Sick Day (19 page)

T
he marina, where Landon had rented a race-worthy Donzi, had an attached hotel. We checked into a suite, using Landon’s credit card, and had lunch brought up. I didn’t eat much, so when the call from the concierge arrived that the boat was ready for us, nobody challenged me when I told them I didn’t feel so hot. Well, Josh and Landon had no issue. Gordo seemed skeptical.

While the others changed into their fancy swim trunks, shirts, and donned sunscreen, Gordo approached me, keeping his voice low as he asked me if my sudden illness had anything to do with last weekend.

I faked a surprised look. “Not at all, Gordo. I was in Chicago the entire time, and I’m feeling a lot better now.”

He hemmed and hawed.

“I’ll be here the entire time,” I lied. I would have told him I’d be performing open-heart surgery if it meant getting him and the others out of here. “Call whenever you want.”

Landon called after Gordon to hurry up. They were ready to leave.

At last, Gordon patted my back and said he hoped I felt better. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon when we get back, and then we’ll talk about last weekend.”

“Looking forward to it,” I said, and this time I meant it because between now and then, I’d have Hope in my arms, and nothing he could say would matter.

Once the guys left, I stepped out to the balcony and watched them below as they headed through the secure gates to the dock. Someone else greeted them and brought them on board to explain the vessel. The owner instructed Josh, who was arguably the most familiar with navigating the seas. Within half an hour, the engines were rumbling and Josh guided the boat out of the marina.

Returning to the room, I called the front desk and asked about obtaining a rental car.

“Give us thirty minutes,” the concierge promised.

I retreated to the bathroom, showered, and fixed myself up. I had definitely lost a bit of weight since last weekend; I could see it in my reflection. My stomach looked flatter, gaunter with such a thin layer of skin that my abdominal muscles began to stretch through, and I could see a cleaner jaw line in my face. Although I wasn’t unrecognizable, I figured Hope would notice the slight difference, just as Gordo had.

In the hotel lobby, I saw they had set aside a Mustang convertible for me.

“Will this be charged to the credit card we hold for the room?” the concierge asked.

Grinning, I confirmed that it would, and then grabbed the keys. After programming Hope’s address into the GPS, I set off. Forty minutes later, I was parked across the street from her house. I spotted the
FOR SALE
sign immediately and wondered why they were selling. The Mercedes from her Facebook picture was the only car in the driveway. The garage door was also wide open, and I saw that there was no other vehicle parked inside.

Hope was home. Alone.

I considered getting out of the car and walking to the front door, but some kind of fear held me back. Was it the rejection from this past weekend that haunted me? Was that causing this sudden bout of gun-shyness? I pounded the steering, sitting in this open-roofed Mustang, across the street from Hope’s house.

Without question, I looked like an idiot.

Then I felt her. I stopped abusing the rental car and stared back across the street at Hope’s house, and there she stood outside her front door. She wore tight jogging shorts and a form-fitting running top.

Her eyes were locked on me.

I could barely breathe her name.

Slowly and carefully, I opened the car door and stepped out onto the road without looking. I didn’t dare avert my eyes for fear that Hope might start running. And as much as I had enjoyed tackling her outside of the community center in the rain, I really didn’t want to be tackling her in this neighborhood. Plus, I wouldn’t be able to compete with the high-end Asics she wore.

Raising my empty hands to show how defenseless I was, I crossed the street and stepped across her front lawn to the front porch. There were two steps and roughly four feet separating us.

“Hope,” I said, a little breathless thanks to the nerves.

“Cameron.” Her hazel eyes seemed distrustful, surprised and relieved, all at once.

And then we had one of our famous staring contests.

She blinked first.

“Why?” I asked, and the hurt spilled out of my mouth.

Her chin quivered. “You,” was her answer, and I didn’t know what that meant, but I erased the distance between us with two leaping steps and kissed her. Hard.

