Chapter 38
thirty-eight
Cameron
Rosalie’s side of the bed is empty when I wake up, but the scent of something sweet mixed with coffee and the sounds of dishes clanging let me know she’s already in the kitchen. I roll over to check the time, noting it’s only five thirty in the morning, and wonder what Rosalie’s doing up so early.
After yesterday, Elodie told Rosalie she didn’t have to be at work until ten this morning, and I rescheduled my morning meeting to this afternoon just in case she needed me. After everything that happened, I wasn’t expecting the bed to be empty when I woke up.
I swing my legs over the side and stand, scanning the room for my T-shirt before finding it and pulling it over my head.
Making my way to the kitchen, I hear Rosalie humming quietly to herself, the melody vaguely familiar. Her mood seems light, and when I turn the corner, she’s moving around the kitchen, dancing while drying the dishes.
“Good morning,” I say, leaning against the wall, a smile stretching across my face.
When she doesn’t respond, my smile falls until I notice she has her headphones in her ears and has no clue I’m here watching her move around the kitchen.
An oversized sweatshirt covers her tiny sleep shorts, and her long legs are on display as her hips sway to a beat I can’t hear.
Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she looks carefree, natural, and gorgeous.
She looks sexy as hell, and she’s all mine.
My smile is back and wider than ever as I push off the wall and move in her direction.
I can’t help myself. I know I’m likely going to scare the hell out of her, so I say a quick prayer she doesn’t instinctually do me bodily harm right before I wrap my arms around her middle and start swaying in time with her body.
“Oh shit!” she breathes out, reaching to remove one of her headphones and almost elbowing me in the face. She spins around in my arms with a wild look on her face, but I hold her close, matching my proximity with a giant shit-eating grin.
“Good morning,” I say, as I pluck the headphone from her hand and place it in my ear. The soulful sound of Chris Stapleton’s “Joy of My Life” rings through my ear, and I now know why I recognized the tune Rosalie was humming.
I lean down and peck her lips before resuming the little sway Rosalie had going on when I came into the kitchen.
She giggles out a “good morning,” her eyes alight with happiness as she moves up onto her tiptoes to reciprocate my greeting, pairing it with a quick kiss.
“What are you doing up so early?”
“I like a little quiet time before Paige wakes up and the day starts. I know I have a later start today, but my body just instinctively woke at five. But hey, I made coffee, and blueberry muffins are in the oven.”
She frees her hand to gesture adorably to the oven as if it’s a prize on a game show.
“It smells incredible. Do you mind if I intrude on your quiet time this morning?”
She drops her other arm from the top of my shoulders to hug me tightly around the waist, her chin to my sternum, and her beautiful hazel eyes looking at me adoringly.
“I would love it if you’d join me, and it’s no intrusion. There’s no one I’d rather share my quiet mornings with than you.”
Letting me go, Rosalie moves toward the cabinet, grabs a mug, and pours me some coffee. Her words and simple gesture make me feel grounded in a way I haven’t in so long. It’s the natural interaction between two people who have found genuine comfort in each other.
My heart beats a rhythm of contentment as I grab the mug from her and follow her into the living room.
Sitting down on the couch, Rosalie in her favorite corner, and me next to her with her legs draped over the top of my lap, I soak in the moment.
My hand drops instinctually onto her knee, rubbing slow circles with my thumb.
The feel of her skin is warm and soft under my touch, and the contact is soothing to my soul.
We sit in companionable silence, the music now playing quietly in the background from a Bluetooth speaker, sipping our coffee and enjoying the quiet with one another before the girls inevitably wake up, and I find myself wishing for more mornings just like this one.
My eye catches on the same book Rosalie had when she came in to find me last night.
The one she sat on the nightstand. I roll my head along the back of the couch with the intention of asking her about the book, but when I do, my breath catches in my throat.
She’s leaned back, her head on a throw pillow, her eyes closed, and the sunlight that’s just started peeking through the window is streaming across her face.
She looks like an ethereal angel, and I can’t stop staring.
She must feel the slight shift of my body because her eyes flutter open, and she holds my gaze.
“What?”
She asked me a simple question, and I could give an equally simple answer, but the feelings inside me are anything but simple.
I’m struck speechless, without adequate words to tell her how deeply I feel our connection, how strong my love is already, and just how incredibly extraordinary I think she is.
We just said I love you, but it feels like so much more.
Panicking because I can’t find the right words, I chicken out and go back to my original question.
“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing to the leather-bound book on the coffee table. “I saw you come into the bedroom with it last night.”
Rosalie shifts herself and slowly sits up. She reaches for the book and pulls it close to her chest, almost like a protective hug. She looks hesitant, maybe embarrassed, with her eyes cast down on her lap, and I worry I’ve overstepped, although on what, I have no idea.
Finally, when her eyes meet mine, they glisten at the corners with unshed tears. Confused, I pull her close and shift her onto my lap, her head immediately falling to my shoulder as she opens the book to a page that looks bookmarked.
