by Jiffy Kate
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, without even thinking about what I want to say. First, I know I want to apologize.
“For what?” she asks, squaring her shoulders.
“For, I don’t know . . . all of this,” I say, waving my arms around in the air at invisible objects. “I know you’re upset, and I hate seeing you that way. So, I’m sorry.”
“Where do you see us going from here?” she asks.
I swallow, knowing what I want to say and what I need to say, but I’m having trouble forcing the words out.
“I don’t know,” I say, but it’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is that I don’t see us going anywhere. Janie is great. She’s ambitious and smart and fun. But she’s not who I see myself with in thirty years . . . or ten . . . or tomorrow.
“You’ll never look at me the way you look at her,” she says sadly, and it makes my head snap up, and my eyes find hers. “You look at her like she hung the moon and placed the stars. When she’s in the room, she’s all you see. But I want you to look at me like that.” There are tears in her eyes and emotion thick in her voice.
“You deserve someone to look at you like that,” I tell her with all the honesty and sincerity I can muster. Hearing her words makes my heart ache, but weirdly enough, it’s not because I’m sad . . . it’s because I know what she’s saying is the truth. I’ve always thought that Cami is wonderful . . . because she is. She’s my best friend, my first love, and I’ve suddenly realized she is the person I can see myself with fifty years down the road.
I don’t know why it took me so long to see it, but I do. So clearly.
Janie pushes herself off the doorframe and takes a couple of steps toward me until we’re standing toe to toe. Stretching up, using the front of my too small shirt to pull herself closer, she places a soft kiss on my cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’ve always known I could never compete with her. I saw it the first night at the restaurant, but I guess I thought maybe I still had a chance because you were with me. But some things just aren’t meant to be.”
And some things are.
Camille
Present
I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND HOW a patient is supposed to rest while in a hospital when they’re constantly being disturbed throughout the night. I know the medical staff are only doing their jobs, but it’s frustrating, and I’m not even the patient.
The good news is that Deacon is expected to be discharged later today. The doctor wants to do another chest x-ray and, if that’s clear, we can leave. I’m so ready to be in a real bed. I can only imagine how Deacon must feel.
“Hey, you think we can get a few of these hospital gowns to take home?” Deacon asks.
“Why on earth would you want that?”
“We could both use them. Just think about how interesting ‘no pants day’ would be with these things on! Talk about easy access,” he says while waggling his eyebrows at me.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s the man I’m gonna marry.
I take the small pillow given to me by the nurse last night and throw it at his face. “What am I gonna do with you, Deacon Landry?”
He leans over and grabs my hand, pulling me to him. “You’re gonna marry me, that’s what, Camille Benoit. Don’t you forget it.”
He kisses me, and it’s almost as if we’re home already and not still in this hospital room. That is until the door opens and we hear a throat clearing.
“Sorry, to interrupt. I just wanted to stop by and check on Deacon.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that voice, and I can tell by the expression on Deacon’s face he’s just as surprised as I am.
“Hey, Janie. Come on in,” he tells her. “I didn’t realize you were workin’ here.”
When I go to move from Deacon’s bed to the nearby chair, Deacon stops me and pulls me closer to him. I don’t know if he’s using me to protect himself or making sure Janie knows we’re together but, either way, I don’t mind.
Janie steps into the room but doesn’t sit down. “Yeah, I’m doing my residency here. Sorry for just barging in like this. I saw your name on a medical file and wanted to make sure you were okay. I’m sorry to hear about your restaurant.”
“Thanks. I’m lucky it wasn’t worse—for me and for Pockets—but we’ll both be fine.”
I love the confidence in his voice. He’s determined for the fire to only be a hiccup in his plans, nothing serious and, certainly, nothing long term.
“I also see that congratulations are in order,” Janie says, nodding toward the engagement ring on my finger.
“Yep,” Deacon beams, “we’re gettin’ married next week.”
Janie looks a little surprised to hear about our wedding, but she plays it off well.
“Oh, even after the fire?” she asks. It’s an honest question, even one we’ve discussed once or twice during the last twenty-four hours.
“Absolutely. I don’t care if I have to wear shorts or walk with a cane, nothing is keeping me from marrying Cami next week just like we’ve planned.” He’s speaking to her but looking at me the entire time. I was the one who half-heartedly suggested we postpone the wedding, if only for another week, but Deacon adamantly refused.
“Well, that’s great. I’m happy for you both.” She walks back to the door and waves her clipboard in the air. “I have to get back to my rounds. It was good seeing you, Deacon. Take care.”
Camille
Past
SOMETIMES, AT NIGHT, MY TINY house is too quiet.
And lonely.
But it especially is tonight because, for the first time since Carter was born, I’m spending the night alone. I went out with Stacey for a drink earlier since she’s home for Thanksgiving and we ran into Deacon and Micah and my brother at the bar.
