Cam is already there.
He stands outside her room like a fucking guard dog, arms crossed over his chest, face set in the same unreadable mask he’s been wearing for the past few years.
I walk up slowly and cautiously. “Is she awake?”
Cam barely glances at me. “She was the last time I went in.”
“I just want to see her, man.”
“Well,shedoesn’t want to seeyou.”
My stomach clenches, but I nod like I expected it. It’s the same answer I got yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.
“She say that?”
He looks at me then, eyes hard and cold. “Yeah, Alex. She said that.”
I flinch slightly, but enough for him to notice.
“I need to talk to her, Cam. I just want to make things right.”
“It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?” His words set me off.
“Don’t act like I fucking abandoned her. You don’t get to pin this on me like I’m the bad guy.”
Cam takes a step toward me, his shoulders squared, nostrils flaring. “You think this is about blame? Emma almostdied, Alex. Do you get that? Her heart stopped. We didn’t know if she was going to come back, and you—you just waltzed in here like you have some kind of privilege because you supposedly cared for her once upon a time. And she’s supposed to…what? Welcome you with open arms?”
“She’s dying, Cam!” I shoot back. “Just like you said! And I didn’t come here expecting anything. I came because I love her. I need to be here.”
Cam shakes his head slowly, lips pressed into a hard line. “You had fifteen years to be there for her. Why the hell were you trying now?”
“I never stopped caring about her. I never stopped loving her. I’m here now. I can’t change anything about the past, but I’m trying now and it’s all I can give.”
“It’s not good enough.”
We’re nose to nose now. One more word and I might swing. But instead, I clench my fists at my sides and breathe through the rage clawing its way up my throat. Cam looks at me for a long second, then sighs, like this conversation is exhausting him.
“You want to help her, Alex? Give her space. Respect what she asked.”
“She’s scared. She doesn’t mean it.”
“Maybe. But it’s not your call to make.”
As much as it hurts, he’s right. It’s not my call. I can’t force her to want to talk to me or let me tell her the truth. So I back off, for now.
But it doesn’t stop me from coming back the next day.
And the next.
Every time, I get the same answer. It’s torture—not being able to see her, to talk to her, to make her understand that I never would have left if I had known she was sick. That I never would have let her go through this alone if I had any clue what she was going through.
I pullup to Leo’s house after being rejected from seeing Emma the last time this morning.
I need something to do with my hands that won’t end in a bar fight or a self-inflicted black out. I need to occupy myself before I lose my mind.
Leo’s outside the shop, his shirt stained with sawdust. Mia is perched on his hip babbling at a wooden horse they apparently were carving together. She’s waving a paintbrush around like she’s commanding a tiny army. He laughs when she smacks a blotch of blue paint onto his arm.
It’s the kind of scene that guts me.
