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Like a tiger trying to hide its stripes, it’s impossible. I would never fit into the mold just the way they wanted. Not interested in my mom’s new couch, I finally ask, “What are you doing here?”
She gingerly sips her champagne. “I heard you were back and wanted to see you.”
I raise my arms out from my sides. “Here I am. Are we done now?”
“Rude, Coop.” She finishes her drink and begins to refill it.
Pouring just a finger more of the bourbon into my glass over the melted ice, I wonder how much I want to entertain her.
If I’m hiking or running in the snow, pushing my lungs to open while I work through my life, that contract, and the deadline they’ve added of Christmas Day, I spend hours in my room where my patience has worn thin by the lack of human contact.
They’ve tried to tame me my entire life. Glancing at Camille, I know it worked for a short time. I just couldn’t hack the confinement of the prison they’d constructed for my life before I figured out what they were doing.
I move to the window to stare outside at the sky that decided to dump snow like there’s no end in sight. I grin, hearing Story’s voice inside my head. “I don’t mind it so much . . . it’s more the images it conjures.” She’d love this snow and sitting by the fireplace keeping the living room warm.
Six days of little ways of touching base keep us connected. I’ve gotten a photo every day of things that remind her of me. A photo of rain through the window of the coffee shop somehow brings me comfort. Another of the note I left her that looks like it’s been read a thousand times from the rough edges and bends in the paper. My side of the bed because yes, I’ve already claimed that. And some others of the world we’re building together—the empty bottle I left on the floor after we had sex for the first time, a glove that stayed behind. I tore my apartment up looking for that.
All these things have me smiling.
Story has me feeling different about myself, the man I am here versus when I’m with her. I miss it—all of it—her, that bed, the dim coffee shop that feels like a second home to so many.
A difference in our schedules has left us fumbling to bridge the gap in time. She works late, and I’m up early, so we find ourselves somewhere in between.
There’s no sexting, but that’s understandable since I just took her V-card. Fuck. Guilt riddles through me, and I shake my head. Until I make that right, it just feels wrong to have it play out the way it did. Not that it wasn’t great, but just not what it should have been.
But yeah, sending photos on the illicit side or even getting off on a live connection seems like something she might not be ready to do. I’m craving her—touch, the taste of her lips, the feel of her silky hair running between my fingers, being inside her, and spending time together.
Is it witchcraft? Or sorcery that has me feeling empty without her? What kind of spell has Story cast on me?
“Christmas morning and presents under the tree.”
I turn back to find Camille staring at me. “What?” I ask.
“The tree is beautiful.” She studies the ten-foot noble fir in the corner. “I was asking if you’re looking forward to Christmas.”
Not really. “Sure. It should be better than the four days since our family meeting.”
“Sounds serious. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about how my family hinges their love on if I bend their way?”
“We can talk about that.” She comes closer but appears to remember we’re not together and veers a little right, keeping a few feet between us. “We broke up, but we’re still friends. Are we still friends, Coop?”
I always hated that name. She knows that but thinks it keeps us on a friendlier term like we hang out all the time. I let the liquid coat my throat, my thoughts more morose around the fakeness that used to motivate me to push boundaries. I remind myself of Camille’s situation again. She’s still Thomas A. Anderson before he takes the red pill in Matrix, blind to the reality of this place.
Finding myself more distant from the people and this place, the idea of getting drunk isn’t a bad one. I’m not striving to black out. I simply want to burn away the edges of my irritation that have flared. If nothing else, she will always remind me of who I refuse to be and the mold that will never quite fit.
After another sip of mine, I lean against the counter. “Why are you really here?”
“Your mother said you were lonely and acting depressed.”
