by R.S. Grey
“Cammie, god dammit. You’re being crazy. You need to slow down and talk to me,” he said, reaching to pull the backpack out of my hands. “Where did you go last night and what’s all this about Paris?"
“No! I don’t owe you a damn thing!” I yelled, tugging the backpack out of his reach. “I saw your email, Grayson!” There it was. “You left your account open on my computer and I saw my little folder. All of your ‘Cammie’ emails. I read every single one. You’re a sick son of a bitch.”
He scrunched his face, trying to catch up and decipher my outburst.
“Your folder?”
I was beyond pissed.
“Yes.” I spoke annoyingly slow to drive home my point. “The folder where you saved every single detail of how you’ve meddled in my life. Job interviews, test scores, rent, scholarships—every single thing you manipulated in my life. You are a fucking stalker, Grayson!”
“I’m not a stalker. Calm down,” he protested. His eyes were completely dilated in anger and I knew that there was no going back. This was the fight that would end us. Except it wouldn’t just end us. It would break us down until we were both casualties with nothing left to show but two broken hearts.
“After your parents died,” he began to explain, “Brooklyn asked me to watch out for you. You two had a rocky relationship then, and she felt like you had nobody to count on, so I stepped up and I did what I had to do.”
“Bullshit,” I hissed. "You did what you wanted to do, so you could be some kind of knight in shining armor. Can you even imagine how it feels to find out you've just been a fucking damsel in distress your entire adult life?"
“Tell me,” he asked, stepping closer. “Tell me one thing I did that a devoted friend or big brother or father figure wouldn’t have done! You had nobody, Cammie! Nobody to help you except for your sister.”
“I didn’t ask for your help!” I yelled. “I never asked for a big brother!”
“Because you’re too proud,” he protested, his rage boiling over. “You wouldn’t ask for help unless you were seconds from drowning. And even then, you’d probably resent the life preserver! Fuck.” He gripped his head and bent down, clearly struggling to make sense of the situation.
I gritted my teeth so hard that my jaw ached.
“Please get out of my apartment, Grayson.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” he said, pulling on his jeans as quickly as he could. He turned back to me as he grabbed for his shirt. “I would have shown you the folder soon. I would have explained to you what I’ve done and you’d see my reasons. You’d understand why I stepped in when you had nobody.”
I shrugged, digging my heels into my anger so much so that I couldn’t find any bit of reason in his words.
“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, holding back the flood of tears. “All's forgiven, because now it looks like I still have no one.”
He glared back at me before tugging his shirt over his head. “And whose fault is that? You’re running away to Paris, Cammie. Stay and fight with me. This is nothing. This fight,” he said, pointing between the two of us, “it’s nothing compared to how I feel for you.”
I turned away from him and my gaze found its way to my black computer screen. If I turned it on, his email would pop up. I’d be confronted by the overwhelming proof that he’d overstepped his place in my life time and time again. Maybe he would have told me about the folder, but maybe he would have kept it a secret forever.
“I need to pack,” I whispered, unable to look back to him.
He growled, grabbed for his phone on my floor, and slammed my bedroom door shut on his way out. I squeezed my eyes closed until I heard my apartment door close and then I waited and wondered if he was truly gone—if that fight had been the end of us. In the romanticized version of my life, Grayson would have stormed back in and forced me to talk to him. But ten minutes later, when the apartment was as silent as when I’d first returned that morning, I began to pack up my things.
The plan was still on. I was going to Paris.
Chapter Thirty-One
Amount saved for Paris: After purchasing my ticket, I had about $5300 left to hold me over until I found temporary work, which wouldn’t be easy to do considering I only had a tourist visa.
Items I have: a backpack filled to the brim, a carry-on purse, and a good book to get me through the flight.
Items I need: enough confidence to get me on the actual flight…
French phrases that I know: Pourriez-vous me diriger dans la direction de l' auberge la plus proche? et également un bar?…which translates to “Could you point me in the direction of the nearest hostel? And also a bar?”
“Where to, ma’am?” the cab driver asked as he loaded my heavy backpack into the trunk of the cab.
“LAX. Passenger drop-off, please,” I answered, sliding into the backseat.
I had everything I needed clutched in the palm of my hands: my passport, my boarding pass, and my to-do list. I would have preferred to leave the states with a better plan, but in the end, life had forced my hand and I just had to make the best of it. I’d written down all the major things I had to get done.
Beneath “FIND A SUBLEASE ASAP, YOU FOOL,” I’d written, “Tell Brooklyn you’re in Paris.” (There was a very real possibility Brooklyn would get on a plane to Paris and kick my ass once I’d told her I’d left the country. Either that, or she’d hire a French assassin to kill me for her.)
There was only one more item on my to-do list after that: find a hostel in Paris. I’d begun looking into my options weeks ago, but I had no clue if there’d be any vacancies or what kind of shape the hostels would be in when I actually got to one. It was too late to call ahead, so I’d just have to try and find one once I arrived. Worse-case scenario: I could stay in a hotel for the first night and find a hostel in the morning. It’d deplete my savings a little bit, but it was better than sleeping on the streets of Paris.
