Chasing Castles (Finding Focus #2) (19 page)

Tucker looks over at him, but I can tell by the squint of his eyes that he thinks Tristan is feeding him a load of shit, saying what he thinks Tucker wants to hear.

“Like, Camille,” Tristan says smoothly. “She’s a wonderful painter, full of natural talent. A little rough around the edges, but with the right guidance, she’ll be somebody one day.” He smiles over at me, obviously pleased with himself. I’m sure he thinks he’s scored points with Tucker, but I can tell by the heated look on Tucker’s face that Tristan is failing miserably.

“I’ve gotta get ready for our second set,” Tucker says abruptly, downing the last of his beer and slamming the bottle back on the table.

“Another set?” Tristan asks.

Tucker just stares Tristan down, daring him to say another word.

“I’m going to go get the car,” Tristan says coolly. “Tucker, it was nice meeting you.”

The stare down continues as Tristan and Tucker both stand, and for a brief second I’m afraid the glares won’t be enough and fists will start flying.

“Likewise,” Tucker grits out.

“Give me a minute,” I tell Tristan without looking at him. I hear him scoot his chair back to the table with more force than necessary, and what I want to tell him is to go fuck himself and stay for the second set. But it’s late, and I’m tired of arguing with him. If I stayed, it would be a fight for sure.

“What the fuck? Cami, you can’t be serious about this guy.”

“Tucker, please don’t,” I plead, hiding my face in my hands. I had such high hopes for this night, but I should’ve seen this coming a mile away. Tristan and Tucker are nothing alike, oil and water. I should’ve known it would be a disaster. “He’s complicated, and this isn’t his scene, and it’s just been a weird night, okay?”

“Don’t make excuses for him.” He shakes his head, eyes still trained on the door Tristan walked out of.

“He’s not as bad as he seems,” I tell Tucker, trying to smooth the waters.

Finally, he lets out a pent-up breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like it.”

“You’ve never liked anyone I’ve been with,” I tell him.

“You haven’t
been
with many people,” he shoots back.

I huff, not wanting the night to end like this. I don’t know when I’ll see Tucker again, and I’m sure as hell not going to let an argument be how we leave things. I love my brother. He’s overbearing and overprotective, but he means well, and I know he only wants what’s best for me.

“Hey,” I tell him, grabbing his arm so he’ll look at me. “You know me. If I didn’t want to be with him, I wouldn’t.”

“The Cami I know wouldn’t
want
to be with him.”

I start to say more, to argue with him and try to make him see things my way, but I decide to let it go. Hopefully, the next time Tucker and Tristan meet, it’ll be better. But for tonight, I just want to cut my losses and go home.

“I love you,” I say, reaching up and giving him a hug. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“I love you too,” he says, hugging me tightly back. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you need someone to kick his ass.”

Camille

Present

AS WE WALK DOWN THE
long, stark white corridor, I have to remind my feet not to run. Everything in me is saying faster, quicker. I need to get to Deacon, and now that he’s in a room, I can’t get there fast enough.

When Annie’s hand touches my back and she begins to rub, I say a silent prayer that Deacon looks better than he did the last time I saw him. No mother wants or needs to see their baby, no matter how old they are, in that state.

Stopping in front of the door, Sam looks over at me, and we make eye contact for a brief moment, both of us probably praying for the same thing. I see him take a deep breath before he pushes the door open, quietly, so he doesn’t disturb Deacon.

The four of us—me, Sam, Annie, and Micah—walk in single file.

I let out a sigh of relief when I see his beautiful face. It’s soot-free and peaceful. The ventilator is still doing its job, but he looks so much better.

While Annie, Sam, and Micah stand by Deacon’s head, whispering to him through their tears and sniffles, I stay by the foot of his bed. From this vantage point, I can look over his entire body, and I take my time scanning for injuries. I don’t doubt any of the information we’ve been given by the doctor; I just want to see everything for myself.

Just like the doctor said, Deacon has a few scattered bandages on his body that, I assume, are covering his minor burns, but it’s his leg that makes my breath catch in my throat. It’s not covered by a blanket, so it’s easy to see the long strips of gauze covering the stitches he just received. All of this will heal, though, and I say a quick prayer of thanks that things didn’t turn out any worse than they are.

“Cami, we’ll let you have some time alone with Deacon. We’ll be in the waiting room when you’re done,” Sam says. I nod my head and watch them walk out of the room. Already they seem much lighter, not as burdened as they were just ten minutes ago, and I even notice a hint of a smile on Annie’s face before the door closes behind her.

