by Lexi Whitlow
He said that when Jon got better, mom would get better too.
But then Jon died.
I wonder what would have become of Camden if Emma hadn’t been as fortunate or as healthy? Would he have just checked out of his life, forgetting all his other commitments? Would he have left his family, his business, his friends? Would he have gone to some dark corner to investigate the fallacy of his self-inflicted delusions of duty, drinking himself to death in the process?
I don’t know the answer to the question, and it bothers me.
I want to talk to Kara. Maybe she’ll have some wisdom on these new revelations. I fire my computer up, going to my text messenger app, but she’s not online. It’s Friday night in New York City. Is this any wonder?
I switch over to email, looking for anything to distract me. I’m floored by a new note I see sitting in my inbox.
It’s from Mark Edmunds; subject line, ‘Time to catch up?’
I open the note. It reads,
Hi Grace,
I know it’s been a long time. To be precise, it’s six months and three days since we last spoke, and not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought about you and wished you were here. Mountain View is everything it’s cracked up to be. I work with people from all over the world. Everything moves fast. Everyone is striving for the next greatest thing. I’m making my way. My first product release debuted in February and we got a huge write-up in Fast Company. It’s competitive and hard and I don’t get a lot of sleep. What’s missing is someone to share all the good times with.
I talk to Kara occasionally. She updates me on what’s going on with you. I also found your blog. Your search engine optimization skills are too good to keep it hidden. A few carefully selected keywords and I was there. I’d know your photos and your voice anywhere. Your style is too distinctive to miss.
The kid you’re taking care of looks like a sweetheart. The guy you’re working for… not so much. I don’t know what you’re up to out there in the sticks, but I know you, and I know it’ll only keep your curious mind occupied for so long.
We should talk. I have almost a week off for Easter. I want to see you. I miss you, Grace. No one in the whole world knows you better than I do, and vice versa. I want to have a look at this place that has you so captivated. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me you’re happy being nanny for some redneck guy’s kid. I won’t believe it until I see it.
I’ll see you in a week.
Love you with all my heart.
-- Mark
Wow. Six months and three days. Who would have ever imagined he would keep track to the day? I suspect he had to do some math to get there, but then I’m cynical.
Mark has landed in a big world where he’s a small fish, and he hasn’t gotten laid in eight months and however many days since the last time I sympathy-fucked him before putting him on a plane to California. That’s how I read his note.
I take a breath, and reply.
Hey Mark,
Good to hear from you and even better to hear that Mountain View is treating you well.
My blog is a fun project. Emma is a great kid. I’ve come to love her in a way that I never expected, just as I’ve come to love and deeply respect the rural life out here in “the sticks.” It’s not the city. Things move slow and sometimes when it’s cloudy, I can’t even get a connection, but that’s cool because there’s plenty real stuff that demands my attention beyond just the virtual world.
As for your Easter break, you should make a different plan. Cancun? We have a lot going on this time of year and I’m up to my ears in it. There’s not much in the way of entertainment in this neck of the woods and I fear you’d be bored to tears. I hear Vegas is hopping.
It was good catching up.
Take care.
-- Grace
I hit send and hope that Mark gets the message.
My world here may be confusing and pre-loaded with drama, but it’s not like the trivial drama of Mark’s veneer life with his job and his ambitions, with the people who impress him and the people he tries to impress. He may call Cam and the folks I work with rednecks, but at least they’re genuine. They’re not weighed down with pretense and venal aspiration. They live for and love things that are real. They’re not all about the money, the ego-stroking, and the press.
Outside my window I see a bright flash. A few seconds later the rumble of thunder rolls off the mountains, echoing, reverberating from peak to peak. The depth of it rattles the glass in the window panes.
It’s only April. It feels too early for thunderstorms. Everyone has been talking about how unusually dry and warm it’s been. Another flash lights the night sky, followed by a second loud clap and its after effects.
I dislike thunderstorms. Lightening makes me anxious.