“Here’s your stop, ma’am,” the cab driver spoke, drawing my attention away from my list. A quick glance out of the window confirmed that we were at the airport.
I’d come to the finish line.
I pocketed my things and climbed out of the backseat just as the driver finished pulling my backpack from the trunk. He handed it over and I lugged it onto my back, cursing the weight. I’d packed up everything that was too important to leave behind in my apartment. There were photos and memories shoved between socks and underwear. It wasn’t ideal, but it’d work until I arrived in Paris and had a little space of my own.
“You paying in cash?” the driver asked, subtly reminding me that I’d yet to pay for my fare yet.
“Ah, yes, how much was—”
“Cammie!”
I turned at the sound of my name, reached up to shield the sun from my eyes, and saw Grayson hopping out of the back of a cab a few yards down. He slammed the cab door closed and threw cash through the passenger side window before beginning to run toward me.
“What the hell, man?!” his cabdriver yelled back at him, but Grayson was already halfway down the sidewalk.
I wanted to cave then, to run to him and erase the past. We could start new and pretend there weren’t any skeletons in our closet. But I knew I’d never forgive myself if I caved.
He pushed through the crowd of travelers on the sidewalk, trying to get to me. I wasn’t going anywhere. I was rooted to my spot, but he ran toward me like I was fleeing at the speed of light.
Before he reached me, I turned toward my cab and braced myself for the end.
“Cammie!” Grayson yelled.
I couldn’t believe he’d come.
“Ma’am, the money,” the cab driver reminded me, apparently unaffected by the romantic airport scene taking place before him.
“Oh. Uh,” I fumbled for my wallet and tried to pull out exact change just as Grayson reached me.
“I’ve got it,” Grayson said, reaching for cash before I held up my hand.
“No! No you don’t have it,” I argu
ed, turning to the cab driver. “This should cover it.”
“Whatever. Have a good trip.” The cabdriver shrugged and fled the scene, wanting nothing more to do with us.
“Cammie. Please just wait a second,” Grayson said when I turned to face the entrance of the airport.
“What do you want Grayson?” I asked, hitching my backpack up higher on my shoulder. The weight was already getting to me.
“You’re actually going to leave?” Grayson asked, scanning over my backpack and passport sticking out of my front pocket.
“Yes, I’m really leaving,” I answered.
He threw his hands up in the air, exasperated with me. “Because I helped you earn a scholarship? Because I gave you a job?”
I scanned the crowd around him, trying to do anything but meet his eye. “Because of everything. This is too much, Grayson. All the things you’ve done in secret—it’s too much for me to ignore. The fact that you just tried to pay my cab fare proves that you still don't get it.”
“Cammie. I would have told you about everything. You think it looks bad because it’s all piled up in emails, but you have to just let me explain it.”
He reached for my arm, gripping it securely in his hand so that I was forced to stay beside him, to stay with him. I glanced up at his face and immediately wished I hadn’t. Sorrow was etched across every feature. His blue eyes threatened to tear me in two.
“Tell me the reason you’re leaving me, Cammie.”
He wanted an answer, but I couldn’t give him one. I didn’t quite understand my need to leave, but it was there, in the pit of my stomach, overpowering my love for the man in front of me. More than anything, I felt a need to flee, to get out and run as far away as I could. If I didn’t do it now, at this moment, I knew I never would. I would be Grayson’s puppet and my sister’s charity project for the rest of my life.
So, instead of giving him the complicated version, I lied.
“It’s all been a game to me, Grayson,” I said with a steady voice. The words were a lie, but I was holding enough anger inside of me that they sounded real, even to me.
He frowned, his thick brows drawing together in confusion. “A game?”
I nodded.
“You don’t mean that,” he argued.
“Can’t you see? It was a game to pass the time before I left for Paris. Can the ugly duckling, all grown up, score her childhood crush?”
His grip loosened around my arm and then his touch was gone completely. He took two steps back, stared at me for another moment, and then nodded.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Maybe this was all a game because I definitely feel like a fucking loser right now, Cammie.”
I guess that made me the winner. Too bad I didn’t feel like one.
Tears, hot and heavy, were threatening to stream down my cheeks. I turned and wiped my eyes before growing even angrier that I couldn’t keep it together.
“Whatever.” I took a deep breath. “Are we done here?”
My casual tone unnerved him. He flinched back and then lurched forward, stepping right up to me until our faces were inches away from each other.
“Do you think you’re safe if you belittle our relationship? Hide behind the idea that it was all just casual sex?” he asked, his voice growing louder so that the passing travelers slowed around us to listen.
“What’s your goal here, Grayson?” I cried. “I’m leaving for Paris! And you’re staying in LA to run your company. Just let it go!”
He shook his head and gripped my arms, his final resolve coming to life. “You once called me a liar. Do you remember that? You jabbed your finger into my chest and you called me a fucking liar.”
“What’s your point?!”
“You’re a hypocrite!” he yelled. “You’re scared and you’re running because of it.”
I laughed sarcastically, a shrill sound that sounded terrible even to my own ears.
