“I’m good, boss.”
Camille didn’t spend much time at any of Foster’s construction sites, but she loved seeing him at work. Loved witnessing the respect the guys had for the man she loved—and also respected—with her whole being. Foster had worked tirelessly to rebuild a life for himself, from the ground up. And maybe that was why this whole thing was eating her up inside. She wouldn’t allow this to upend everything he’d created. He didn’t deserve that.
“You hungry?” Foster kept Camille’s hand in his as he led her toward the gate where his pickup was parked.
She wasn’t. There were too many nerves swimming in her stomach to allow for anything else. But she just nodded.
They drove to a little sandwich shop just up the way. Camille ordered a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese, and Foster had a pastrami with the works, his favorite. It was still early for lunch, so they had the place to themselves. Foster had picked a little table at the back, flanked by big windows that looked out over the shore.
While they waited for their orders, Foster reached out for Camille’s hands again, like he needed this physical connection. Like he needed to hold onto her while he spoke, a link between them.
“I’m not a match.”
Her little gasp was barely audible, but she knew Foster heard it. Whether it fell from her lips out of relief or regret, though, she couldn’t be sure. “You’re not?”
“I found out yesterday. And you’re right, I should have told you.”
“No, Foster. You have every right to keep that—”
“You don’t need to make excuses for me. I should have told you, plain and simple. You were and are a part of this decision. It involves you. I should have let you know as soon as the hospital called me with the news.”
That was reasonable enough. “So why didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure how to tell you without…” His eyes cut to the window quickly, then flickered back. “Without losing my composure. Without falling apart.”
Even now, she could see the water brimming his eyes. Over the years, Foster had worked hard to control his emotions. Namely, his response to his anger. But a side effect of that was that he often kept a tight lid onallof his emotions. Visibly, atleast. She could count on one hand the times she’d ever seen the man’s eyes mist over, ever witnessed his chin tremble. And those times were tears of joy, unlike the ones that threatened to fall down his cheeks now.
Foster looked like he was just short of losing it all.
“It’s okay to be emotional about this,” Camille reassured.
“I know.” He tugged his hand free from their hold and swiped the back of it over his eyes before sniffing loudly. “In my head, this was how I was going to reconcile everything that happened. How I finally paid for my sins and moved on.”
“You’ve already done that.”
“I did what was required of me, Camille. I had no choice in it. I was going to go to prison whether I wanted to or not.” His throat moved with a swallow. “But this? Choosing to go through with this surgery to help him? This was something I could do—a choice I could make—that wasn’t required or mandated.”
“And now you can’t because you’re not a match.”
“Right. Now I’m stuck right back where I was,” he said. “In some ways, it feels like I’m in an even worse position because I can’t just pretend Jim is some strung-out lowlife out there ruining lives while also ruining his own. He’s turned things around, Camille. He’s let go of who he once was.” Foster sighed heavily. “I don’t know why I’m having such a difficult time letting go of it, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“He was so handsome.” Hannah turned another page in the old album, her eyes lingering on image after image like she was viewing them all for the first time. Of course, Edie had shared the photographs with her daughter on several occasions over the years, but Hannah’s interest had never been there. Edie understood that. Little kids rarely sat still long enough to eat a meal, let alone filter through a photobook of someone they hardly knew. Hannah barely remembered her father, and even though Edie would recount stories and memories, trying her best to add vivid detail, that’s all they were: passed down words that Hannah had to imagine on her own.
Photographs helped those stories come to life.
“Look at this one.” Edie fished out another photograph from the box, handing it over to her daughter who sat cross legged next to her on the rug in the middle of the family room floor. “You were about a year old here. It was the first time we took you to the San Diego Zoo.”
“What is that on my head?” Hannah held the picture up to her eyes to examine it.
“A tiara, I think. You always were his little princess.”
Sighing, Hannah returned it to the box. “I wish I remembered this.”
“You were a baby, sweetheart. There’s no way you could remember.”
Hannah moved to another album while Edie continued sorting through her favorites.