Somewhere out there in the far distance to the north and east of us a storm is blowing up. I know it’s far away and moving off, but the idea of it is unsettling.
I pull my laptop close, positioning my fingers over the keyboard. I dash out a note to Kara, filling her in on everything Camden revealed to me this evening, beginning with Camden’s admission of his rocky marriage well-before Emma was conceived, and ending with his declaration of love.
I hit send, then sit back, listening to the rumbling storm off in the distance.
I’m not sleepy. My mind spins with anxiety. Another rumbling thunder bolt booms over the mountains, echoing, spilling low and threatening into the valley.
I should check on Emma.
I peek in to her room, keeping quiet as a mouse as I tiptoe in for a look. She’s laid out flat on her back, one small arm raised up over her head. The other turned across her chest with a small fist balled up, thumb tucked in. She’s breathing slowly, deeply, her eyelids fluttering, lost in a dreaming sleep. Emma is untroubled by thunderstorms. Good for her. One more thing for me to admire about this bright, tough little girl.
She’s fortunate. Her daddy loves her. He’ll protect her from all the storms that come her way.
He said he loves me too.
When he said it, I didn’t know what to do with it. I still don’t.
At some point, for some reason, he said those same words to Beverly.
Does he even know what those words mean? Do I?
I know what I feel is complicated. I know it’s distracting. I can’t get him out of my head. I look at him and everything else I ever wanted for myself seems trivial by comparison. But I also know that—just like with Camden and Beverly—nothing lasts. Everything breaks. The sweeter it feels at the outset, the more painful it is in getting past it when it’s over. That’s what I’ve seen. I don’t know if I have the capacity to endure the kind of pain I’m sure will inevitably come if I let myself love Camden now.
I’m terrified it will break me.
“Hey, what are you doing?” A whisper from the shadows interrupts my reverie.
I turn. Camden stands in the doorway, then moves forward quietly. He’s wearing only sweatpants, barefoot, and naked from the chest up.
“Just checking on Emma,” I whisper in reply. “I was worried the storm would frighten her.”
He steps close behind me, peering over my shoulder down onto Emma’s peaceful repose.
“She’s okay,” he says softly. “How about you? You okay?”
I look up at him, taking in his features lit only by the soft glow from Emma’s nightlight. Even in shadows he’s beautiful beyond compare. He takes my breath away and makes my heart ache.
I’ve always been a solitary creature. I’ve never been bothered by being alone. Even when I was with Mark, my concerns about being without him were practical ones. It was easier having a boyfriend. But I was always alone in my own head. I never felt lonely.
Now, I feel a keen sense of isolation. The space between Cam and me might as well be a chasm. I’m drawn to him in such a way that I’m certain if I try to close the distance between us, I’ll disappear into him.
“No,” I say. “I’m not oka
y.”
His expression shifts. His brow furrows. He instinctively slips his arms around me, pulling me close. His embrace feels warm and safe. I could melt into it and give up all my striving; just let him wrap me up in him forever.
“C’mon,” he urges me. “Let’s let her sleep.”
Outside Emma’s room, once the door is shut, Camden hugs me tightly, holding me in the darkness. His body encloses mine and I don’t resist. Instead I lay my head on his chest and breath him in, my cheek pressed flat against his warm skin.
I feel his chest rise and fall with breathing. I hear his heartbeat beneath his breast at my ear. It’s slow and steady, but strong, like him. I have a hard time imagining Camden worn down and broken like the man he described to me earlier tonight. I have a hard time imagining him so angry he wished someone—the mother of his child—dead. The rare flashes of anger I have seen in him pale in comparison to what he described.
After all I know now, I feel as if I know even less than I did before.
“I’m sorry,” Camden whispers into my hair, as if he’s reading my thoughts. “I didn’t want you to know any of that. I was afraid. Ashamed. I don’t want you to hate me.”
“I couldn’t ever hate you, Cam,” I whisper. “I’m just trying to understand you.”