She hooked an arm around my neck and fumbled for the door, twisting the knob after several attempts, and then she kicked it open; the wall stopped it with a
thud,
and we hurried inside, in case the neighbors were watching.

In the foyer, I tried to force her up against the door once I closed it, but she twirled around and shoved me against the door. She was strong, and the force kicked the wind out of my lungs.

I didn’t care, though. I wanted her. I needed to have her, now.

“I missed you,” I said between breaths, but she was pulling her tight top over her head and kissing me before she could utter a response.

I felt her hands working at the belt of my pants, slowly stripping me in the foyer of her house. Stepping out of the pants, I massaged her breasts as she guided me backward into the vast kitchen. I trusted her directions, even though she moved her lips and tongue over my mouth, neck, and chest blindly, hungrily.

The kitchen island forced my backward stumble to a blunt stop, and Hope’s lips worked their magic below the waistband of my
boxers. As she ran her tongue along my rigid shaft, the world spun, and I reached down, gripping her hair and tugging her face to mine. We kissed hard, my fingers reaching between down low. She spread her legs, opened them to provide me with greater access to her clit. I massaged her in a soft, circular motion, then dipped my middle finger inside her to see just how wet she was.

“Cameron,” she moaned quietly.

Her voice transformed me from a quiet bystander to an active hunter. Reaching down to her waist, I lifted her off the floor, spun around, and planted her on the kitchen island. Either the cold granite annoyed her, or she liked that I was taking control. Either way, Hope pulled my face to hers and kissed me with a ravenous hunger.

“I love you,” I whispered, pulling her hips to the edge of the island and rubbing the head of my cock along
her pussy. And just then, she reached behind her for the exhaust vent, holding herself up and angling her hips in such a way that I entered her easily, slowly, gently at first, but at the first sound of her moaning ”Oh, Cameron!” I thrust a little deeper, a little harder, and a little faster.

She moaned a little louder, and I didn’t last long. Watching the woman I loved enjoy what I was doing to her on the kitchen island made me want her more and more.

When I was about to pull out, Hope said, “No,” and then wrapped her legs around my waist, locking me in place so I had no choice but come inside her, in sync with her own pulsating orgasm.

By the time our bodies cooled off, she released the vent and rested back on her elbows, her dreamy eyes staring at mine. We didn’t speak for a long time, but the hunger was unmistakable. She wiped at the sweat beading on her forehead.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, looking around the nice house. It was just as I imagined her house would be when I was in high school—cold without much personality, sterile but still homely enough to double as a model home.

Hope laughed. “Shouldn’t I be the one to ask that question?”

I told her that I had been “dragged” along by Gordon, an old colleague who had received a severance package on the same day as me. “Once I found out that he was coming to Miami, and I remembered that you said you would be back yesterday…I had to try, Hope.” I shook my head, a little embarrassed but also incredibly proud that I hadn’t “stopped” this time. I had fought for her, fought for her love, something she had never believed in. “I haven’t been sleeping or eating or breathing since I returned to your hotel Sunday afternoon and found that you’d left.” Speaking with her about this stuff while naked at her kitchen island seemed strangely therapeutic. I didn’t feel so sad now. Still, I had to know. “Why did you leave like that? You didn’t even say goodbye…” Because
goodbyes are forever
, I realized.

My question forced her to look elsewhere to avoid whatever guilt she felt. “I couldn’t see you again, Cameron.”

I reached down and started to pull my boxers up. “But you could’ve left without seeing me again? Without saying…goodbye?” She had known it would not be forever, that we would see each other again. Maybe not this soon, but still…

She rolled off the island and grabbed her workout gear, which was scattered in a path from the front door to the kitchen. “I’m afraid of goodbyes, you know that. The last time I watched you leave, I didn’t see you again for seven years.” She shook her head at me, her hands full as she walked past me toward a hallway. “I didn’t say goodbye this time, and now look, you’re in my kitchen, in Miami.”