“Yup. You’ve figured it out. That’s the exact reason I’m leaving. Now let me go.”
He threw up his hands. “Okay. Fine. I'll let you go if you tell me you’re getting on that plane for the right reasons, that you won’t regret your decision to leave the second it takes off.”
Of course I couldn’t tell him that, not if I was being honest, but then his indiscretions flashed through my mind like a horrible daydream. The emails, the jobs, the internships, the subsidized rent… but most importantly, the fact that nothing in my life had been accomplished by my own two hands. Grayson had acted as my God for far too long. I couldn’t separate my love for him from my hatred for what he’d done in my life. I had to get out. I had to leave.
I gripped my backpack strap and took a step back. The small separation was enough to break my resolve.
“Goodbye Grayson. Take care of Brooklyn.”
“Cammie!”
I walked through the airport doors, and did my best to ignore the tears clouding my vision.
…
As luck would have it, my plane was delayed twice because of mechanical issues. I sat in the crowded terminal and watched plane after plane take off, wondering when my turn would come. Each hour that passed made it that much easier for me to question if I was making the right decision. I was still in LA. I could walk out of the airport at any time. If I was on a plane or in Paris, the waiting, the wondering, the second guessing would be put to rest.
I sat between a family traveling to Paris for vacation and a couple anxious to start their honeymoon. There were a few passengers traveling for business, but they were focused on their work, unencumbered by the noise around them. I sat at the crowded gate, people watching and feeling wholeheartedly alone.
In an effort to distract myself from the sick feeling in my stomach, I’d pulled out my sketchbook and started drafting simple designs on the last few pages. The process helped pass the time and gave me something to focus my mind on.
Finally, after four hours of delays, they announced that our flight was boarding. I was rushing back from the bathroom, the effects of two cups of coffee starting to become unbearable. Just as I arrived back at the terminal, my boarding group was lining up and I scrambled to gather my things.
“Miss?” someone spoke behind me as I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I turned to see a middle-aged man pointing over to where I’d been sitting.
“I think that’s yours?” he said.
My sketchbook sat on the ground, flipped upside down with its pages splayed out.
“Oh! Thank you!” I said as I rushed to gather it up. I flipped it over to dust off the pages that’d been on the floor, and my stomach clenched. Grayson’s soulful eyes stared back at me as I gazed upon a sketch I’d done of him years ago when I was still in high school. The sketch was on one of the first pages, long forgotten. Even the graphite from the pencil had started to fade. I remembered sitting in my room and sketching furiously while I listened for any sign of footsteps, praying Brooklyn wouldn’t come in and catch me in the act. The entire first half of the sketchbook was practically a shrine to him.
“Everyone in boarding group B, please line up!” the flight attendant instructed over the speaker system, jarring me from my reverie.
“What’s taking you to Paris?” the man asked as I moved to join the line. “Business or pleasure?”
He eyed me with a tentative smile.
I closed my sketchbook and turned toward the boarding door. Down that dim hallway there was a plane waiting to take me to Paris. There was no turning back.
“Neither,” I answered as my gaze held steady on the future.
It was the first honest answer I’d given all day.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Cammie, get your ass back to the United States or I will get on a plane and drag you home myself. Seriously, what were you THINKING?! Grayson called to let me know you’d left. Thank God for him. How could you leave the country without even telling me? Haven’t you seen Taken?! Don’t you know what happens to pretty American girls when they go abr
oad? No, Jason, I will not hang up. She needs to know how insane she is. No, seriously—”
Brooklyn’s message cut off after that, so either her allotted message time had ended or Jason had forced her to hang up. There were three more messages waiting for me after that one, all from Brooklyn and each over a minute long.
Instead of listening to them, I shot a selfie and paired it with a simple message: “I am FINE. Please don’t worry. I’ll call you soon.”
I’d been in Paris for two days and was in no rush to call Brooklyn. I was just getting my bearings and calling her would throw me back to square one—back to when I’d first stepped off the plane and felt the crippling grip of homesickness around my neck. I’d pushed through it, ventured out, and managed to find a small hostel on the edge of a relatively nice arrondissement to establish as a home base.
Each guest at the hostel had a small bunk to themselves with storage space beneath to lock up any valuables. My bunkmate was a Russian girl with cropped black hair and a tattoo of a tiger along the side of her neck. Across from us was a bunk with two teenage guys from Australia. The last two nights they’d arrived back at the hostel at nearly 5:00 am and slept well into the afternoon. I hadn’t had the chance to meet them, and the only reason I knew they were Australian at all was because they both talked in their sleep (mostly about wallabies and sheilas, heh).
In an odd way, everything seemed to be coming together. I spent my first few days wandering around Paris and trying to blend in with the locals. I tried out three different crepe cafes before I had to cut myself off. If I wasn’t careful, I’d blow my entire savings on desserts.
Money was constantly on my mind. I knew that I had the trust my parents had left for me, but I didn’t want to touch it. That wasn’t Paris money. That was money for purchasing a house and settling down. Besides, the whole reason I had flown to Paris was to see if I could stand on my own two feet. If I budgeted right and found a decent job, I could live in Paris indefinitely.