Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
Ava texts me during dessert. We’re eating tiny flans in tiny ramekins and my ankle is shaking so hard under the table Dexter’s shot me a look not once, or even twice, but three times.
I peer at my phone in my lap, angling it out of my purse as surreptitiously as I can manage.
They gave her activated charcoal and IV meds. They’re keeping her overnight but I can stay in the waiting room in case. They think she’s going to be ok. I’m so so so so so sorry Mattie
The words They think she’s going to be ok flood my chest like scalding water.
My eyes burn, and when I glance up to make sure the clients haven’t noticed me checking my phone, it’s only Campbell who’s watching me.
Steady and measured. He has one arm stretched over the table, long fingers curled around his margarita. Mezcal, in the end, same as mine.
His eyebrows tick upward, and I nod. Campbell’s lips slant sideways, that same quiet smile from the store.
It’s not your fault, I tap out. I feel Campbell’s eyes on me like a veil, or big palms pressed to bare shoulders—private and grounding. Go home and get some sleep.
Ava does go home, but I’m not sure either of us sleeps.
I spend most of the night packing and repacking, restlessly rolling shirts into tighter and tighter spirals as if that could help me get a grip.
I zip the first fountain pen I stole from Campbell into the innermost pocket of my backpack, where no one could find it.
Where maybe even I can pretend it’s not there.
Our flight to California’s in the morning, and the thought of being without cell service for even an hour on the airplane makes me feel like someone’s trying to rip out my sternum. What if Pancake takes a turn for the worse while we’re flying over Utah?
I decide Wicksteed will let me expense in-flight Wi-Fi, then flip off all the lights in my hotel room and lie in the static of the white noise machine, staring at the ceiling.
It’s Pancake I’m thinking about, as the night ticks darkly by. It’s Pancake, but it’s also a particular, sandy voice. Scraped and sincere. Repeating like a siren call, or a warning.
Come on, French.
Come on, French.
Come on.
I arrive at the airport shuttle groggy and wrung-out, only to discover that Dexter is mad at me.
The Slater Faust team is already loaded into the van, and I can just make out Campbell’s face—sweep of stubble, dark sunglasses—through the middle row windows.
Iris is situating her suitcase in the trunk, and when I say good morning to Dexter he only hmphs at me.
A perturbed little hum without a shred of eye contact.
He follows Iris into the van and skirts past me, avoiding brushing my arm by the kind of margin typically reserved for communicable disease.
I blink after him, too discombobulated to react. By the time I’ve loaded my own suitcase and made it to the van door, he’s in the last row next to the only open seat. I have to squeeze past Campbell to get to him.
“Morning,” Campbell says as I step inside.
I’m hunched over so I don’t hit my head, half crouching like a gargoyle and already jittery with worry over what I did to piss off Dexter.
The last thing I need is the way Campbell looks up at me: concerned, maybe even relieved.
He looks sleepy, too—an early-morning version of Campbell whose eyes are a little puffy, his hair unkempt.
It makes something twist, keen and specific, in my stomach. “How’s the cat?”
Ava sent me a picture twenty minutes ago of Pancake in her lap on the car ride home. Wrapped in the crocheted blanket from our couch, her eyes heavy-lidded. I’d been brushing my teeth and nearly swallowed all my toothpaste in relief.
“She’s—” I trip over it. Over myself. “She’s better.”
Campbell smiles, and when I hobble past him, he reaches out to squeeze my elbow. It brings last night back to me in a dizzying rush: the heat of his hands on my shoulders, the way he dropped his chin to look up at me through his golden eyelashes. The way he softened so entirely.
I’ve spent five years blisteringly jealous of Campbell Porter: his mind, his confidence, the way his charisma draws people to him with an ease I can’t seem to emulate. How I have to be polished and he gets to be effortless and he still beats me every time.
I’ve kept him so carefully in the box I built for him, brick by brick: my nemesis. Someone I’m so impressed by there’s nothing for it but to hate him.
But this—the reassuring grip of his hand on my arm, the close rumble of his voice in that hallway.
I can’t accept the possibility that Campbell is not just impressive, but also kind. Also good. Also so beautiful I’ve made a fool of myself over him in front of everyone.
I’ll unravel. I’ve spent so much energy hating him, and I’m terrified to look at what’s growing on the underside of my hatred. What maybe I’ve misunderstood. What’s bloomed in the dark of all this time I’ve spent transfixed by him.
“Hi,” I whisper as I drop in beside Dexter. The back of Campbell’s head is about six inches away from my face, and I force myself not to look at it. “Are you okay?”
Dexter says, flatly, “Fine.” He’s looking down at his phone, scrolling the news, instead of at me.
As the van lurches into motion, I pull out my own phone and text him. Don’t lie to me Dexter Jansen
He starts typing immediately. What’s going on with you and Campbell
I look at Dexter, widening my eyes, but he only gives me a deadpan glare.
Nothing??? I send, and he shakes his head like I’ve disappointed him.
YOU don’t lie to ME Matilda French
Why do you think there’s something
Because you disappeared at dinner for twenty minutes like teenagers sneaking off to make out during algebra
I swallow the squeak that tries to wrench up my throat. This van is too small for a sentence like that, and there are too many of our coworkers inside of it. The image of Campbell and me making out during math class wavers in my mind like an oil slick, hallucinatory.
I start to type, but Dexter’s still going. His next text comes through as he drops his phone to stare at me.
And then you came back and made eyes at each other all night long. I thought WE were the team here.
My eyes widen almost painfully as I lean toward him in the back seat. We are, I mouth. His eyebrows rise expectantly, and he points at his phone. I sigh through my nose and start to type.
I went to the bathroom and then Ava called and told me Pancake was going to the emergency vet. I freaked out and Campbell happened to be there. That’s it.
Dexter takes a moment to respond, staring at his phone. Finally, he sends, Is Pancake okay?
Yes
He looks up, giving my knee one firm squeeze, before starting to type again.
You were also so out of pocket at dinner.
That dig at Campbell made everyone (and me!
!) uncomfortable. I thought this was over when he gave your notebook back and you let it go without a fight.
I know he’s this problem for you but I want to focus on our pitch and I feel like you’re distracted.
I read the text with hot, sticky shame pooling at the base of my throat. I have the sinking feeling that I’ll never live down that moment at dinner, and that maybe I shouldn’t. That maybe it ruined something—or me—entirely.
Dexter texts again before I’ve had time to respond: I need my partner in this.
I look up, and he’s watching me.
I’m sorry, I mouth. And when I whisper, “I’ll do better,” Dexter nods and presses his shoulder into mine.
I will do better.
I promised Campbell a clean fight in California. I’ll keep my distance; I’ll get myself firmly back on the rails.
Come on, French.
Come on.
I close my eyes and keep them shut for the rest of the drive to the airport.