Over the last couple of weeks, Cam and I have fallen into a sort of groove. He signed up for a photography course taught by a New York Film Academy legend, so he’s been busy. My writing workshop wrapped up, and Ari and I have decided to stay on for the two-week extension.
Cam and I continue to see each other regularly, though I’ve only spent the night once more. The fear that getting involved with him will pull me away from my writing career has yet to come to fruition. If anything, he’s intentional when making plans, and he’s always sure to check in about my availability and whether I have the mental capacity to hang out. He didn’t even seem upset when I canceled on him last-minute because I was deep in my metaphorical writing cave. Instead, he had Mark hand-deliver food from Bubbe’s Nosh Pit, with extra black-and-white cookies.
I’ve reread the letter he stuck in my suitcase the day I left Crete multiple times now. I keep it tucked between the pages of my tattered copy ofMaestro.
He copied down a quote fromThe Alchemist. The line about fear of failure preventing us from achieving our dreams. I used to think the fear of failure was only reserved for one’s career. But Cam is showing me that there’s more to life than just what I do. Who I do life withis just as vital. I think about my dad and how he would hate seeing me hold back because I’m afraid.
“Embrace the journey,” Millie said.One step at a time.
Maybe this thing with him is worth the risk after all.
Millie nailed her audition like I knew she would. Yesterday, she hopped on a bus to Syracuse, where the touring company is rehearsing. She will be gone for several months, and I already miss her dearly, even though her absence means I’ve taken over her bedroom.
I’m between editing projects for the next couple of weeks and beyond thrilled to devote the hours I normally spend working for others to my own manuscript.
Cam texted before his photography class started to see if he could pick up dinner and bring it over to my apartment after. I couldn’t respond in the affirmative fast enough. The idea of christening the space already has my blood pumping. I may have to buy my cousin an entirely new mattress, but it’ll be worth it.
I’m jotting down notes in my notebook for a writing exercise Talulah assigned yesterday when I grab my phone to check the time. I thought he would be here by now.
Cam
Hey baby. I’m downstairs. I don’t think the buzzer is working. Can you let me in?
The time stamp shows the message arrived three minutes ago. I hop off the couch and slide my feet into a pair of Birks. With my keys in hand, I throw open the door, ready to hustle downstairs. Instead, I rear back when I come face to face with Cam, his fist in a knocking position.
“Hi,” I gasp. “How did you?—”
He tilts his head to one side, so I lean over the threshold and peer down the hall.
When I catch sight of my neighbors, Peg lifts the back of her hand to her forehead and mock-swoons. Fran waves a hand in front of her face and whistles. “Whew, that one’s a looker.”
“You staying the night, sugar?” Peg asks.
Eyes wide, Cam looks to me for an answer.
I shrug and shoot her a smirk. “If he’s on his best behavior, maybe. Why?”
“Give us a warning so we can turn down our music,” Peg says.
“I think you meanup,” I laugh.
“I meant exactly what I said,” she deadpans.
“Ignore the old bird.” Fran shoves her wife into their apartment, but not before Peg calls out, “Be sure to annunciate, kids! The batteries in my hearing aids are on their way out.”
With that, their door slams closed.
Once we’re alone, we fall into a fit of laughter. I can’t live here forever, but when I finally have enough saved for an apartment of my own, I’ll miss those two.
“I’d say I’m sorry about them,” I tease while ushering him into the kitchen, “but that was them being mellow.”
He sets the bags of food on the counter and kisses the side of my head in greeting. “They seem delightful.”
Unsatisfied with the peck, I tug him by his shirt and pull him into me. I tease at the waistband of his chino shorts, then drag my hands up and down his back and slide them into the back of his shorts.
With a groan, he brings his lips to mine and hovers there. I drink in the air he exhales and continue my tactile examination of his body by moving on to his biceps, relishing in the way they bulge. I’ve never seen Cam at the gym, but the selfie he texted from the locker room the other day may or may not be the wallpaper on my phone.
My knees weaken during a series of slow, quivering kisses. When his lips leave mine, I groan in protest, but he placates me by dropping a line of kisses along my jaw.
