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55
Willow
“Forever is composed of nows.” — Emily Dickinson. I glance over the glossy texture following the arch on the inside of my foot where Camdyn designed my very first tattoo. He even went as far as massaging my foot and talking me through the entire process. With endless patience, he subtly faded an infinity sign.
It’s our last night at Big Bear. We lounge in the living room, having a chill moment after a shower. I’m wearing a cropped shirt and tights. Once Momma arrives in heaven, I hope she won’t haunt me for the tat. Although Momma’s an old school Christian, she’s the poetry buff, not me.
I’m straddling Camdyn. One leg drapes over the side of the leather recliner. My freshly tattooed foot is left untouched. Camdyn’s dressed in sweats only. My fingers ghost over the new tattoo on his shoulder. I apply more A&D ointment there. I blow softly.
“Woah, this is the only tattoo on your body that’s not a snake, knife, or skull.” I toss the ointment tube onto the other couch then stare in awe at Camdyn’s shoulder.
His sexy brow juts. “You approve?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” I grin. “Once it heals, I’m kissing my lips.”
Laughing, Camdyn vibrates against me. “I know tats aren’t forever anymore, all the removal surgeries.” He gestures to the inked depiction of my lips on his shoulder. He placed them where I’d clamped my teeth into his skin when he took my virginity. “But I could go senile, one look at my shoulder in the mirror, I’ll remember us. Willow, I’ve fucked up with you. These pretty lips will always remind me never to screw up again.”
“You’re my version of perfect, Cam. You’ve never done anything I didn’t ask for.” Attempting to latch onto his guarded gaze, I add, “Hello? Ex-captain of my track team, remember—nobody runs over me.”
A heavy silence uproots our love story. My palms push Camdyn’s unrelenting chest. “Hey, asshole, I’m one hundred percent satisfied with us. I’m safe, happy, crazy about you.”
In a swoon-worthy move I doubt Camdyn notices is sexy, he pensively forks his teeth over his bottom lip. My hands clutch his biceps. My soul begs his to conquer the demons at war for his soul.
Unease stirs in my belly as his dark tone shifts all my attention to him. “First time I got inked up, I was fifteen. I only meant to cover the scar on my arm from when I was nine.” He leans back, his eight pack beautifully defined between us. His hand skims a snake wrapped around his arm.
“Can you imagine I was a tiny kid?” Though smiling, his blue-green eyes relay a frightening story.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I consider something mundane to say, not clingy or begging, though the desire to support and comfort him radiates in my eyes.
“No doubt you bulked up, Cam. You worked me out last night.”
“I . . . got my arm pinned in a car.” The monotoned revelation sends a thousand questions flooding my psyche. Please tell me more.
“I was, uh, getting out of a car too fast. The driver was in a hurry.” Camdyn bites his fist. “Ready to cook?”
“Cam . . .” I gasp as he grips my waist, standing me onto my bare feet.
As if it’s expected of him, his knuckles skim my cheek. His flat tone is drenched with emotion as he asks, “You need me tomorrow, Lo? I’m there.”
“Sure,” I intone, wrestling the urgency in my gut. Although he’s not aloof, my mind’s reeling.
“Good. I’ll be at your side then.”
I follow him through the lake house. Out the glass wall, scant beams of light from homes across the lake cut through the darkness.
He pulls a pack of fresh shrimp from the fridge, heavy cream, and other ingredients for Shrimp Alfredo.
“Camdyn, I can’t find the words to say,” what my heart begs to, “how much I appreciate you supporting me. Let me be here for you. Please talk to me?”
He pauses a beat, places olive oil and butter onto the counter. The blankness behind his gorgeous eyes sends a shiver straight through me. “To be honest, nah.”
The swift decline sends a fissure through my heart.
His next statement seems to be an atonement. “That’s the most I’ve said about it since I was a wean.”
I remember wean . . . kid. I step into his path, stopping his movement. Why won’t he let me in? I heave a forced laugh. “Gawd, if you don’t open the tattoo shop, you’ve got the chops to make it as a celebrity chef.”
Finally, a megawatt smile erupts across Camdyn’s face. “Be my sous chef since you don’t have any future plans.”