I pull up a chair right next to Deacon’s head but, before I sit, I gently kiss his forehead.

“Hey, Deke,” I whisper softly. “You’re gonna be just fine; you hear me?” My voice starts to tremble, so I clear my throat. If he can hear me right now, I don’t want him to know how scared I am. I have to be strong . . . strong for both of us. “I need you to wake up, though, okay? Carter, your parents, Micah, Tucker . . . everyone who loves you, we’re all waiting for you to wake up.”

I grab his hand, sliding my fingers through his, and bring it up to my mouth so I can kiss it. I hold his hand against my cheek and revel in the feeling of his skin against mine. Feeling his strong pulse beat against my arm reassures me that he’ll wake up soon.

This is just another trial for us, another test for us to pass. Deacon was there for me during one of the darkest, hardest times of my life, and I’m more than happy to do the same for him.

Camille

Past

RESTING MY ARMS ON THE
white marble countertop of Tristan’s pristine bathroom, I fill my hand with water and bring it to my mouth. It’s been five days since I threw up the first time, and I’ve dry heaved at least once a day since then. I’ve ruled out food poisoning, a twenty-four-hour bug, and the stomach flu because I’m not running a fever.

I was on WebMd yesterday but quickly closed that out. According to them, I’m dying.

After I gargle the warm water, I spit it back out into the sink and pat my mouth dry with a towel, examining my face in the mirror.

I can’t be pregnant.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

There’s just no way.

But if I am, what then?

That’s not exactly in my plan, not that I have one.

But, if I had to guess, many babies probably aren’t.

Well, I was.

My mama told me. She wanted a girl so badly; she convinced my daddy it was better to have your babies all at once, so they can grow up together. My daddy agreed because he didn’t think they’d get pregnant so fast, but they did . . . and there I was. So, see . . . I was planned, and I still surprised them.

I’ve heard Annie say time and time again over the years how babies are never a bad thing.

I think I feel the same way, but that still doesn’t mean I’m ready to have one.

I can’t be pregnant.

“Camille,” Tristan calls through the door, exasperation thick in his tone.

“Yeah,” I reply, cracking the door to talk to him.

“We’re receiving the Langley pieces today. I need you to be on time.”

“Right, I’ll be there.”

He gives me a tight smile and then turns to walk away. “If you’re still sick, you really should go see a doctor.”

“Yeah,” I reply, quietly shutting the door and turning the lock.

Bending down, I pull out the large stack of fluffy towels and reach into the back where I stash my tampons. Inside the tampon box is the small package I hid there after my trip to the drugstore. There’s only one way to find out what kind of doctor I need. I might as well put on my big girl panties and figure it out.

Sitting down on the toilet, I read the small directions printed on the foil package, and they look pretty straight forward: open, pee, wait.

And that’s what I do.

I put the stick on the counter because I figure it’ll be better, more accurate, if it’s on an even surface. After only a few seconds, it starts to change—the white fading into a pale pink plus sign.

I grab the package out of the trash and piece it back together, my hands shaking, as I search for the picture that showed an example of what it’d look like if the test is positive.

A pink plus sign.

I look back at the stick to make sure it didn’t change, but it’s still there.

My heart is racing as I stand up. I look toward the door and then back at the stick. And then down at my stomach and then back at the stick. And then I shake the stick. I don’t know why, but I do . . . because maybe it needed more time to process, like a polaroid picture. When my hand stops moving, I look back at the teeny tiny window, and the pink plus is still there, possibly more vibrant than a few seconds ago.

Stumbling over to the mirror, I look at myself again. Or maybe for the first time. I don’t know. But my cheeks are kinda pink for someone who’s been throwing up a lot. Is that normal?

Oh, my God
.

Have I eaten anything I’m not supposed to?

Have I drank anything I’m not supposed to?

Don’t I need vitamins?

I should tell someone.

I open the door and Tristan is still standing in the living room, fixing his sleeves like he does right before he leaves.

Should I tell him?

I mean, of course, I should tell him, but now?

My blood is pumping through my body so fast I feel light-headed, and I brace myself on the wall.

“Camille?” he asks, hearing me and turning around. The frown on his face could be mistaken for concern, but it’s not, it’s annoyance. I know that frown.

“Sorry,” I say, “I was just, uh, goin’ to get dressed and got dizzy.”

“You need to have that checked out,” he says, sighing as he picks up his suit coat. “I’ll see you at the gallery.”