I followed her into the hall, to a bedroom at the end. “Yes, I came for you. I’ve admitted that I was wrong to do what I did, so now what?” I asked.

“Now I get changed and follow you to your hotel, or somewhere else, anywhere else, because Matt will be home in half an hour.” She gave a look that promised we could talk all about this stuff later.

I reached out, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her against me. “Leave him,” I pleaded. “Come back with me, and let’s do this together.”

She seemed to consider my suggestion, but I could see she didn’t place a whole lot of weight in it. At last, she shook her head, pulled free, and headed to the walk-in closet to pack a bag. “How long are you in Miami?”

“Just overnight,” I said, groaning.

She peeked out of the closet. “Exactly.”

Confused, I joined her in the closet, a room with fancy wooden panels, an ironing board, mannequin-like hangers, a television, steamer, enclosed shoe wardrobe, pretty much a dry-cleaner’s wet dream.

“You have a really nice place, Hope. But what did you mean by ‘exactly’?”

“You’re here overnight, Cameron,” she explained. “That’s what I meant by ‘exactly.’”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I asked, a little annoyed.

She shoved a few more items into her bag. “You don’t want me to say goodbye, you want me to drop my entire life here and run off with someone who’s in Miami ‘overnight’?” She chuckled and shook her head at me. “I know how stories like this turn out, Cameron.”

I leaned against the staging table. She stepped up to the other side and leaned against that end. We were facing off in her walk-in closet that seemed straight out of Oz.

“Tell me, Hope,” I encouraged her. “Please. How do these stories turn out?”

A confrontational frown wafted across her face, and she tapped the edge of the staging area with her fingers. “Did you read that email a few weeks ago? The story?”

I nodded. “It’s not us, Hope. We’re not these two characters. You leave that old fucktart you’re living with, and I’ll walk away from Riley. I swear—”

She cut me off. “You won’t.”

“I will,” I promised, throwing my arms into the air before reaching out for her, but she stopped me. Shaking her head, she gave me a sideways glance.

“Uh-uh, no way. You’ve got a wedding in three weeks, Cameron. You have a future and a past. Both of which are filled with memories of which you won’t ever let go. And do you think, for one second, that I’m sitting here and believing that you’ll abandon all of that history? For me? For a girl you fucked in high school?”

I breathed heavily, afraid to respond because she had a bit of a point.

She gave a sly wink. “I
know
how this turns out for us.”

“I will let go, Hope.” I drop to a knee.

“I know you will. Now get up, goob.”

“Not you, though. I’m never letting go of you again.”

She bit down on her lower lip. I could almost hear the gears turning in her head as she contemplated my big-man talk. At last, she tapped the top of the staging area and stood straight. Conversation over.

“If you want to spend the night with me, we need to leave.” She grabbed her bag and started to leave, but turned back at the door. “Now, Cameron. Matt will be home, and I guarantee you don’t want to be around when he shows up. Not after last weekend.”

}
i {

Present Day

2:18 PM

O
ut on the Lake Michigan with the sun beating down on us, I stare across the small table at Hope. Behind her, I only see the emptiness of the lake meeting up with the promising sky on the horizon. Behind me, the Chicago skyline looms, and I know Hope likes that view because it’s something I would enjoy. I see the city’s reflection in her big sunglasses, the ones that hide her face and lend her an air of confidence. She picks up her champagne flute and takes a sip before reaching into a small bowl of fresh fruit that the catering company provided.

Up on the captain’s deck, slightly up and behind me, Gordon sits with his chair rotated so that he can chaperone us. When I glance over at him, I find a distrustful semi-smile on his face. We share a brief stare before he points his two fingers at his eyes, then aims those fingers at me, the international sign for
I’m watching you
. Almost like a threat.

“It’s not Miami,” I admit, turning my attention back to Hope. “But I never wanted this to be Miami. I only ever wanted this to be
us
.”

