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I zip up her bag and turn to her. "You ready to get out of here, babe?"
She stares out the window and off into the distance.
Her dad picks us up in a rental and takes us to the suite.
"It's time for you to go home, Cameron," she deadpans.
"What do you mean?" I ask, distracted with putting her clothes away.
She takes my hand and sits me on the bed next to her. "I need you to go back home. I need some time alone, away from everything. Away from you."
"Away from me?" I croak.
Her eyes are red and filling with tears as they penetrate mine. She nods. "You need to go home. You need to work. You can't put your life on hold for me. I'll be there in two weeks."
I blow out a heavy breath, as heavy as my heart. "But I want to be with you. I don't understand. Did I do something wrong?"
"No, baby," she whispers. "You didn't do anything. Neither of us did anything. I just need some time to think. I'm just... I just need time to wrap my head around everything. It doesn't mean that I don't love you, because I do. I love you more than you could ever know. I promise that it's not about you."
She reaches up and wipes the wetness off my cheeks.
"I'm sorry," she says.
I try to kiss her, but she pulls away.
She always pulls away.
I want to stay. I want to fight her on this, but I know it won't do any good. If anything, it would only cause bad.
***
I stare out the window of the car while Tom drives me to the airport. He'd already paid for my ticket, which meant that he already knew she wanted me gone but never told me.
"I know you're mad at me," he says.
I'm not.
He adds, "But I had no choice. It's what Lucy wanted, and I think we both agree that what Lucy wants is most important now."
He's right, but what I want should be important too. What happened doesn't just affect her, it affects both of us. I stay quiet, because clearly what I have to say doesn't matter.
***
We speak on the phone every day.
The first day, we spoke for an hour. I don't know what we spoke about, but that wasn't the point. The point was she was talking to me. But just like at the hospital, each day she became more distant. So distant that she never even told me she was home. She said she'd be two weeks. It's only been one.
"Why didn't you tell me you were home?"
"I don't know," she says quietly.
"Can I come by?"
"I don't think that's a good idea, Cam. I'll call you tomorrow."
Then she hangs up.
I pick up my keys, get in my car, and start driving to her house. Because I can't not. She's my heart. And I can't survive without my heart.
*
I knock, but there's no answer. The lights are on, so I know she's in there.
"Lucy!" I knock again.
And wait.
Nothing.
I use the key she gave me before she left. Shit, it feels like a lifetime ago.
She's sitting on the couch covered in a blanket with balled up tissues all around her. She's crying so hard that her shoulders heave with every sob.
I get to her faster than I thought possible. "Baby, what are you doing?"
She doesn't look up. She doesn't even acknowledge my presence. She just keeps crying, her hands gripping the edge of a picture frame to her chest.
I sit on the couch next to her and wrap my arms around her.
"I told you not to come here," she shouts through her tears.
I swallow the hurt, because I know she's feeling it too. "Lucy, come on. You need me here."
"No!" She pushes me away. "That's the problem, Cam! I need you. I've always needed you! And you can't always be there. Not anymore."
"What are you talking about?" I try to keep my voice even, but I'm struggling. "Baby—"
"Stop!" She sits up higher, gripping the frame tighter. "I can't deal with this. I can't be with you anymore!"
I suck in a shaky breath and let it out in a whoosh. Along with any sense of calm I've tried to hold on to. "Why the fuck are you pushing away? I've done nothing but want to be close to you and you keep doing it!"
She cries harder.
I shake my head—my gaze catching sight of the picture in the frame. "Lucy," I whisper, trying to pry it from her fingers.
"No," she sobs. "It's mine."
I pull the frame harder, knowing that whatever it is is causing her this type of hurt—the type that shouldn't exist. She finally releases it, giving up the will to keep it to herself.
I see the picture.
And my world goes black.
"You see?" she says, pointing at it.
I stand up, just so I know that I'm still alive, that I'm still able to breathe through the pain. I look down at the frame. A sketch. The one I made her after our first time. The one with her room in our future house. The one with her huge armchair, and all the little ones in front of it. The ones for all the children we wanted to have.
"You see?" she says again, quieter this time.
But I can't. I can't see through my tears.
She sucks in a breath, trying to hold it in so that her cries aren't so loud.
"That's what you wanted, Cameron."
For once in my life I want her to be quiet. I don't want to hear what she has to say. I can't take it.
