Cami squinted with something akin to anger. “Do you hate him?”
The question hit harder than I expected.
“No,” I said after a pause. Her expression relaxed. “I don’t hate him. I just don’t know what to do with him—do you understand?” I asked.
Camille nodded solemnly, as if that made perfect sense. “I don’t know what to do with people either sometimes.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “I think we’re going to get along well, Cami.”
She smiled, then peered down at the town plaza. “He said this place reminds him of whenyouwere little, like me. You used to go to all the festivals.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
Before everything, I thought. Before Mom spent all her time out of bed behind the counter at Captain’s Table. Before Dad’s excuses and empty promises became absences. Before the building at the end of Main Street stopped feeling like a home.
“Before we got older,” I said instead.
She leaned her head on my shoulder, as if satisfied by my responses. “We’re moving here soon. Dad said it’s a good place to grow up.”
“How would he know?” I wanted to say. Cami didn’t need to hear it, though. She was still in that blissful, naive bubble where her father’s mistakes were merely abstract concepts. I wouldn’t let her grow up too fast like I did. Even if it was the last thing I did.
“Itisa good place to grow up,” I murmured, “Do you like it here?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” I said, smiling.
We hovered in silence for a long time, watching the ocean shimmer beneath the sun and crash onto a shore dotted with visitors bundled in jackets and scarves.
Then, quietly: “Are you staying?”
My throat tightened. “What do you mean?”
“Dad said you’re just visiting from… from…”
“New York,” I finished miserably.
Camille kicked the side of the basket gently. “You shouldn’t go.”
“I think I should.”
She blinked up at me, steadily drooping eyes full of hope and fondness. “But then you’ll miss the Christmas festival. Dad said it’s the best one.”
I looked down. Bluebell Cove hummed with life below us—tiny, perfectly imperfect, unbearably familiar.
“Maybe I’ll visit,” I said softly.
She frowned. “That’s not the same.”
“No,” I admitted. “It’s not.”
When we landed, Andrew was waiting. Camille jumped out first, breathless and pink-cheeked, and ran straight to him. He lifted her up easily, spinning her once before setting her down. She wrapped her arms around his leg and slumped into him, blissfully unaware of how strange it was to lean on someone like Andrew Wade.
I cleared my throat and said, “She did great.”
“She usually does.”