“Cameron,” she sighs, “I don’t know what you really thought today would achieve, but—”

“But nothing,” I argued. “What have you thought about today? So far?”

She shrugs, but a smile slips onto her face. She doesn’t fight it away, either. She lets it live, and I see that as a sign of promise.

“For me,” I tell her, feeling the history between us, “today reminded me of something that I seemed to have lost track of.”

Her eyebrows raise halfway up her forehead. “And what was that? Your GPS?” She laughs at her own weak joke.

I feel something hit me in the shoulder and glance back to find Gordo flinging grapes at me.

“Let it go, Cameron,” he says, chuckling. “Today will
not
turn out like you want.” He nods at Hope. “I think everyone’s on the same page here. Everyone but you.”

I face Hope again, determined. He was worth the distraction. “I’ve decided that I’m never letting go again. I’ve chased you across this godforsaken country. I’ve sacrificed everything. Everything I’ve ever done, somehow and some way, was because of you.”

She removes her sunglasses so I can see her clear, unflinching eyes. “There’s something romantic about goodbyes, Cameron. Even though I’ve never been able to bring myself to say that one word to you, if nothing else, today has made it clear that I need to set my personal rules and superstitions about goodbyes aside. Because this isn’t fair to you. You’ve put your life on hold because of me, and it’s not supposed to be like that.”

I glance back at Gordo on the captain’s deck, but he has turned his back to me, to my conversation. Intuitive as always, he must’ve detected the heavy tone in our conversation and decided to give us a bit of privacy at last.

“I’m sorry, Cameron,” she says, her voice soft. When I turn back to her, the sunglasses have been pulled back over her eyes, hiding them once again. Her granite-like face tells me something isn’t quite right. Or maybe, I realize for the first time since this delusion of a day began,
everything
is right, and I’m only seeing that for the first time, right now.

“Let me paint a picture for you,” I say, keeping my voice quiet and leaning in to get a little closer. “I’m not quitting you. It’s not that I don’t want to, Hope. It’s that I can’t. I simply cannot walk away from you.” I lean back in my chair, reclining as best as I can and trying to hide the nervous sweat threatening to soak through my armpits. “After you showed up three years ago, I realized something. You can’t bury people alive. And that’s what I tried to do through college and in the years that followed. I was trying to bury you because I didn’t want to admit to myself that I could never exist without you. I couldn’t handle it. And ever since that day? You’ve consumed my thoughts. My dreams. My every breathing moment.”

I watch her face for what feels like an eternity, and then I see it.  A small twitch at the corner of her lips.

“Cameron…” she says with a tone of disappointment, but instead of finishing her thought, she lets my name linger.

I shake my head. “You showed up for a reason. And you win. You were right. Whatever you were trying to prove, you were right, Hope.”

She wipes at her face, the first sign of emotion.

“You were right,” I tell her again, even softer.

“Cameron, I’m not looking for ‘right,’” she admits, a little frustrated despite the previous show of emotion. “I’m looking for you to let me go, to say the word that I’ve never been able to say. That’s what you promised, remember? If I spent the day with you, you said this morning in that doorway, you promised you’d let me go, you’d say goodbye.”

A sailboat moves across the background, so I watch it to add a little silence to our conversation. “I’m not looking for right either.”

“Then what are you looking for?”

I give her a half-shrug. “I’m looking for happy. I’m looking for the smiles you’ve given me every day I’ve seen you, every morning when I wake up thinking that I’ll possibly see you, take you in, admire you. I’m looking for you in everything I do. Just you, and nothing else.”

Her silence speaks more than any words she could give me. She’s thinking about it. Again, I feel those wheels of hers turning. I can feel her eyes on me through those tinted, large sunglasses, and for a second, I want to take a deep breath and try to read her mind because it seems to me that I can do exactly that.

“Hope, it’s always been you.”

