36. Thirty-six
Thirty-six
“Camp, please,” I beg.
He’s tossing clothes in a suitcase, storming around the room. Face red. Collar of his Ledger Lake Trout polo shirt up on one side, down on the other. He looks like he just survived a trip through a spin cycle.
“It’s not what you think. I know it looked bad. I know it did. It was just a photo. Platonic.”
“Platonic?” he spits out as he throws a shirt in the suitcase. “You were wearing a fuckin’ sheet. Kissing. Him.”
“Because I think he might be psychotic. Or-or-or delusional. It was because of you. He-he-he—we were talking about you and—”
He drops his head back and lets out an ice-cold laugh, his gaze hard when he looks at me. “You got one pass with this, June. One. And you used it twenty-two years ago. You want Reed? Go get him. Maybe that’s what all this is”—he gestures a hand through the air between us—“you want out of this marriage so you can go fuck whoever you want.”
My jaw drops. “No! Camp. I know I messed up. I should have told you about the portrait and Reed, but nothing happened. Nothing. Well, it did, but you saw that. It was nothing—him being an ass. Or helping.” Camp pins me with a look. “No, not helping. He said that. I-I-I was just so mad at you. And things were good, but then you said you were focused on nationals. And-and-and he made me realize that I haven’t been talking, not really. I-I—”
He throws a wad of socks at the suitcase, pushing past me to the bathroom. “Ah! I see, Reed’s a therapist now?”
I’m on his heels, desperation leaking into my voice. “No, that’s not what I mean.” I squeeze my eyes closed. I’m failing. He’s leaving.
He grabs his toothbrush, storms back to the bedroom. “Camp, you aren’t listening.”
He slings a duffle over one shoulder and rolls the suitcase out of the bedroom.
I catch him in the living room, grab his arm. “Camp, please.”
He stares at our contact, like me touching him is the most unfamiliar thing that could happen to him. Like it’s a snake. Like he hates it and me.
Finally, he looks at me, eyes so filled with hurt it shatters my soul into seven million pieces.
Out of his pocket, he pulls a piece of paper. North Carolina Separation Agreement across the top.
My stomach drops to the floor.
“Camp—”
“You tell Lyra whatever you want, I’ll be at my parents.”
I look at the paper, all the lines I had filled in months ago, but now, his name is scribbled on the signature line at the bottom.
“Tell me what?”
No.
Lyra walks in, looking between the two of us. The paper on the table.
Nononono.
“Nothing, it’s just that your—”
“What’s this? Where are you going, Dad? The gala is in two days . . .” She picks up the paper, eyes narrowing as she reads. Camp and I quiet, telling tears falling down my face. “A separation?” she whispers, paper slipping from her hands to the floor.
I open my mouth only to say nothing.
“Mom, what did you do?” she demands.
“Wha-what?”
“I know this wasn’t Dad, he wouldn’t just leave,” she shouts, running to his side.
He wraps his arm around her shoulders.
“Your mom and I just need a break. I’m goin’ to Nan and Papa’s for a couple nights. No big deal,” Camp tells her.
“It’s a mistake. A misunderstanding, Ly,” I start, hating how lame every word feels. How small. “I just, you know, it is my fault. I was just so young when I had you, and then I lost myself—then the boys came and . . .”
“What?” she snaps. “You don’t want Dad or us?”
“Lyra!” I cry. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
“All that stuff about trusting Nick the way you trust Dad was a lie?” she shouts, hurt filling her voice. “Everything you said. I believed you and it was bullshit!” she spits, making my chest burn. She looks at Camp, desperate. “I’m coming with you.”
I cover my face with my hands, trying to hide my own hurt. Wanting to vanish.
“Lyra, stop.” He sets his duffle bag down, hands on her shoulders as he looks straight at her. “This isn’t about you, it’s your mom and me. And it’s not her fault. Not all of it. That’s what makes relationships so tricky—two hearts tryin’ to fall into a rhythm that sometimes gets a bit off.” His eyes float to mine. “Sometimes they fall out of sync. But I’m just goin’ to Nan’s for a couple of nights. I’ll see you at school. At the gala in two nights.” He hugs her, tight, and kisses her on the forehead as she starts to cry.
As her world and mine and his as we know it crumples.
With a dinosaur roar and the whoosh of an airplane, the boys storm into the room, stopping abruptly at the sight of Camp’s suitcase. “Where are you going, Daddy?”
He ruffles their hair, scoops them up with forced monster sounds, and says, “On a work trip, I’ll be back soon.”
Then it happens in slow motion—all of it. The hugs. Lyra’s tears. Him opening the door, looking at me, and watching me shatter.
He shuffles down the sidewalk.
Into his truck.
Gone.
Lyra storms to her bedroom as the boys ask for a snack at the same time they throw the ball to Thor.
I barely even notice when it knocks a glass of water off the table and shards of glass scatter across the floor.
It’s the same kind of absence as I’ve had for the last years—me dealing with chaos alone—only this time, I feel it tenfold.