Page 16

FIFTEEN

CAMbrIA

Time moves even when we want to savor every second.

One month later, the world has stopped spinning so fast.

It’s not that life is easy—far from it—but something about the way I wake up with Little Foot’s arm wrapped around my waist and the smell of coffee drifting through the trailer makes everything feel… calm. Like I’m finally allowed to breathe.

I used to wake up with my heart already racing. Always worried. Always behind. Always tired.

But now—God, now, I wake up in a quiet that doesn’t feel empty. It feels earned.

I blink my eyes open, stretching slowly so I don’t wake him just yet. He sleeps like he’s fighting off the world in his dreams, brow furrowed, jaw tight, but when he’s awake, he softens. For me.

I still don’t know exactly when we fell in love, but I know the exact moment I stopped pretending and it became more.

It was the night I let him in. Really let him in. No more performance. No more lies.

And he stayed.

He always stays.

By 7:30, I’m out the door in jeans that still don’t quite fit right and a hoodie I stole from his closet. It smells like him even after three washes. I think I secretly like that.

Community college isn’t glamorous. It’s a small brick building off the highway with questionable vending machines and linoleum floors, but when I walk into that GED prep class, I feel like I’m finally doing something that belongs to me. Something that says I’m not giving up on my future just because my past tried to bury me.

The other students are a mix of age, some barely older than high school like me, others pushing forty, but everyone’s got the same look in their eye: determination with a side of don’t-ask-me-why-I’m-here.

Mrs. Ledbetter, the instructor, reminds me of a sitcom grandma. Cardigans. Crocheted scarves. But she’s got the kind of steel in her spine that makes you sit up straighter when she talks.

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Cambria,” she tells me after class. “Keep showing up.”

I nod and smile and tuck that compliment away like a precious stone. No one’s told me that before.

By lunchtime, I’m at the diner. The uniform is unflattering and the pay isn’t great, but I get to move, to smile, to drop off hot plates of pancakes and feel like I’m earning my keep. Again, it’s something for myself. I like knowing that I’m making my own money.

It’s just enough to pay for the gas to get to rehab once a week. The rest, Drew handles.

I never expected Drew to step up the way he has. Hell, I didn’t even expect him to still be around after the whole fake-marriage-turned-real rollercoaster. But he’s the one who found the rehab facility for Mom. He’s the one paying for it. Quietly. Without keeping score.

“People deserve second chances,” he said the night we signed the paperwork. “Your mom included.”

Sometimes I wonder what he sees in me, still. But then he’ll kiss my temple or bring home a milkshake after my shift and I stop asking why.

I just love him. The kind of love that feels like solid ground.

It’s a five-hour drive to the facility in Tennessee. Close enough I can do it in a day, even though it is exhausting. Far enough it gives me time to think.

The trees are changing now, leaves curling at the edges into crimson and amber. It’s beautiful in that slow, dying way. Autumn always makes me feel reflective. Like everything is coming undone just to come back stronger later.

Mom’s rehab center looks like a fancy summer camp. Clean. Crisp. Surrounded by trees. The kind of place where you can believe healing might actually be possible.

She’s waiting for me on the porch when I pull up, wearing a soft sweater and a smile that almost reaches her eyes.

“Hey, baby,” she says, her voice raspier than I remember, but clear. Lucid.

“Hey, Momma.”

We hug awkwardly. We’re still relearning each other.

She smells like peppermint and soap. Not vodka. Not cigarettes. Not sweat and regret. Just peppermint and soap.

“You look good,” I tell her, and I mean it. Her cheeks are fuller. Her eyes brighter. Still tired, but alive.

“So do you,” she says, eyeing my outfit. “You got a job?”

“Waiting tables. Started GED classes, too.”

“Smart girl,” she says, and I blink back sudden tears. That’s the kind of thing she used to say when I was little, before the bottle got between us.

We sit on a bench by the garden, the late autumn sun warming our faces.

“I’m proud of you,” I say.

She flinches, but smiles. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it for you,” I reply. “I’m saying it for me. Because I’ve waited a long time to be able to say it and mean it.”

Her eyes fill, but she doesn’t cry. Not this time.

“I want to come home,” she says quietly.

“We’re working on it. Drew’s looking into housing. Sober living homes aren’t everywhere and have beds open. We are thinking maybe something near us. In North Carolina.”

“You sure he’s okay with that?”

“He’s the one who brought it up.”

She looks away, squinting into the sun. “I don’t deserve this.”

“No,” I say, gently. “But you’re trying. That counts for something.”

All I can think leaving her is I don’t deserve him. The goodness he brings to my life. The way he’s given me family instantly along with embracing what little family I have with my mom. I’ll never take him for granted.

Later, as I crawl into bed beside Little Foot and curl into his side, I think on the days. He’s already half-asleep, but when I press a kiss to his shoulder, he stirs just enough to wrap his arm around me.

“How’s your mom?” he mumbles.

“She’s trying.”

“That’s enough.”

I rest my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat is slow and steady, like always. I think I could fall asleep just listening to it.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“For all of it.”

He kisses the top of my head. “You’re my girl. That means your battles are mine too.”

I don’t know what I ever did to deserve a man like this. But I’m done running from the good.

The next morning, there’s a sticky note on the bathroom mirror.

You’ve got this. Proud of you. Drew

I laugh, brush my teeth, and head out the door feeling like a damn superhero.

The testing center smells like pencils and stress.

My palms are sweaty before I even sit down, but I keep hearing Mrs. Ledbetter’s voice in my head: “You’ve already done the hard part, Cambria. Showing up.”