“Cameron…”

“Okay, okay,” I say, raising my hands in a peace offering. “It’s not ‘just you.’”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s you when you’re with me.” I smile, but she doesn’t return the gesture. “What? I thought that was sweet. Why are you such a downer?”

“It was sweet,” she admits, picking at her fingernails. “It’s one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me. But that’s the problem with this, Cameron. This sweetness? The way you love me. I mean, the way you love me so perfectly?” She shakes her head. “It can’t happen, it can’t be. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry, but you and I…?”

I take my champagne to hide my disappointment, noticing how I have a little more than half the flute left to drink. Although it’s probably warmer than piss by now, I swallow it in a single gulp, the bubbles burning the back of my throat. “If you get on the plane next week,” I tell her, my eyes digging through those big glasses, “I’ll be right behind you.”

She shakes her head. “You can’t. That’s not part of this deal.”

I quietly argue, “He can’t come close to offering you what I can.”

“It’ll be goodbye, one way or another,” she mutters, almost sadly.

I contemplate what to say next. I know I can’t sit back and watch her get on that plane, but I also know that, once the day is over, she will not come to me. The reality of that rips me apart because I was so convinced, earlier today, that she would say those four words—I’m leaving you—before the day ends. But now I know; goodbye will come, and Hope believes that goodbyes are forever.

I take a deep breath. “Even if we never see each other again,” I admit as calmly as my raging disappointment will allow, “you’re in this as deep as I am, Hope. It’s inescapable.”

She looks around like she’s planning a getaway, some way to avoid this conversation, some exit to this corner that I have backed her in to. Of course, she finds no escape, and the realization that she’s stuck here, on this boat in the middle of Lake Michigan with nothing but water around us, slowly settles over her. I don’t know if there is peace or fear behind those big glasses, but she eventually succumbs and listens to me, to what I say.

“After what happened three years ago, I beat myself up for following you to Miami, because I would’ve gone with you wherever you wanted me to. I would’ve followed you to the edge of the universe, Hope. But it killed to leave you, it killed me to see you walk away with him.”

“Cameron, why are we talking about this?” she asks, but I ignore her.

“And with time, I dealt with that sadness. I dealt with it because I knew that I wasn’t suffering alone. I gave you the space you needed to come back for me.”

She shakes her head. “I never came back for you.”

I raise my eyebrows at her obvious denial. “But you did.”

She crosses her arms.

“And even if you hadn’t, we were still together. In spirit. In love. The silence between us killed me, it fucking ripped me apart, Hope. But I knew when you missed me, when that absence burned you up inside. And I knew when you forgot about me for a day or two.” I close my eyes and take an elaborate breath, inhaling my courage and letting it all out through my lips, yoga-style. With my eyes clamped shut, I tell her, “We’re connected, somehow and some way, I don’t know how or why, but we are.”

When I open my eyes, I find her staring back just like I left her before I closed my eyes.

“That’s the tragedy here,” I ramble on. “We both suffer, whether we’re together in each other’s arms, or we’re separated by thousands of miles.”

I feel more grapes on my shoulder, but I refuse to take my eyes from her. I’m watching for that one sign. Some kind of acknowledgement that I’ve hit a nerve, or fear that I’ve completely lost my mind.

At last, Hope speaks, but it’s not for me. “Gordon, will you just fuck off for a minute?”

Gordo chuckles, but I detect his annoyance with Hope. He never liked her, always a Team Riley proponent. “Are you two ready to head back so you can return to your respective spouses?”

I watch Hope, but she remains firmly focused on me. So I nod an affirmative.

The boat’s deep, rumbling engines come to life, and the ripe aroma of gasoline infiltrates the air out here.

Hope shakes her head at me. “Cameron, I never wrote any that stuff in
Our Story
. None of it. It’s not us because Emma knows nothing about us.”

I don’t believe her. And as much as I want to continue with this conversation, any kind of exchange between us becomes impossible thanks to the sounds of the boat as it cut across the lake, back toward to the city.

}
i {

Three Years Ago