Chapter Twenty-Three Cammie #2
I tiptoe back the way I came, a reluctant smile spreading across my face.
God, does West come by his weirdness naturally.
But if they’re talking about one of his very favorite things in the world, he can’t be doing too badly.
The thought settles my mind enough that I return to my room, ready to queue up a comfort show and get some sleep.
I shut off my phone when I crawl into bed, starting up some episodes of The Great Pottery Throw Down. What could be more therapeutic than watching Judge Keith be moved to tears by the beauty of a well-made teapot? I certainly can’t think of anything.
But when I fall asleep, instead of visions of ceramics dancing in my head, the only thing occupying my mind is West, the need to feel his arms around me like it’s been a year and not a day since I felt them.
When I wake up in the morning, it’s to drool running down my chin and the mildly passive-aggressive “Are you still watching?” pop-up message on my computer screen. But I feel surprisingly refreshed. Even if West hasn’t tried to talk to me again, I’m ready to talk to him.
With a calm, can-do spirit, I set out on another West Quest.
He’s not in his room or the library. But more concerningly, all the furniture that he moved for his optimal computer hyperfocus zone comfort has been moved back to the original layout he’d described.
It’s like his presence, which felt as essential to this room as the shelves lined with books, was erased overnight.
I don’t know where else to look, so I return to my strategy of wandering the halls, checking behind all the open doors, jump-scaring a few miscellaneous Villa Russo staff in the process.
“Mi dispiace,” I murmur, only half certain it’s the actual term for “I’m sorry.” I let my LingoLegend streak lapse on day two in Italy and haven’t returned to it since.
I give West’s room one more try—this time, with feeling. “West!” I call out as I knock. “Weston Jacobs, paging Weston Jacobs. This is Camilla Lovett—red hair, freckles, mouth you seem to be fond of kissing…”
I press my ear to the door and hear absolutely nothing, not even the quiet movements of someone pretending they’re not around when they really are. That’s when I decide to text him. Hi, I type out. Wondering where you are?
If ever a situation called for double-texting, it would be this one. So I do.
I think my mom went on a date with my dad last night!
Oh, what the hell, might as well make it a triple. It’s not like I can double-lose the shame I’ve already abandoned.
And I don’t know what to feel about it!
I turn toward my room, trying not to stare obsessively at my dark phone screen and willing it to light up with his reply.
Which is how I see a piece of paper I hadn’t noticed on the ground, lying in a haphazard way that makes me think it fell from some precarious, wedged-in spot on my door.
I lean down to grab it, unfolding and scanning the contents as I step back into my room, then stop in my tracks.
I’m unable to focus on any of the words long enough to read the thing in full, jumping frantically to different phrases that stick out in an endearingly messy handwriting that I recognize as West’s.
Groupings of words that barely make sense to me, like made a tough decision and give you space and going home.
As I piece more together, it only makes less sense.
This absolute imbecile thinks that he’s…
what, gracefully bowing out of my life, now that I’ve found my dad and need to focus on that relationship, figure out what I really want and need next?
Apparently so, at least temporarily. But even temporary space is drastic when it involves flying back across an ocean.
This feels like confirmation of some of my fears that I’ve thrown too much at him this summer, asked too much of him, and made his anxiety worse somehow, with all this forcing him out of his comfort zone.
But his belief that he’s some kind of extra burden while I have more important stuff going on, or anything other than the partner I both need and want holding my hand while I figure the rest out—it’s beyond comprehension to me.
Is this just a letter full of excuses? Anything to try to cover his ass, to give him a pass to drop out of my life again with no real discussion? If he thinks I’ll let that happen, he really doesn’t know me like I thought he did.
I hurry to throw on a clean T-shirt and shorts, barely getting my feet into the first shoes I see, which happen to be my rubber shower flip-flops, before I’m hop-stepping down the hallway to the first floor.
I’m so focused on my target, Dr. Danny’s door at the end of the hall, that I jump back in surprise when a different door swings open right as I’m walking past.
I look over to see who’s just scared the shit out of me, almost choking on air when I find it’s Luca Goedhart. My new-to-me father dearest, emerging from my mom’s room.
“Oh” is his very smooth reaction as he freezes, door falling shut behind him.
I squeeze my eyes closed, not wanting to even begin to engage with this right now.
And because I’m fresh off that whole “I’ll support however you want to handle it” conversation with my mom, I simply don’t engage, offering a wave and a clipped “Morning!” as I duck my head and march on.
When I reach Dr. Danny’s door, I don’t look back to see if Dr. Walk of Shame is still there, or if he’s expired from the awkwardness of it all.
And I thought I had daddy issues before.
Dr. Danny, at least, does not scandalize me by opening the door in last night’s clothes or with any unexpected guests.
He’s just in plaid pajama pants, a book tucked under his arm because, as he tells me right away, he was on the terrazzo reading.
The only thing middle-aged-dad types should be doing at this hour, really.
Still, I don’t respond to the information, as—with no disrespect—I simply don’t care right now. “Do you know where West is?”
I try not to let my worry slip into my voice but I’m not sure I succeed, because I have a very bad feeling I do know where West is. And it requires a passport and boarding pass to get there.
Dr. Danny grimaces. “Oh, Cammie,” he says, and the sympathy in his voice makes any hope I have left die. “I thought he was going to tell you…”
I pull the letter out of my back pocket where I tucked it, and hold it up.
“Yeah, he did. Well, he wrote to me, because apparently he learned nothing in the last couple days about the dangers of conveying important information in handwritten letter form.”
Dr. Danny doesn’t bring a palm up to smack his forehead at his son’s antics, but his face says he wants to.
“Well, no, that’s not how I expected him to go about it.
But he left very recently, so he isn’t on a plane yet, not that I endorse any dramatic, movie-montage, running-through-the-airport situations, and not that you can even get that far in airports nowadays without a ticket somewhere, and in the same terminal as the object of your affections, and—”
I don’t hear the end of that rambling explanation, because in time-honored Villa Russo tradition, I have already started running.