Chapter 30
Cameron
Doing Your Best and Hoping It’s Enough
Twelve hours have passed since Hamish delivered the thyme to Fraser Manor.
Twelve hours of waiting for a message from Clementine.
A call.
Anything.
But nothing comes.
I check my phone for the fiftieth time in an hour.
The screen remains stubbornly empty.
No notifications.
No blinking dots showing she’s typing.
Nothing but silence.
Connor walks into my office without knocking because he’s Connor, and apparently the basic rules of human decency don’t apply to him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, dropping into the armchair across from me.
“Working. Isn’t it obvious?”
“You’re staring at your phone.”
“That counts as work.”
“Cameron.”
I look up.
My twin is watching me with that expression he gets when he knows exactly what’s going on inside my head and is simply waiting for me to admit it.
“She hasn’t replied,” I finally say.
“I figured.”
“The objects were delivered. The thyme was dropped off. Everything went exactly according to plan. And now... nothing.”
I toss my phone onto the desk harder than necessary.
It slides dangerously close to the edge.
Connor catches it with one hand and sets it back down.
“You know what’s ironic?” I ask.
“What?”
“My entire career is built on storytelling. On telling the right story at the right moment. And now that I actually need to communicate something important, I have no idea how. None of my skills are useful anymore.”
Connor leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“What did you expect? That she’d call immediately, crying with gratitude?”
“No. But... I don’t know. I thought she’d respond somehow.”
“Give her time.”
“It’s been twelve hours.”
“That’s not very long for someone who just found out her boyfriend turned their relationship into an Instagram campaign.”
I get up and start pacing my office.
Sit down.
Stand again immediately.
Connor watches the whole performance with a patience that reminds me of Maggie.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Wait? Go see her? Give her the letter? Organize another operation involving village animals? I keep going in circles and I...”
I stop.
Sit down.
Bury my face in my hands.
“I ruined everything, Connor. Everything. And I don’t know how to fix it.”
My brother stays silent for a moment.
“Want me to tell you what I really think?”
I lift my head.
“Go ahead. I can’t possibly feel worse.”
“I think you’re terrified.”
“Of course I’m terrified. I lost the woman I love because I—”
“No,” he interrupts. “You’re terrified because for the first time in your life, you can’t solve a problem with a good story. You can’t create content that fixes the situation. You can’t optimize it, structure it, or pitch your way to a solution.”
He sits on the edge of my desk.
“You just have to be human. Imperfect. Vulnerable. And that terrifies you because you’ve never learned how to do that. Your whole life, you’ve told stories to stay in control. But now you can’t control anything. All you can do is your best and hope it’s enough.”
“What would you do?” I finally ask.
Connor smiles.
“I’d go see her. Right now. No plan. No script. I’d give her the letter you wrote and just be honest. Even if it’s awkward. Even if you end up crying like an idiot. Even if she slams the door in your face.”
“And if she tells me to leave forever?”
“Then at least you’ll know. You can start healing. Or decide to fight for her. But you can’t stay stuck in this limbo where you don’t know.”
He’s right.
I rub both hands over my face.
I’ve barely slept.
Connor continues.
“You did your part with the objects. Now you have to do the other part.”
“What other part?”
“Go talk to her. For real. No messenger animals. No symbolic objects. Just you.”
My gaze drops to the desk.
The handwritten letter is sitting there inside an envelope.
The one Maggie ordered me to write.
I rewrote it ten times.
Maybe fifteen.
Every version ended up crumpled because it sounded wrong.
And I’m not entirely convinced the final version is any better.
Connor follows my gaze.
“Why haven’t you given it to her yet?”
I pick up the letter.
“Because it’s still storytelling. Even when I’m trying to be honest, I structure things. Frame them. Search for maximum emotional impact. It’s pathological.”
Despite himself, Connor smiles.
“At least you’re aware of it. That’s a start.”
I set the letter back down.
“I don’t know how to be with someone without turning everything into a narrative. That’s how I function. That’s what I do. If I tell a story well enough, it becomes true. But with Clementine...”
I stop and search for the right words.
“With Clementine, I’ve told so many stories that I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
Silence settles between us.
Connor looks at me with something that resembles compassion.
“You know what’s real?” he finally asks.
“What?”
“The fact that you love her. The fact that you’re sitting here completely panicked, trying to figure out how to fix this instead of moving on. The fact that for the first time in your life, you can’t just change the angle and keep going like nothing happened.”
His words settle deep in my chest.
