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Declan cups my face, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip, his eyebrows pulling together in a scowl as he studies me, and I wish desperately that I knew what was going through his mind right now to cause him to look at me the way he is.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
"Now is probably not the time to discuss it."
"Why are you here, Camille? Answer me." I remain silent. Does he really not know why? How can he not?
Staring deep into his hazy eyes, a knot forms in the pit of my stomach telling me he's using again, but I don't want to ask him in fear that he'll be honest, and his answer will be one that I don't want to hear.
I roll my teeth over my lips, clamping them shut to keep me from saying something I'll regret.
"Fuck, Camille,” he whispers so lowly that I almost miss it. “You shouldn’t have come here." He presses his lips against my forehead, then attempts to pull away, fighting against me when I tighten my grip around his waist.
"Declan. Sit and calm down, and then we'll talk."
"Not right now." He pries my hands away from him, turning on his heel and walking toward the elevator, me following behind him.
"Declan! What the fuck? You're not going anywhere."
"Camille, stop talking. I can't hear your voice right now."
Yet again, history repeats itself, and he leaves when the going gets tough. We're like oil and water; we don't belong together.
Declan leaves me standing in the foyer of our penthouse with my mouth hanging open and a feeling in my stomach that’s urging me to follow him, but my feet are heavy and rooted to the ground.
This time, I let him go.
* * *
I've pacedthe living room so many times that if I pace anymore, I'll wear a hole into the carpet. It's been nearly four hours since Declan left, not that I'm counting or anything. I've called him close to twenty times and left voicemails each time, begging him to come back home so we can talk like mature adults. I've texted him a ridiculous number of times asking for the same thing. He hasn't replied, but they've all been delivered, so I know his phone is still on.
Not that I'm proud of it, but I also tried to track his phone, but the fucker turned off hisFind my iPhone, so that was a dead end.
After calling him again and leaving yet another voicemail, I throw my phone onto our plush gray couch with a soft thud, letting out a frustrated huff. I don't know what I expected to happen when I showed up here unannounced, ready to ask for a divorce, but this sure as hell wasn't it.
Without my phone glued to my hand, I allow myself to look around our penthouse, a place that holds so many memories between the three of us. We bought it when Luca turned one. He was about to start walking, and we needed more space. I'd spent my entire pregnancy touring with Declan, going to every show in every state and country the band traveled to. After the performances, he partied with the band, and I'd take my pregnant self back to our hotel and put my degree to use by working on my business plan and sketches.
I was seven months pregnant when Sinful Pleasures was launched. At the time, I only had a handful of clothing items, and they were only available online. I'm fortunate enough to have my family's support; my father is a significant reason I was able to quickly start my business and grow it to be as successful as it is. He backed me financially and connected me with other investors willing to take a chance on me because of their friendship with my father.
When we weren't touring, we lived in a small studio apartment in Queens. It wasn't until Luca was born that I told Declan we'd need more space. Even though I was usually home alone with Luca while Declan toured, it was still cramped for the two of us. When Dec was home, the space was even smaller.
We spent a year in that tiny studio apartment with a baby, eating ramen and saving every penny to purchase our dream home one day. Riot was becoming increasingly popular by the day, and luckily, we were in a better place financially and able to buy our Manhattan penthouse, giving Luca the space he needed to run around and have his very own bedroom and playroom.
We lived here for three years, and these walls have seen everything. The fights, the tears, the laughs, the good, the bad, and the ugly. I love it here.
Ilovedit here.
I stopped loving it when my baby boy died, and it no longer felt like a home. It became quiet and cold, missing the warmth of love.
It's been over a year since I've been here, it's hard to be here, and now that I'm here alone, I realize how difficult it is.
I’m not sure how or when, but my legs carry me down the hallway and to the one bedroom that has been closed for over a year.
I'm standing outside of his bedroom, with my hand on the doorknob, giving myself a mental pep talk to be able to open the door and go inside.
With a deep breath, my trembling fingers open the door with a creak, and my weak legs carry me inside his room.
Luca's bedroom.