Seeing Deacon outside of my house or his parents’ was different . . . good, but different. It’s been a long time since I’ve hung out with him around other people and he was . . . different . . . good, but different. He watched me a lot. I didn’t notice it at first, but Stacey pointed it out to me. I thought it was more of the protective bullshit that they used to pull in high school, but I don’t know. He seemed intense, especially when I was dancing with a random guy from the bar. I thought Deacon was going to burn holes in the back of the poor man’s head.
The pull I always feel when I’m around him was there, but I’m not sure if he feels it too. Sometimes, I want to ask, but things have been so good between us lately. Since he broke up with Janie, he spends a lot of time with me and Carter, even more than before the break-up and it’s nice. I love it, actually. And I don’t want to do anything to mess it up.
Sometimes, I’m afraid I’m relying on him too much. I don’t know if he realizes the role he’s beginning to fill, but I’m also afraid if I point it out to him, he may get spooked and bolt. Deacon and I used to talk about everything when we were younger. I know he wants children, but I don’t know if he wants them now.
And I refuse to take his break-up with Janie at anything more than face value. I’m not going to jump to conclusions or take up wishful thinking. Those both sound like recipes for disaster and a broken heart. I don’t have the luxury of taking those kind of chances these days. Carter needs me and Deacon turning me down or removing himself from our lives would crush me. So, for now, I’m good with how things are.
Standing at the kitchen sink, I watch the rain. I’ve always loved a good rain storm. Usually, I sleep like a baby, but tonight, I can’t stop thinking about Deacon. I watch the drops hit the window over until the tea kettle I put on a few minutes ago starts whistling.
While I’m busy making my tea, I think I hear something outside.
It sounded like a car door.
But it could’ve been thunder.
I take my mug and walk back over to the window just in time to see a large figure running up the steps of my porch.
My heart pounds and
I think about turning the kitchen light off and retreating to my bedroom, but then I see the face . . . and the rest of him.
He barely has a chance to get one knock in before I’m cracking the door open.
“Hey,” Deacon says, and my heart drops out of my body. If I were able to peel my eyes off him and look at my feet, it’d probably be lying there in a heap, beating out of my chest.
He’s always beautiful, but there’s something about the way the water is dripping off him that emphasizes every feature, every strong line, and detail. His eyes aren’t their usual blue-green abyss. They’re darker. His shoulders are tense. His jaw is tight.
“Hey,” I reply, using the half-open door for support.
“Can I come in?” he asks as his hand pulls at the now wet white T-shirt.
“Y—yes,” I stutter over the reply and avert my eyes to keep from giving myself away. Deacon doesn’t need to know the inward struggle I’m having. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” he says as the door shuts closed behind him and my heart drops again, but for a different reason.
“What’s wrong?” I ask begging him with my eyes to spit it out.
I’m about to reach back for the door when his hand comes out and rests on mine.
“We need to talk.”
“About what?” I ask, deciding that if something were wrong with Carter or anyone else, he’d just come right out and say it. Instead of panicking, I try to take slow, deep breaths.
Deacon looks down at himself, and I jump into action as my brain catches up.
“Lemme get you a towel,” I tell him, not waiting for his response before I retreat down the hall and into the bathroom to get him a towel and collect my thoughts.
When I flip the light on, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and cringe. My hair’s damp, twisted back at the nape of my neck, and I’m wearing a white T-shirt and no bra. I consider bee-lining it to my bedroom to throw on a sweatshirt, but I don’t want to leave Deacon waiting, so I decide to deliver the towel first.
“Here,” I tell him when I get back to the living room. “You want me to get you a dry T-shirt? I’m sure I have one of Tucker’s around here somewhere. He just loves leavin’ his dirty laundry for me to do.” I chuckle, crossing my arms over my chest to cover myself, trying to make light of the situation that suddenly feels very heavy and dense.
“I’ll pass,” he says, crooking a smile and making his dimples go on full display.
Why, God?
Why must I be tortured?
I’m a good girl.
At least, I try to be.
“Uh, want some tea?” I ask, thinking of a way I can occupy myself and warm Deacon up.
I will not think about warming Deacon up.
“Sure,” he says running the towel over his hair and down his face.
I walk back over to the stove and grab another mug and tea bag before pouring the hot water, using the methodical movements to calm myself.
“So,” I say, turning around, ready to engage in casual conversation, but instead I’m completely caught off guard by the stare I’m met with. Deacon is standing on the other side of the table and he’s looking at me like his life depends on it. “What did you want to talk about?” The words come out slow and low as I dip the tea bag a few times and then set it on the table in front of where he’s standing.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he mumbles, but I hear him, and I don’t know what that means, but I feel the atmosphere change.
“What?” I ask as I watch him ignore the hot mug on the table and take two steps toward me.
“I. Can’t. Do. This. Anymore,” he repeats, more pronounced with each word. “I don’t want to.”
For a second, just a split second, I think maybe he’s talking about us . . . maybe our friendship, but I know, like deep down to the core of my being, Deacon will never leave me. He’ll always be there for me. So, as I mentally pass by that option, I go on to the next . . . maybe he’s talking about . . .
