Page 3 of Promise To Marry You
Beckett
Cam is silent the entirety of the short drive to her apartment. When we were leaving the hall, after finally getting everyone else out, I asked her if she wanted to go back to her grandfather’s house or to her apartment, and she said here. I didn’t ask why, just set the address in the GPS on my phone and started driving.
Truth be told, I’m still fuming at the audacity of her boss, so the silence is needed for me to get control of myself. Demanding she come in to worktoday? Seriously? I wanted to reach through the phone and rip him a new one for being such an insensitive asshole. Thank God, she said no. I know Joseph has been a challenge for her to work with, but she’s always dismissed it as no big deal when we talk about it.
Her stubborn, independent streak is a mile wide, even with me and the nearly two decades of friendship between us. It takes a lot for Cam to let down her walls and show me when she’s struggling. Even in university, she was too stubborn to ask for help until the last minute. I never understood why; she didn’t have to prove anything to me, but that’s just the way she is. Accepting help or support from anyone is incredibly difficult for her.
It's why, the second I got off the phone with her, at my little sister’s engagement party, no less, I had my brother help me book a flight to come here. She would never have asked me to come, so I just did it anyway.
My eyes keep darting from the road over to her, where she’s curled up in her seat, staring out the window. Her deep brown, almost black hair is twisted into a sophisticated looking knot on her head, and the dark eyeliner she prefers lines those green eyes that are rimmed red with emotion. I want to fix everything, take away her pain, somehow take care of her, but I can’t erase her grief.
We pull up to her apartment building and she’s out of the car, striding toward the front door, before I can even turn the engine off. I hurry after her, leaving my bags in the back seat for later. She flings the door open and storms down the hall to her first-floor apartment. Once we’re inside her unit, I close and lock the door, setting the keys down on the kitchen counter and taking a look around. She’s added some new artwork since I was here last, and I recognize the broad colourful strokes as her own.
As always, her artistic talent astounds me. Every emotion, every feeling, she pours them all onto her canvas. They’re bold and mysterious, vibrant and full of hidden depths. Just like she is.
In university, she discovered aerial hoop after a friend dragged her to a trial class. For months, she spent hours at a studio learning how to spin around and contort her body into crazy shapes, all in a giant hoop suspended in the air. I watched her a few times, and it was beautiful and dizzying. Which sums up Cam perfectly.
Sometimes it felt impossible to keep up with the woman. When we were younger, she was always trying something new, ready for any adventure and challenge. At times, it almost seemed like pushing the limits was a way to escape, but what she was running from, I never quite grasped. Until I went with her to Cliveden for the first time.
Then I understood. In this town, she has to shrink herself into a small bland box. But everywhere else she’s free to be herself.
I look up to see her pad out of her bedroom, tying her hair up in a ponytail. She must have taken down the fancy bun thing in her bedroom. Gone is the black dress she wore to the funeral, and now she’s in baggy sweats and a faded T-shirt from the university where we met. A T-shirt that, if I remember correctly, was mine until I told her to keep it after she accidentally got paint on it one day, the second year we knew each other.
The tension from the car ride home is still present, but it has lightened ever so slightly now that she’s home.
I drape my suit jacket over a chair, loosen my tie, and roll up my sleeves, all while sliding my own shoes off my feet. We work in a comfortable silence, Cam opening her freezer and tossing me a frozen pizza box while I turn on the oven. I then grab two beers out of her fridge, open them both, and hand her one.
“To Grandpa,” I say, inclining the bottle toward hers. We clink them together and drink. “Princess BrideorMoulin Rouge?” I ask, moving into her living room as I list her two favourite movies. When I realize she hasn’t followed me, I glance back to see her standing in the kitchen, looking lost.
Shit.
“Hey, we don’t have to watch a movie,” I say, hurrying back to her. I set my beer down and start to gather her in my arms, but she pushes back.
“No. I want to. I actually was just thinking how lucky I am that you automatically know rom-coms and pizza are what I really need right now. Then I started thinking about how Grandpa teased us about our obsession with those movies that summer after third year when you came to visit us here, and then I just…” her voice trails off with a small sniffle.
I step back toward her, and this time when I pull her in she lets me, folding her body against mine. We stand there for a minute. I know better than to push her to talk. She will if she wants to. What she needs right now is to get out of her own head.
“Just pick a movie.”
I feel her chest rise and fall with a deep breath, then her head lifts and she gives me a watery smile. “Princess Bride.”
Our favourite movie, one we’ve watched a hundred times. There’s only one response, and it’s a phrase I’ve said countless times to her. Our own private joke, if you will.
“As you wish,” I say, with a small bow. Her giggle is quiet and subdued, but I’ll take it.
We only get a few minutes into the movie when Cam’s phone rings with her building’s front door buzzer. She seems ready to ignore it, so I ask, “Want me to see who it is?”
She shrugs as if she really can’t be bothered to care but then nods. I answer, and an older man’s voice answers.
“This is Barkley Soto, I’m Wilbert Byrne’s attorney. I had hoped to speak with Cam at the wake but was unable to find an appropriate moment. As much as I hate to bother her, my instructions were clear. I need to review something with her as soon as possible.”
I buzz him in, then set the phone down and turn to Cam. Her eyes are downcast, focused on her fingers that play with the hem of her shirt. “I heard him.”
“Do you want me to give you some privacy to talk with him?” I ask gently, and her head shoots up with an emphatic shake.
“No way. Don’t go anywhere.”
I squeeze her hand, then go to let the lawyer inside. A few minutes later, we’re all seated around Cam’s table, and Barkley is setting some papers in front of him. There’s an envelope on top with Cam’s name written on it in her grandfather’s handwriting.
