My lungs seize. He got a facility lined up without even checking with me? I know the place he’s talking about too. It’s super exclusive. There’s no way we can afford it. This is so like him—making decisions for me.
Cam takes my carry-on and brushes a hand down my arm like he can sense the rage bubbling up inside me. Just a simple touch from him dulls the fury. “What’s wrong?”
Scattered and overwhelmed, I wave him off and furiously tap out a response on my phone.
He steps closer and lays his hand over the top of my screen. When I look up at him, his kind eyes are narrowed and his mouth is a flat line, like he means business. “I know you’re used to doing everything on your own, but you don’t have to anymore. And, baby?” He steadies me with his hand at the back of my neck and brushes the pad of his thumb against my cheek. “You are worthy of so much. If this is going to work, you need to talk to me, okay? I promise I’m not goinganywhere.”
I give him a curt nod and am rewarded when a light sparks in his eyes.
“You’re right.”
A taxi pulls up then, and he guides me inside. Once we’re settled, he watches me, expectation clear in his expression.
So I dive in. When I tell him I called Tyler for help, he doesn’t even bristle. He nods and listens as I relay how he picked my mom up from the hospital, then brought her to the rehab center without my permission.
“I’m sorry he didn’t discuss it with you first.” He squeezes my hand. “AndI’m glad she’s in a safe place.”
He’s right, but— “I can’t afford this rehab center. A thirty-day stint will be tens of thousands of dollars,” I squeak.
Nausea creeps up like a slow, relentless shadow, followed by a boiling, dizzying sensation—no doubt from a combination of exhaustion and stress. With a sharp breath, I push it all down and smother it with a lid.
The rehab center in Palm Springs is two hours from LAX, so Cam suggests we stop at my mom’s so we can sleep for a few hours and promises we’ll head east first thing in the morning.
It’s nearly seven in New York, so I text Aunt Rachel in case she’s still sleeping. She immediately calls me and puts me on speakerphone. I tell her and Uncle Ethan everything I know while Cam thumbs away on his phone beside me in the taxi, one hand on my lap the entire time.
I decline their offer to fly out but promise to update them as soon as I know more and if I need their help.
When we pull up to my mother’s modest bungalow, the street is eerily quiet. A lone streetlamp bathes her carport in a dim glow.
I exhale a sigh of relief when her spare key is still buried in moss in a planter. When I open the front door, the faint scent of takeout greets us.
To be honest, I expected the place to be worse, but it’s mostly tidy. The only thing out of sorts is an empty Styrofoam container on the counter next to her cell phone. At first glance, the main living space looks rather untouched.
“Is this where you grew up?”
“No. I never lived here. My mom moved shortly after I started college.”
I left San Diego to put some space between my mom and me, but living in the house my father died in without me became too unbearable for her.
We walk down the hall. Flicking on the light, I take in the guest bedroom. I stayed here for a couple of days after my breakup, but I haven’t been back since.
Cam embraces me from behind, resting his chin at the top of my head. My hair is down but kinked from the flight, with remnants of hairspray from the gala.
I turn in his arms and mumble into his chest. “Thank you for being here.”
He squeezes harder when my sniffles turn to sobs, and he doesn’t let go. He supports me when my legs feel like they’re about to give out, and he rubs my back when the waterworks finally release.
“I’ve got you.” He kisses me on the top of my head.
I focus on the steady rise and fall of his chest.
I love this man, and I think he might love me too.
47
Josefine
I’m surprisingly refreshedafter a solid four hours of sleep. Enough so, even, to conquer whatever is waiting for me in Palm Springs. I passed out while Cam showered last night, and this morning, I linger under the hot water longer than intended. I dress in a flowy white spaghetti-strap top tucked into a pair of cutoff jeans and a boho-like kimono. With my hair in a giant claw and a pair of Birkenstocks on my feet, I’m ready to head out. After filling my mom’s car with gas and grabbing coffees and bagels to-go, we are finally on the highway. If traffic is light, we should arrive at the rehab center before noon.
