as well as a creamy chocolate-coconut flavour which caught my eye. My sweet tooth wants to sit here all night and sample each one.
“So, let’s get all of them,” Cam says, and it almost sounds like he’s holding back from adding duh on the end. He turns to the woman behind the counter. “Can we get a scoop of all three of the seasonal flavours, plus a rocky road and a—which one, beautiful? Choco-coconut? ”
I nod, and he slides his credit card across the counter as the woman prepares our scoops in small cardboard cups. We carry the treats to a high table in the corner and slide onto tall stools.
Well, Cam slides; I hop up as awkwardly and elegantly as I can muster in heels and a tight dress. With our treats between us and a tiny plastic spoon in each cup, Cam reaches across the table to take my hands in his.
“Thank you for coming out with me tonight,” he says. I’m stunned. I’ve been on dates before, but no one has ever looked at me so tenderly and thanked me for spending time with them.
Cam is nothing like any man I’ve ever known. Katy’s been saying all along that he’s book boyfriend material—a walking green flag—and maybe, now, I can agree. My lips curve into a smile, my eyes locked on his.
“Of course,” I say. “There’s nowhere in the world I would rather be than here with you.”
He pulls one of my hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles tenderly. I could swoon. I’ve half a mind to steal the car keys from his pocket and take him home right now and show him just how happy I am to be with him.
But our frozen treats won’t stay frozen for long, and the cinnamon scent of the spiced orange is tickling my nostrils. I need to know if it tastes as good as it smells. Cam has the same idea, because he drops one hand to pick up the cup and holds out a spoonful of ice cream to me. I lean in and suck it from the plastic, eyes closed, a small moan escaping me as winter spices mingle with sharp citrus and cool cream on my tongue. I open my eyes to see Cam swallowing hard against the desire darkening his eyes .
“Keep that up, baby,” he says lowly. “You keep that up, and you won’t be tasting anything but me for the rest of the night.”
I shudder, not from the cold of the ice cream I scoop onto my finger and suck into my mouth, but from the intensity of his gaze and the warning that sounds more like a promise. He groans, a quiet, strangled yelp as he shovels a small spoonful of eggnog ice cream into his mouth.
“Brain freeze?” I ask sweetly. He glares, playfully shaking his head.
“You always did like to play with fire, my little devil,” he says.
Fuck. Me.
“I just like a little burn, that’s all,” I say quietly, repeating the same words we exchanged in New York. It comes out breathy and hoarse. I’m flustered; Cam’s eyes are burning into me like the fire I’ve been playing with since we sat down. He lines up a spoonful of each untouched flavour, holding them out to me in turn. I swallow down the cool flavours without tasting them. Then, with our treats unfinished and melting in place, he stands from the table and hauls me down from my stool.
“Come,” he commands, holding out a hand, and I think I probably could if he so much as touched me.
Halfway home, on an empty road, Cam pulls into a lay-by under a street light.
“What are we doing?” I ask. My breathing has evened out some, and I’m no longer on a knife-edge. He doesn’t answer, just slips out of his seat and comes around to the passenger side, opening the door and offering me a hand once again, helping me to climb out into the night.
“Dance with me, beautiful,” he whispers. My inhibitions are gone—not that there were many of them left—and my face splits into a wide grin as I step into his arms. There’s no music out here, just the crickets and the quiet hum of the desert at night. The stars and moon watch over us as he spins me out wide, then catches me close. His scent surrounds me along with his arms, and I’m overcome with a sense of peace, the likes of which I don’t think I’ve ever felt before.
Any resolve I had left is well and truly shattered.
“I love you,” I whisper as he pulls me in. “I’ve been falling for you every single day since Singapore. I love you. I’ll love you forever.”
I feel his sharp intake of breath, the release of tension in his shoulders, the exhaled laughter as he sweeps me into his arms and off my feet.
“I love you, Amie,” he says, pressing the softest kiss to my lips. “I will love you every day until the sun burns out.”
He shows me just how much he loves me when we arrive back at his apartment. Tender, languid lovemaking replaces our usual urgency, and when he wraps me in his arms, sated and happy, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Where I’ve always belonged.
“How do we do this?” I whisper into the dark room.
“We just love. Everything else will work itself out.”
And so, we do.
It’ll be another few months of nightly phone calls and long distance before he can officially transfer to Boston and make the move to London. Even then, there will be times when we’re both away, missing Maisy and missing each other. But he gives me love, and he gives me faith—faith that everything will work itself out.
I won’t be sneaking out tonight. What I felt for him in Singapore was real, but the way I’ve fallen over the last few months is even bigger. I’m done with running from Cam, from this—from us. Most people would call a one-night-stand with a stranger a bad decision. I let him buy me a drink—or four. I let him kiss me, I demanded that he take me to his room and make me his. He got me pregnant, but I’m the one who left in the dark and maybe that was my bad decision.
Either way, it gave me Maisy, and the path it put me on brought me right back to him. A bad decision? Maybe. But it’s the best one I’ve ever made.