He hugs me a little tighter, a small huff of laughter blows in my hair. “When you figure me out, let me know. I’d like you to enlighten me, ‘cause I don’t understand me either.” He hauls in a deep breath. “I just know I love Emma more than life itself, and would do anything in the world to protect her. And I know I’m starting to feel exactly the same thing for you. That doesn’t make sense to me, but I can’t help it. And I hope, one day, you believe me. And maybe feel something for me too.”
If he only knew what I feel. I have no words for it. Being this close to him physically hurts. Being apart from him hurts worse. Is that love? If it is, it’s perfect and dreadful all at the same time. If it’s love it’s a longing, visceral hunger than can only be sated by proximity; the more intimate, the more fulfilling.
I pull back slightly so we face one another. Then, slipping my hand up past his shoulder, I let my finger caress his jaw and the turn of his chin. His beard is scratchy against my fingertips, his skin is hot and soft. I trace the line of his lips, feeling his body tense to my touch, his breath catch in his chest.
I want to kiss his lips, and so I do, pressing mine to his, surprising him. I open him to me and find his hesitant response even more tempting than usual. He returns my kisses tentatively. I’ve held him at bay for weeks, and now he’s confused. Feeling his firm, muscled chest flex beneath my open palm, I want to clear up the confusion. I let my tongue probe deep, sucking him in, pressing myself into him, eliminating the space between our bodies, closing the chasm between us.
“Jesus,” Cam huffs, coming up for air, pressing me hard against the wall. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
Loving Camden Davis is eventually going to hurt me. The pain may crush me. I know it’s inevitable. I also know I can’t escape it because it already hurts so bad. At least this way, I’ll have earned every regret that will torment me in the future.
“I haven’t even gotten started yet,” I threaten, keeping my voice low, my breath caressing his chest. I run my nails down his belly, gliding over the muscles cutting his abdomen into tightly defined segments. I trace lower, swirling my fingertips through the curl of hair dipping down below the waistband of his sweatpants. Then I firmly press him back, urging him toward his bedroom.
Once in his room, I back him toward his bed, crawling on top when he’s prone, using my mouth and lips to drink him in, sucking and nipping while I work my way from his sweet hungry lips to the tender inner flesh of his upper thighs. I spread his legs wide, using my tongue generously, teasing my way closer and closer to his erect cock and tight balls, letting my hair tickle him as I take my time getting there.
“Fucking hell,” Cam moans, his hands falling to my shoulders. “Oh, fucking hell.”
I gently slip my fingers behind his ball sack, lifting them into my soft grasp, pressing my knuckles into the tight flesh behind.
Cam moans loudly.
I tease him, tenderly caressing them in my hand, while using my tongue to trace the line of his shaft from base to tip. Pre-cum spills in glistening drips down the head of his cock. I lick it off, tasting the salty slick evidence of his anticipation. He’s hard as a rock. My panties are soaking wet, slippery with my need.
I take him into my mouth, using my free hand to grip him in small strokes at the base. I go slow, using my tongue to lash the curves and hard lines of him, while drawing my lips tight as I move up and down on his length.
“Oh, fuuuck…” he moans, fingers threading my hair, urging me on.
I keep the rhythm steady and my grasp firm as I pump him with my mouth sealed tight, sucking him into me.
It takes so little time before I feel him about to break. His balls draw tight, pulling up close to his body. His abdomen tenses, muscles lifting him. Then, all at once, the damn breaks. His balls shudder, passing a heavy load up the length of his cock, exploding into my mouth with a flood of hot, flowing cum. I suck him dry, draining the last drop, relishing in his pleasure, the music of his moans filling my ears. I don’t stop working until he quiets, his cock softening against my attentions.
When I sit up wiping my chin, Cam heaves for air, his expression bewildered, eyes glazed.
Good. Maybe now it’ll make sense to him why he’s starting to feel what he feels for me.
Maybe now he’ll start to believe that I feel close to the same thing.
