Chapter 15
CAMILLE
“ M otherfucker.”
I read Ashton’s words for the ten-millionth time. Nothing’s changed since I saw his message the moment I woke up at seven. He’s still not responding to texts or to phone calls, and there’s no other way I can reach him.
If I could just speak to him, I could turn things around. He’s panicking now, and that’s perfectly normal, given the grief-induced trauma he’s grappling with. That’s at the root of Ash’s response.
It doesn’t make this hurt any less.
Since I first read his text, I’ve had two lengthy crying jags. My chest aches like someone spent all night kicking me squarely between the tits.
From a clinical standpoint, it’s intriguing to note that I’ve wept more these past couple hours than I cried for the man I lived with for nearly a decade. A peculiar response, considering I’ve known Ash less than a week.
Checking my phone for the ten millionth time, I see nothing new from him. No texts, no missed calls. I don’t even have the man’s email. Could McFly serve as a courier pigeon?
“Stop it.” I’m getting loopy, and no good will come of that.
I’m packed and ready to get on that jet. My gym bag is stuffed with the few things I brought and the dresses and panties I’ve acquired here. I’ll leave Crystal Bliss with memories and a full-body tan, but also a hole in my heart.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Will Kora come here to get me, or should I go track her down?
How long does it take to get to the airstrip?
I don’t even know if we’re walking or driving, but I’ve seen several golf carts zipping around as the staff all return from vacation.
It’s just after nine, so I probably have a few minutes.
Grabbing my phone, I dial Sara’s number. She’s the earliest riser among all my friends and even on weekends, she can’t shake the habit of getting up at four or five. There’s a risk I could wake her, given the time difference, but I desperately need my sweet friend.
“Camille, hi.” She’s wearing a robe, and her friendly smile falls the instant she sees my face. “Oh, honey—what happened?”
“Ash doesn’t want me.” I burst into tears, delivering the story between sobs.
With how I keep blubbering, there’s no way Sara could catch every word, but she’s nodding and tsking and making mad faces at all the right spots in my story.
“Sweetie, I’m so sorry.” She looks like she might cry herself. “I wish I could hug you right now.”
“Same.” I’d give anything for one of Sara’s lilac-scented hugs. I snatch the last tissue from the box by my bedside, blowing my nose with a honk. “It’s just so stupid.”
“What’s stupid?”
“If I could just reach him, I know he’d come around.
” I ball up the tissue stalk to the waste basket, tossing it in with a vengeance.
“He’s been through so much, and the way he’s pushing me away is a textbook trauma response.
” A niggle of doubt worms into my brain as I pace back and forth by the bed.
“Not that I couldn’t accept it if he’s truly not interested in me—I could handle that. I could .”
“I know you could. You’re so strong, sweetie. And way more clear-headed than I’d be in your shoes.”
“Thanks.” Aside from my choice to come here, I’m normally calm in a crisis. All the more reason I want to see Ash. To look him in the eye and talk things through so I can figure out if he truly does care, or if I’ve merely misread the signs.
That possibility sends me staggering back to the bed.
“I don’t know.” My shoulders sag as I drop to the edge of the mattress. “Maybe he really doesn’t want me.”
“If that’s true, he’s insane.” Sara sounds fierce and protective. “You’re beautiful and bright and fun to be around. If he can’t handle it, that’s his loss.”
“Thanks, Sar.” I sigh and look down at my hands. “Maybe I just read it all wrong. Maybe it really was just a fling to him. Not the first time I’ve misjudged a relationship. Or a man.”
“You didn’t misjudge.” She gives me her stern schoolteacher look. “From everything you told me, Ashton sounds like a good man. Maybe too good.”
“What do you mean?”
She nibbles the edge of her lip. “I mean, he thinks he’s doing you a favor. He thinks this is the right thing. That he’s helping you out by saving you from him . Somewhere in his admittedly very mixed-up brain, he believes that’s what a good man would do.”
“But that’s just nuts.” I fish a hand into the tissue box, but there aren’t any left.
Sliding off the bed, I head for the bathroom where I abscond with a fresh roll of TP.
“I mean, yes—he has issues. Things he could work through in therapy. But we could handle that stuff together. If we could just sit and talk this through, face to face?—”
“Sweetie, I love you.” Her expression transforms to the mask she wears when she’s preparing to deliver hard truths. “But not everyone’s comfortable talking about their feelings. And some people really aren’t comfortable with therapy.”