“So rewrite the letter and go,” he says. “Go to the manor. Give it to her. Tell her how you really feel.”
I look at the letter.
Then at my phone.
Then at Connor.
“And if she doesn’t want to see me?”
“Then at least you tried. But Cameron? You can’t sit here waiting for her to forgive you through telepathy. You have to go.”
He’s right.
I grab the letter and crumple it.
Then I pull out a fresh sheet of paper and start writing furiously.
My twin stays with me.
When I’m finally done, I fold the new letter and slip it into my pocket.
“I’m going now. If I wait, I’ll convince myself it’s the wrong time. That I should wait for a sign. That I should make a better plan. So I’m going now.”
Connor smiles.
“That’s the best decision you’ve made in a long time.”
I leave my office and walk down the hallway toward the stairs.
In the sitting room, Maggie is having tea.
She looks up as I pass.
“Cameron?”
I stop.
“Yes, Grandma?”
“Where are you going?”
“To Fraser Manor.”
She nods slowly.
Says nothing more.
But I can tell she understands exactly what’s happening.
My attention lands on a side table where a small vase holds fresh thyme from the garden.
On impulse, I walk over and pull out a single sprig.
“So she’ll know I orchestrated everything,” I tell my grandmother.
Compassion softens Maggie’s face.
“Be honest with her, Cameron. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it hurts. It’s the only way.”
I nod.
Slip the thyme into my jacket pocket alongside the letter.
Then I leave.
The drive to the manor only takes a few minutes, but my brain spends every second replaying everything I want to say to Clementine.
Except she might not open the door.
She might open it only to tell me to leave forever.
She might listen politely and tell me she’s already made her decision.
Go back to Paris.
Accept the promotion.
Build a life without me.
My hand trembles slightly on the steering wheel.
I tighten my grip.
I think about the first time I saw Clementine at the manor.
The day she fell on the staircase holding that ridiculous candlestick.
I thought she was beautiful immediately.
And once I got to know her, I was completely captivated by the way her mind worked.
I don’t know exactly when I fell in love with her.
Maybe at trivia night.
Maybe in Brodie and Mairenn’s room.
Maybe at the loch.
Maybe the very first day.
But somewhere along the way, she became...
The one.
Every version of Clementine flashes through my mind.
The woman who cooks with the devotion of someone building a cathedral.
The woman who looks at Hamish with equal parts affection and exasperation.
The woman who called me out on my marketing nonsense without a shred of mercy.
The woman who chose to stay in Scotland even though everything in her life told her to go back to Paris.
I rehearse what I’m going to say.
Clementine, I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll never turn our life into content again.
No.
That sounds like an advertising slogan.
I try again.
I ruined everything. But I want to learn. I want to become the man you deserve.
Worse.
Now it sounds like a self-help seminar.
You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I almost lost everything because I don’t know how to live without telling stories.
I give up.
I’ll just...
Talk.
Tell her how I feel.
Even if it’s awkward.
Even if it comes out in the wrong order.
Even if I stammer like an idiot.
Because that’s the only thing that might work now.
Raw honesty.
No filter.
No editing.
The manor appears at the end of the road.
My heart reacts instantly.
And suddenly I’m even more aware of what could happen.
I park.
Turn off the engine.
Sit there in silence staring at the manor.
It’s now or never.
Either I get out of this car and fight for what truly matters.
Or I go back to the castle and spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I’d been brave enough to knock on that door.
I get out.
The air is cold.
The sky is gray.
Typical Highlands weather.
And somehow that comforts me.
I climb the porch steps and force myself not to think before knocking.
Three knocks.
Firm.
Decisive.
Silence follows.
And I almost have time to watch my life flash before my eyes.
Don’t be ridiculous.
You’re not about to die.
The door opens.
And suddenly Clementine is standing there.
Her eyes are red.
Her hair is loose.
She’s wearing an oversized sweater that has definitely seen better days.
She’s perfect.
“Cameron,” she says.
There’s no anger in her voice.
No relief either.
Just exhaustion.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
She hesitates.
One second.
Two.
My heart teeters on the edge of a cliff.
Then she steps back.
Lets me enter.
I follow her into the sitting room.
The four objects are on the table.
Hamish is asleep in front of the fireplace.
The silence is deafening.
I pull the letter from my pocket and hold it out to her.
“I wrote this. I think it’s version ten. It’s the most honest one I managed to produce. But before you read it, there’s something I need to tell you.”