Chapter 18
Camden
My mind is a blank. Somewhere in the back of it I have a vague memory of a very bad day; of rage and helplessness, cruelty, and fear. But that’s just a haze. All I have now is the sensation of floating, every inch of my body bathed in radiant heat and safety.
If only I could breathe.
I gasp for air, sucking in a lung full, feeling Grace’s soft hands flat against the tops of my thighs. I look down. She’s on all fours hanging over me, wearing a self-satisfied grin with slightly swollen lips from doing things to my cock that I have no words for.
Fucking hell.
I think that’s still illegal in six states, and it’s no wonder.
Grace crawls up on me, creeping like a cat, then settles down, straddling me. I feel her dripping heat on my limp dick, slick warmth sliding down onto my balls.
I know what to do with that, but at the moment, I’m useless.
My hands absently move to her hips, fingers circling, touching her soft, pale skin. I reach up to her shoulders, pulling her down to me, close on my chest, cradling her head in the crook of my neck.
“Jesus, baby. What was that?” I ask, lacking any better way of expressing just how fucking good that was.
She says nothing. She just kisses my chest, nipping my chin, tracing my pectorals with her fingertips.
A thousand times, while I endured the worst of life with Beverly Beaufort, I regretted ever meeting her and then marrying her. I wished I never laid eyes on her. But laying here, with Grace in my arms, I realize that without Bev, I wouldn’t have Emma. Without Emma, I would never have met Grace.
My father used to say that everything happens for a reason, and that second-guessing or holding onto regrets is a waste of time. Maybe he was right. I think he probably was.
Grace and I make love into the pre-dawn hours, taking our time, going slow, trying hard to stay quiet, but failing. When we’re spent, I pull her close to me spooning, her small, still body enveloped in mine. Without meaning to, we both drift off to sleep.
When I open my eyes, Grace is no longer with me. The room is bright, filled with streaming sunlight, the house is awake, and the scent of fresh coffee and bacon draws me to full wakefulness.
Saturday. No pre-school. The horses are turned out at dawn and then all but two of the stable crew go home for the weekend.
The ranch is quiet on the weekends.
I sit up in bed, getting a whiff of myself. I smell of sweat and sex. I’m glad Emma didn’t decide to join me this morning. That would be awkward.
Slipping into the shower I scrub myself clean, thinking of last night, and how Grace felt, how she made me feel. Last night felt like the wall came down. She’s mine. I smile to myself while I shampoo my hair.
She’s really all mine.
She hasn’t said the words yet, but I know she feels it. She showed me that.
Yesterday was the worst day I’ve had in years. Today, I’m walking on clouds. After breakfast I’m going to take my girls riding. My girls. It looks like a beautiful day for it; clear and warm. We’ll ride high up into the mountains and see what we can see, just because we can.
* * *
The ground beneath the horse’s hooves should be soft with snowmelt, but it’s dry, crackling underfoot. We haven’t had any precipitation since early February. Now, with the winds rising out of the southwest, everything is turning hot and parched. It’s only April. A few more months of this and we’ll be in a full-on drought.
At least we put in the new, deep well three years back. I don’t think it’ll run dry anytime soon; not like the old well. I feel sorry for anyone depending on surface water to keep their livestock hydrated or their crops growing. The reservoir is lower than I’ve ever seen it this time of year, and most of the creeks and rivers are either dry or damn near so.
“Daddy! Look!” Emma calls from up high. She’s crested the ridgeline thirty feet ahead of Grace and me, and she can see for miles.
Jack and Mirabel power up with ease, joining little Stoney on the high path.
I see what Emma see’s and it makes my gut wrench.
Fire. North of us by five or six miles, and one range of ridges east. We can’t see the flames, but a column of black smoke rises high into the air, indicating its heat. It levels out, the prevailing winds spreading a gray cloud over the valley to the east.
We get wildfires in the late summer and early fall. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them coming so early. I have little doubt that this one was set off by last night’s lightening. It’s too early in the season for those kind of storms, too.