All those little things that make up a life.
We have them, but at the same time we don’t.
Because we’re still renting a tiny little house that neither of us even likes that much. Because those friends of ours? I think we’ve only had them over to said house twice in the last few years. Because when my job wanted me to list a second emergency contact after my husband, I just left it blank. When I mentioned it to Cam, I learned that he had done the same thing on his forms at work.
We have been floating in Colorado, bobbing happily enough on the surface, but never going any deeper, and I’ve believed—or at least, I’ve told myself—that it’s because we always knew we’d end up here eventually.
And so we have. Finally.
Now I just have to convince Cam to stay. Because I haven’t come this far—I haven’t done the things I’ve done—to pack it up after a week or two. But I also know that until Nelle, Ben, and Libby are out of this house, there is no chance of making that dream a reality.
So, what’s my grand plan? To be honest, I can’t say I have one yet. But don’t worry.
I’ve always been good on my feet.
* * *
I DON’T SEE much of Cam for the rest of the day. I spend the morning on the veranda, then help Cecilia in the kitchen with lunch. Cam and Ben come back in to grab a bite, but then they’re gone again, and I decide to go up to our room for a nap.
But when I get there, the bed is made up, and there’s no trace of our things anywhere. Frowning, I look in the closets, in the bathroom, even under the bed, but our bags are gone, our toothbrushes aren’t by the sink. Even my shampoo is gone from the shower.
Confused, I start to head downstairs to ask Cecilia if she just got a little overenthusiastic with the cleaning this morning, but as I do, I see an open door at the end of the hall, and there, sitting on a blood-red bedspread, is my bag.
I walk down the hall, pushing the door open, and it’s a fucking sea of red. Red curtains, red carpet, red fabric hanging from the bedposts. Cam’s bag sits on an armchair, and my toiletries are arranged in the bathroom.
When Camden finally comes in for dinner, looking sweaty and more than a little worn out, I ask him about it.
“I decided we should change rooms,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal.
And it isn’t—one opulent bedroom is as good as the other—but it’s still weird. Why doesn’t he want to sleep in his old bedroom? And why would he prefer that room?
Dinner is another scattered affair, with Nelle taking a tray upstairs, Ben retreating to his office, and Libby god knows where. We eat roast chicken that Cecilia left, drink a few glasses of a gorgeous sauvignon blanc, then head up to our new room, once again much earlier than we usually turn in.
“Well,” Cam says with a sigh as he reaches for one of the throw pillows on the bed, catching it by its lacy trim and tossing it aside. “First full day at Ashby House. Impressions?”
I grab a pillow as well—there appear to be roughly eight thousand of them, arranged from the headboard all the way to the middle of the paisley bedspread—and throw it onto an armchair.
“The house is incredible,” I say. “And Cecilia is the best.”
Cam nods as another pillow hits the hardwood. “She is.”
He lifts his mismatched gaze to mine. “And my family?”
I pause, fingers still curled around the edge of a throw pillow, and study Cam. “You know, the whole time we’ve been together, I kind of thought it was an act.”
Now it’s Cam’s turn to pause, his arms folded across his chest, his expression a little closed off. “What was?”
I shrug and continue to pull pillows from the bed. Behind Cam, a giant bay window reflects my movements, the lawn and forest beyond completely dark now.
“It’s just kind of a cliché, you know? The rich kid who turned his back on his shitty family. I thought … well, I believed you, but man, Nelle is indeed a real piece of work. Libby, too. And Ben seems decent enough, but I don’t trust a man whose teeth glow in the dark.”
Cam’s face relaxes a little, one corner of his mouth lifting in that smile that’s not quite a smirk. He smiled like that the first night we met, and I was a goner.
“I don’t know whether I should be smug or apologize to you,” he says now, the bed finally clear of pillows, and I move onto the mattress on my knees, holding out my hands to Cam.
He takes them, both of us kneeling as we face each other.
“I’m still glad we came,” I tell him, and his fingers flex against mine. “Are you?”