“I know that.” But part of me thought I could heal him. That caring for Ashton might be enough to convince him to give us a shot. “It’s been two decades. I know there’s no timeline on grief, but he’s punished himself enough.”
“Some men are wired like that, honey.” Her face scrunches up like she’s deciding whether to say something. “Look, it might not be my place—you can tell me if what I’m about to say feels out of line. I don’t know Ash, and I’m not a therapist, but there’s something I’ve observed?—”
“Spill it, girl.” Sometimes we all need an outsider’s perspective. “I can take a hard truth.”
“Okay.” Sara goes quiet a second. “I know I don’t talk much about Trent. About the things he does while deployed. The thing is, he can be a little…closed off.”
“It’s understandable.” Her fiancé is a Navy SEAL, a job that requires a staggering level of secrecy. He can’t even tell Sara where he’s going most of the time. “It makes sense Trent would be a bit withholding.”
“That’s just it. I know he loves me. That he wants to take care of me and keep me safe. It’s his protective nature that made me fall for him in the first place.”
“Probably doesn’t hurt that the man has the body of a God.”
Sara smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re right. But he’s also kind and smart and just a really, really good man.”
“You’re right.” So why does Sara sound worried? “Trent would never hurt you, hon.”
“You’re right, he wouldn’t. Not on purpose.
But if Trent got it into his head that being with him might hurt me , I have no doubt he’d break things off.
He’d leave me in a hot second if he thought our relationship was harming me in some way.
And part of me wonders if that’s what’s happening with Ashton. ”
I process her words, which make total sense. But it’s Sara’s expression that concerns me. “Honey?”
Sara bites her lip. “I’m sorry. Did I overstep?”
“Not at all. I see your point.” And I also see worry lines on Sara’s glass-smooth brow. “Are you worried about Trent leaving you?”
“No! Absolutely not.” She’s shaking her head like I’m barking up the wrong tree, so clearly my therapist Spidey senses aren’t firing right.
“My point is that certain men—men with an overdeveloped sense of valor—tend to believe it’s their job to take care of the women they love. Even if that means saying goodbye.”
I swipe at my eyes with a fat wad of toilet paper. “You’re suggesting Ashton dumped me because he loves me?”
“You’re the therapist. I’ve never met Ashton.” She’s choosing her words with such care. “Your judgment’s probably better than mine.”
“Hardly.” I snort. “I’m the one who fell in love with a man who refuses to let himself be happy.”
Sara blinks. Her mouth hinges open. “You— love him?”
“I—”
Wow, I just said it, didn’t I?
“Yeah,” I admit. “I guess I do.”
She nods like she knew all along. “Then I’ll tell you something you might not know about men like Ashton and Trent. Men who’d rather cut off their own testicles than lie down on a therapist’s couch and share all their feelings and fears.”
“Tell me.” I find myself leaning in closer. Holding my breath for the wisdom of a sweet, twenty-three-year-old virgin. “I want to know.”
“That kind of man,” she says softly, “needs space to figure things out on his own.”
“Okay.” That tracks with my training, but still. “But if I could just make him see that?—”
“Honey, you can’t.” She shakes her head sadly, remarkably wise for her years. “Ash has to do this alone. If you care about him, you need to let him go.”
Swallowing hard, I accept that she’s right. That my sheltered young friend might understand Ash better than I do. “Okay,” I say softly, feeling my heart break all over again. “You’re right. I’ll get on that plane.”
“I know it hurts,” she says. “But it’s what you need to do.”
“You’re right,” I say softly. “I’ll go.”
I don’t say the hard part out loud. I don’t tell Sara the thing I fear most.
That after this long grieving his dead wife and child—after two decades of self-imposed exile—there isn’t much chance Ashton Holyfield will come around on his own.
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at my door. I’m washing my face at the sink, and I dry myself quickly as I hustle to answer. I know it’s not Ash. It can’t be.
But some silly part of me won’t give up hope.
“Dr. Plier?” It’s a tall, slender woman with sleek, dark hair pulled back in a stylish ponytail. She’s even got strands of her hair coiled neatly around the elastic, a look I’ve always wished I could pull off.
“You must be Kora.” It’s a struggle to hide my disappointment. “Call me Camille, please.”
“Of course.” Her expression is a perfect mask of professionalism. “I’ve heard lovely things about you.”
“That’s good.” From Ash or from Sybil? She doesn’t say, and I decide not to ask. “Thank you for coming to get me.”
“You’re welcome.” She looks at her watch. “They’ll be announcing an end to the pilots’ strike in about two hours.”