Her breath is shaky, and her answer leaves her lips in a quiet whisper. “It’s a book of letters between my mom and my grandma. My dad sent it home with me and I’ve been reading it every morning. It keeps me close to my mom, like I don’t have to let go of her quite yet, like she’s still right here.”
I pull Rosalie even closer to me, if that’s possible, and kiss the top of her head.
I can hear the sorrow and grief in her voice, the loss and longing for her mother to still be here.
I can tell by the way she grips the edges of the book she really does feel like this book is the last tangible connection she has to her mom, and my heart aches.
Rosalie continues, “When I read it, I can hear her voice clear as day, as if she’s sitting next to me, telling me the exact words she’s written to my grandmother.
Every nuance of how she spoke to me is in here,” she says, running her hands reverently over the pages.
“Most of the letters revolve around me as a baby and toddler, memories I don’t have and stories I’ve never heard. ”
Feeling my shirt growing wet where Rosalie’s cheek is resting against my shoulder, I’m desperate to pull her back and wipe away the tears I know she’s shedding, but I resist as she continues to tell me about the book, relishing the way she’s opening up to me.
“When I feel like her absence is overtaking me, I just open this book, and she’s right there.
Or, even if my day is great, there are letters that make me smile.
There are words of wisdom, moments of humor, and even vulnerability.
She was my best friend, Cam. The woman I went to for everything.
I’d call her, and just a simple greeting would fill my heart with immense comfort, like everything was right in the world.
I struggled so much when Paige was born, making decisions for my future, questioning if I should continue forward with the path I had dreamed of for myself as a little girl, while also caring for my own little girl.
She was my cheerleader in every facet of life, the most incredibly positive person I’ve ever known.
She helped me find the light in every situation, and now my world has dimmed.
The letters in this book are like flickers of light, illuminating the dark.
I know eventually the flames will go out, and I’ll have to deal with the reality of her truly being gone, but I can’t do it just yet. ”
She takes a deep breath and looks down at her hands, almost nervously, before looking back up, continuing with rushed words.
“Please don’t misunderstand me. I know I have so many people and things to be grateful for in my life, including my dad and brothers, Paige, you, and Addison. You’ve been a special part of my happiness here, so I don’t want you to feel like I don’t see that—”
“No, Rosie, don’t do that,” I say, cutting her off.
“You don’t have to do that—don’t diminish the magnitude of your loss to protect my feelings or anyone else’s.
I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.
Even if I didn’t, I want more than anything to be your safe space, the person you rely on when you need someone to hear you, to hold you, to love you.
I promise I’ll always be that person without judgment.
I’m a big boy, Rosalie. I can separate the love you have for your mom and the depth of your relationship with her from the kind of love you share with me and others.
I know it doesn’t lessen what we have. It’s simply different. ”
Rosalie attempts to shift her eyes back down to her lap, but I catch her chin and pull her gaze back to mine.
“This particular darkness, the hole you currently feel from the loss of your mom, may never be filled again, and that’s okay.
It just speaks to your remarkable relationship.
So, don’t ever feel like you must justify your feelings to me.
They never need a qualifier or a filter.
I want you to share them, but only when you’re ready.
I understand, and I’ll be here, ready when you need me. ”
Twin tears escape from the corners of her eyes, and I catch them, one with my thumb and the other with my lips. I let them linger softly on her skin, a declaration of devotion and a promise to be the man she needs.
She blinks and takes a shuddering breath, appearing to collect herself and looking directly at me with a hopeful gaze.
“Hey, Cam?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Want to meet my mom?”
It takes only a second to catch on, realizing she’s talking about sharing her mom’s letters with me, and a myriad of emotions swell within me—gratitude, joy, and an overwhelming sense of connection that she would trust me with this.
I swallow to clear the lump in my throat, but my words still come out a bit gruff. “Yeah, Rosie, I’d love to meet your mom.”
We spend the next half hour reading through some of the letters between her mom and grandmother, and Rosalie’s right. I feel like I can see so many pieces of my girl shining through in her mom’s words.
The stories are numerous, ranging from hilarious to heartfelt.
So many of the letters discuss Rosalie as a child, and it’s as if her mom has sat me down on the couch and brought out the old photo albums; you know, the ones parents bring out to embarrass their children when they bring a significant other home.
However, Rosalie doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed. She’s lit up from the inside as she elaborates on some of the more familiar stories included in the letters, while marveling at the newer revelations she’s learned.
I love seeing her like this, all the happy memories flooding through her with each turn of the page.
But I can’t help worrying about what happens when she comes to the end of this book or when she’s read the letters so many times the impact starts to lessen, and the newness wears off.
When she realizes there will be no more newness to the relationship between her and her mom, no more memories to create.
She said it herself, these letters are like little flickers of light.
Sure, she acknowledged they’ll eventually die out, but I’m unsure she truly knows the impact it will have on her life.
My gut fills with worry, and I hope when the last one blinks out, she won’t find herself swallowed by the darkness.