Was that why he kept his distance? Why he never let himself get too attached? To avoid exactly this?
Why did I feel everything so intensely while he kept himself so controlled?
We’d both been through too much. So why did it shape us so differently?
The thoughts stacked on top of each other until I felt like I might crack under them. I didn’t even notice how much time passed—didn’t register the moment Erich dropped the phone cord and left the room.
His voice pulled me back when he returned from the bathroom, a washcloth in his hand.
“Camille.” His voice was firm—neither irritated nor overtly worried. He was holding himself in check for me, and my lip began to quiver as I met his gaze from across the room.
“I’m sorry,” I said, settling onto the motel bed.
Erich let out a slow sigh and closed the distance between us. He leaned in, carefully dabbing at my scratched face, searching for any glass that might still be embedded in my skin.
Déjà vu. It reminded me of my split lip back in Tennessee months earlier. But this time, there was something else in the gray of his eyes—something beyond soft empathy. I couldn’t tell if I was imagining it, but a creeping paranoia told me he might be annoyed. Tired of my constant problems.
I couldn’t handle that.
Before the tears could come, I caught his hands in mine, stopping his careful work.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” I whispered. “Will you stay with me?”
He didn’t pull away. The damp washcloth in his hand dripped onto his wrist as his eyes held mine.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll stay with you.”
I let go, and he moved to put the stained cloth aside. I shifted under the blankets, curling into myself as I waited. When he returned, he didn’t say anything—he climbed into the other side of the bed.
“Come closer,” I murmured from where I lay curled on the far edge.
He hesitated, then moved toward me—stopping just short of touching. I closed the distance myself, leaning back into him. Beneath the blanket, I found his arms and guided them around my waist before settling my head into the pillow.
His heartbeat pressed steady against my back—heavy, but controlled. Mine quickened as I held his arms in place and adjusted into him.
At first, he stayed stiff beneath me. Then, slowly, his shoulders loosened. I felt his breath warm against my hair as his chin rested there.
My legs tingled as I stretched them out, then hooked one back to pull him closer.
He shifted—just slightly—pulling his hips away to leave a small space between us.
I barely registered it.
Sleep took me quickly—his heartbeat at my back, his breathing steady against the crown of my head.
Chapter 18 – October 15, 1993 – Camille
It was shortly after the accident—maybe three days. I was still beat up and hated myself for what happened and what we did about it, but I was slowly learning to adjust. We decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to check into a hospital, so we kept moving.
So I thought.
We stayed in Massachusetts for a few days to lay low and heal. I slept a lot. I didn’t eat much. I avoided showering. Erich kept to his routine, but I was suffocating. The guilt over what happened to Thomas was eating me alive. I couldn’t bear leaving the room—not to see his obituary in the paper or the local news headline: “Harvard Student Dies in Tragic Car Accident.” Did Kelly, Henry, or Jake suspect I was there? Was I just waiting like a wounded animal for a cop to knock on the motel door and question me about that night?
My fingernails became bloody stubs. My hair fell out in clumps.
The day we left, Erich didn’t tell me the plan. He didn’t try small talk. He knew there was something wrong he couldn’t fix on his own—and he was probably right.
He didn’t tell me we were heading to New York until we were already there.