So I do. I show up. I sit down. I breathe.

And I open the test.

It’s harder than I expected. Easier than I feared. Some questions feel like speaking a language I almost forgot I knew. Others feel like riddles I’ve only just now grown the brain to solve. But I keep moving.

Math is the hardest. Always has been. But I break it into pieces, one step at a time. Same way I’ve been breaking my whole life into pieces just to rebuild it.

When I finish, my brain is mush and my back hurts and I’m starving, but I walk out of that room taller than I went in.

A week later, I’m wiping down the diner counter when my phone buzzes. It’s Drew.

Hey. Can you take an early break? Meet me outside?

I frown, toss my rag into the sink, and head for the back entrance.

He’s leaning against his truck, arms crossed, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

He jerks his head toward the passenger side. “Get in. I’ve got a surprise.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re parked in front of a small rental house about ten minutes from our trailer. It’s nothing fancy—just two bedrooms, a porch swing, and a mailbox that leans a little to the left—but it’s got a homey feeling.

“This is for your mom,” he says. “Sober living is too far away. But this place, it’s sort of a half way in between place. The whole community is rentals for people fresh out of rehab. A church owns it and runs the charity. They keep counselors available for tenants all hours. It’s the next best thing to sober living.”

My mouth falls open. “What?”

“She’ll need somewhere to land. Somewhere safe. I talked to the landlord. I’ll cover the first few months while she gets back on her feet.”

Tears prick my eyes. “Drew…”

“I know you want to take care of everyone. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

I throw my arms around him. He catches me easily, burying his face in my neck.

“You keep showing up,” I whisper.

“So do you.”

I pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You’re not just my Hellion anymore.”

He grins. “No?”

“You’re the love of my life.”

He kisses me there in the driveway, soft and sure, while the wind kicks up leaves around our feet.

And for once, I believe I deserve all of it.

That night, we sit on the trailer steps with a mug of hot tea for me and a bottle of beer for him, watching the stars come out.

“She’s gonna be okay,” I say.

“You are too.”

I nod, smiling. “It’s a good kind of quiet now.”

He squeezes my hand. “Let’s keep it that way.”

And we do.

Two weeks later, I open the email on the couch with Little Foot sitting beside me.

I cover my mouth when I see the word Passed .

“Babe?” he says, concern slipping into his voice.

I just hand him the phone, eyes already filling.

He reads it. Then looks at me.

“You did it,” he breathes.

“I really did,” I whisper.

He lets out this joyful, unfiltered sound—half laugh, half yell—and pulls me into his arms, spinning me around until I’m dizzy with it.

“You freaking genius,” he says, kissing my face like I’m some rare prize he’s won at the fair. “You’re brilliant. You’re unstoppable. You—God, Cambria—I’m so proud of you I don’t even know what to do with myself.”

“I know what I want to do with you,” I murmur into his neck. That gets his attention.

“Oh?”

“Mmhm,” I say, already standing and pulling him toward the bedroom.

The moment the door clicks shut, the energy changes. I press my back to it, looking up at him with something between heat and disbelief in my eyes. “I passed.”

“You did.”

“I’m a high school graduate.”

“You are.”

He steps toward me, slow. Deliberate. His voice drops. “Do you know how beautiful that is?”

I nod. “Say it again.”

He kisses me, slow and deep, then pulls back just enough to say, “You. Passed. Cambria, you’re brilliant.”

Something in me breaks open at that, and I launch myself into his arms, pulling him into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and a little desperate.

He lifts me without hesitation, one hand under my thigh, the other in my hair. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he carries me to the bed like I weigh nothing.

We fall into it together, mouths never parting, hands hungry.

But it’s not rushed. No, this is celebration.

He slides my hoodie off slowly, like unwrapping a gift. Presses kisses to my collarbone, my shoulder, the spot just below my ear that makes my spine arch.

“You did it,” he says again, his breath warm against my skin. “You worked for it, and you earned it. That makes me wanna worship you.”

“Then do it,” I whisper.

He makes love to me like I’m something holy. Like every inch of me tells a story he’s finally allowed to read.

His hands move over my body with purpose—memorizing, claiming, praising.

The way he touches me, it’s not just about sex, never has been. It’s about every damn thing I’ve survived. It’s about the girl who used to hide behind staying quiet and sleepless nights, who now gets to be a woman with goals and a man who believes in her.

I moan his name, and he smiles against my skin like he’s never heard anything better.

When we’re finally joined—bodies and breath in perfect rhythm—I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold on like he’s the only anchor I’ve ever trusted.

And he is.

It’s intense. It’s consuming. It’s everything.

The world narrows to this moment. This bed. This man who’s never once made me feel like too much or not enough.

We move together in a pace that builds slow and hot, growing with each kiss, each whispered word, until we’re both trembling from it.

I cling to him as he thrusts deeper, the edge building inside me like a tidal wave waiting to crash.

“Let go,” he whispers, eyes locked on mine. “Let me see you.”

And I do.

I come undone with a cry, body arching, heart open.

He follows with a groan, burying his face in my neck as he pulses inside me.

It takes a long time for the shaking to stop.

Even longer for my heart to calm down.

But he stays wrapped around me the whole time.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers again, brushing sweaty hair from my forehead.

“I’m proud of me too.”

We fall asleep wrapped in each other, the scent of sex and love and something earned lingering in the air.

And when I wake up the next morning, I know one thing for sure:

This isn’t just a new chapter.

It’s a whole new life.

And I’m finally living it.