“I can’t stay away from you,” he says, interrupting my thought process. “I can’t pretend that I don’t want you. I can’t watch other guys hit on you. I can’t go another day without tellin’ you how I feel.”
His words come out sure and strong. With each statement, he takes a step closer, and my body responds.
First, it’s my stupid heart that gives out.
Then, it’s my breathing.
And then, my speech.
I just shake my head and watch him. I watch him as he walks to me like I’m his prize, and he’s come to claim what’s his.
And I don’t know what to do.
I’m paralyzed.
Frozen.
“What?” I manage to squeak.
“I love you,” he says so easily like he’s saying the day of the week . . . like it’s the most normal thing on earth. “I love you, and I need you to know that.”
His damp hair is curled along his forehead, and he reminds me of the boy I fell in love with so long ago.
But when his hand reaches out and brushes my arm, I’m reminded of the man he’s turned into.
The lump in my throat keeps me from responding.
I want to tell him that I love him too. I’ve always loved him. I loved him when he didn’t see me for more than Tucker’s little sister. I loved him when he knew me better than anyone on the planet. I loved him while I thought I loved someone else. And I loved him when I knew he did.
And I think, all along, deep down, I’ve always known that he loves me too.
He didn’t have to say it.
He showed me in ways that can’t be put into words.
He saved me when I needed it the most.
He understood me when I felt like no one else did.
He believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
And he has no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear him say those words to me.
For the longest time, we’ve passed each other like ships on the sea. Our lives are always at different ports. I used to let myself dream that maybe one day we’d be on the same course, but that dream faded over time.
“I know this is out of the blue, and . . .”
“I love you,” I blurt out, unable to let him stand there, with his heart exposed and not hear those words in return. “I’ve always loved you.”
If he’s ready to put all the cards out on the table, then so am I.
A second later, his hands are on my face, in my hair, and he’s leaning into me—his damp body pressing into mine, and we’re both breathing like we just ran a marathon.
“What are you doin’?” I ask, fighting with instinct and reason.
“What I’ve wanted to do for a long, long time,” he drawls, his breath hot on my lips. “If you don’t want this, you need to tell me now.”
I use the half inch of space between us to look up, into his eyes, and it’s over. Any lingering rational thought flies out of my mind with the brush of his thumb over my lip.
I don’t know if I initiate it or if he does, but our mouths collide, and the world around us crumbles and the two of us are all that remain. His teeth graze my bottom lip and his tongue requests permission to delve further, and I give it to him. Everything.
Lost in his kiss and his touch, I barely register the feel of his hands on my hips. He lifts me up and places me on top of the kitchen counter. Something falls to the ground in a loud clatter, but I don’t care. I eagerly spread my legs, giving him room to nestle between them.
In a fluid motion, Deacon grabs the bottom of my shirt and pulls it over my head, and I know I should care. I should feel exposed. I should want to cover myself, but I don’t. I want him. And I want him to have all of me. I’ve wanted it for so long, and I’m so desperate for it that all I can muster is a pathetic whimper as I pull at his shirt and urge him to take it off.
Flashes of a time long, long ago flitter through my mind, like clips from an old movie. I see us, young and inexperienced, in the back of his truck. That night w
as so different from this. We knew what we wanted, but we didn’t know what we were doing.
I didn’t know Deacon was inexperienced back then, but I see the difference in him now.
Where once a young boy, with nervous hands and second-guesses once stood, now stands a man who is confident and knows exactly what he wants and how to get it.
I moan as his lips leave mine and make a hot trail down my neck. His hands take both of my full breasts, and he begins to rub and pull, teasing me into a panting mess.
Leaning into his touch, I silently beg for more, but then I find my voice, and I tell him.
“More, Deacon,” I plead, removing my hands from his hair and reaching between us to find his belt buckle. “I want more.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, his movements stopping for a second. “I didn’t come over here just to . . .”
“I’m sure,” I tell him, breathless. “I want this. I want you.”
And those words are all he needs to hear.
He scoops me up off the counter and carries me down the hall. On the way to my bedroom, I wrap my arms around his neck and revel in the feel of his bare chest against mine. I revel in having him here with me like this. I almost fall apart right there in his arms, but somehow, I refrain.
Before he lays me down on the bed, I squeeze harder, wanting to say so much, but deciding it can wait when I pull back and see the hunger in his eyes.
No one has ever looked at me like that, and it sends a bolt of electricity straight to my core.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, hovering over me as he lowers me to the bed. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful . . . so perfect.” His words trail off as his fingers lightly move from my breasts to my stomach and down further to the waist of my pajama shorts.
My knees fall to the side, and everything after that happens in rapid succession.
My shorts are pulled off and tossed to the floor. I watch as Deacon makes fast work of his belt and jeans, his boxers meeting them in a heap. And then it’s just me and him, and we both take each other in for a few seconds, unable to move or speak.
“I love you,” I whisper, because now that I’ve said those words out loud, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.