21. Camille #2
He uses my bathroom products when he runs out of his own, leaves shoes beside my front door, and has developed the habit of abandoning drinking glasses throughout the entire estate.
Months ago, if I had imagined the ideal progression of my original plan, it might have looked disturbingly similar to this.
The difference is that I despise having achieved it, because now I understand that proximity feels meaningless when the person beside you is maintaining an exit in his mind.
Ryan may be here, but that does not mean he has stayed.
On the fourth morning, I make a decision.
Ryan is sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone, when I place a small collection of objects beside his coffee.
Ryan looks at them, then at me, obviously confused. “What’s this?”
I answer, “The front gate fob, a key to the pedestrian entrance, and a key to the garage.”
His expression becomes suspicious. “Why?”
“Because you are staying here.” I sit across from him rather than beside him.
“You are staying here because remaining at the cottage is potentially unsafe. That circumstance places you in the unpleasant position of relying on my property and therefore, indirectly, on me. I would prefer to reduce that dependence wherever possible.”
I continue before he can interrupt. “There is also a spare key for the smaller car in the garage. It is insured for additional drivers. If you wish to leave, you do not need to tell me where you are going or when you intend to return.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re giving me your car?”
“I am giving you access to a car.”
“That seems like the same thing.”
I continue, “The estate security code is written on the card beneath the keys. You can arm or disarm the system yourself. I have added your fingerprint to the side entrance reader because you have used that door several times.”
“You added my fingerprint?”
“From the reader registration you completed yesterday.”
“Oh.” I wait. Ryan stares at all of the keys, his brows scrunched together. “What if I take the car and don’t come back?”
My chest tightens so painfully that I am grateful I am sitting. “Then you do not come back,” I make myself say. “If that is what you choose.”
He stares at me for a long time.
I can almost see the fight taking place behind his expression, the part of him searching for a hidden condition, some unspoken tether attached to the apparent freedom.
“There’s no tracker?”
“The vehicle itself contains standard manufacturer location services.”
His eyebrows rise.
“I can disable my access to them if you prefer.”
That surprises him. “You would?”
“Yes.”
“What about security cameras?”
“Exterior and common areas only. None in bedrooms or bathrooms. I can show you the system.”
He says nothing.
I add, “If you want separate login credentials so you can access the cameras without me, I can create them.”
“Why are you doing all this?”
There are several answers.
Because I’ve determined I love you and now need to attempt to prove that without vocalizing it.
Because I am afraid every accommodation will look like strategy.
Because I spent weeks trying to make you comfortable enough to lower your guard, and now I would rather dismantle my entire home than give you one more reason to believe you are trapped inside it.
I choose the simplest. “Because I took choices from you.”
Ryan’s gaze drops.
“I’m trying not to do that again.”
He runs one finger over the edge of the key ring but does not pick it up. “You know this doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know.”
That afternoon, Ryan leaves. He doesn’t tell me where he’s going, or what time to expect him back, and while my instinct is to collect that information from him, I stay quiet.
For the next two hours and nineteen minutes, I discover that granting someone freedom and emotionally tolerating their exercise of it are entirely separate skills.
At 16:43, the gate opens again, and I detest the automatic relief that goes through me.
Ryan enters the house carrying a paper bag from the bakery in the village, and finds me exactly where he left me.
“You didn’t text,” he says.
“I did not.”
“You weren’t worried?”
He’ll be the death of me, I swear.
“I was.”
Instead of saying something about that, Ryan looks down at the bag. “I brought you something.”
He sets it on the table beside me.
Curious and a bit caught off guard, I open the bag and see he’s brought me an apple Tarte Tatin, an upside-down caramelized tart.
I tear off a piece of the pastry and eat it as he watches with bated breath. I would be concerned he poisoned it if it didn’t taste how it does.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“I do,” I confirm. “Thank you.”
He looks away, but I see the small smile gracing his lips. “That’s good. I just stopped by on my way back, and since I got a treat for myself, I thought it’d only be fair to bring you back something.”
“Ah. What did you have?”
“A very big choux à la crème,” he answers.
After I finish my tart and thank him once more, he flushes and scurries off, leaving me alone again.
On the fifth evening after the journal was discovered, I am in my study answering university correspondence when Ryan appears in the doorway carrying his bag.
Why? Does he plan to truly leave me?
My hands stop over the keyboard.