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Chapter Thirty-Two

Christina

Last night, I derailed Thanksgiving by commandeering Maria to act as my therapist. I spewed out everything about Cam. Our conversations, Cam’s family stuff, my confession, his reaction, and then seeing him play with the kids in the pool.

She was prepared to defend my honor when she heard his question about choice versus physical ability, but keenly pointed out that his trust issues with his family and his team also impact our relationship.

As the bestest best friend she always is, she was in my corner through the whole retelling. Then, playing her role to the hilt, she went downstairs and swiped a bottle of my favorite wine from the cellar, bypassing the stuff put out for guests. And we got drunk together. When I went to the bathroom early on, she hid my phone so there would be no drunk dialing. I’ve never been prone to that, but as she pointed out, I’ve never been in this situation before, either.

So now here I sit, phone in hand with a pounding hangover, trying to figure out what to say to Cam. I’ve been radio silent since his text yesterday during the party.

More surprising, he has, too.

Hey, sorry I didn’t reply.

Lame. I delete and start over.

Hey. We should talk.

Ugh. Trite, much? Backspace, backspace, backspace.

Yesterday made me realize we’re risking a lot. Maybe we should ease off sooner rather than later. The holiday ball is only a couple weeks away anyway.

…

…

Sorry to sound so abrupt over text. You can call me if you want to talk, or I’ll meet you somewhere.

Coffee? The little place near me, so we’re away from Tornadoes regulars?

Sure. 30 min.

When I get a thumbs up, I pull a hoodie over my tank top and change my yoga pants for wide legged jeans.

Cam is in a dark corner when I arrive, facing away from as much of the cafe as he can. But I’ll never not recognize those shoulders and that form. He has the posture of a dancer more than a hockey player, shoulders thrown back, chest out. Even with a cap on and his head lowered, he can’t hide from me. My breath hitches at the idea of never dancing with him after this month, of never seeing those shoulders naked and looming over me. I picture a gorgeous pregnant wife across from him and press a fist to my sternum as though it can stop the resulting pain. Swallowing back the agony, I stiffen my spine and approach.

His face is tight, his mouth flat, and his eyes sad. There’s a second drink cup across from the one in his hand, but he doesn’t rise to greet me or lean in to brush my lips with his like he usually would.

I tilt the cup at him an inch. “Thanks.”

He nods, gives me a minute to sip, and then asks, “What changed, Dancer? I thought we were riding this out until the ball at least.”

“I”—I’m not ready to admit that I’m in love with him and being with him even in secret will hurt more every day when I know I can’t have him.

“You said something about yesterday. Is it the fear of your brother catching us? I can be more careful—” he stops abruptly and grimaces, his hand tightening on the cardboard cup in it.

God, he’s killing me. All the fears of abandonment rise in him again. The frustration that another person is walking away from him, even when he’s practically begging me to stay. I thought I was prepared for this; I’d practiced in my cottage. But nothing could have prepared me to hurt him the way I’m doing now. Yet it’ll only be worse in two weeks. Or however long he had in mind.

Finally, I shake my head. “It’s not that. You’re right, that hasn’t changed. It’s…me. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to sneak around any longer. We know the routines. We’ll go over them that day before the ball and be fine.” It’s a terrible, thoroughly inadequate reason to stop suddenly, and we both know it. I try one more time. “It’s important for you to be free to find the right person for your future.”

“You’re doing this for me?” He’s incredulous. “I never asked you to do that. I want—”

Oh no . It sounds like it was more than casual for him, too. And now he’s stopping himself from trying to talk me into continuing. Of course some of it is his pride, but more than that, why would he expect anyone to stay after his father walked away so easily?

Dammit, I hate myself right now. Feigning nonchalance, I say, “What is the difference between now and two weeks from now? We’d agreed the Holiday Ball was it.”

His jaw muscle pops as he clenches his teeth. “I guess…I guess I wasn’t ready quite yet.”

My smile is faint. “I didn’t think I was, either. It all became too much. I’m sorry. It’s been fun. And I would like to try to be friends. I want to hear how things develop with your stepmom and siblings. Maybe meet Zoe in a couple months.”

His jaw ticks again. “Maybe. I need a little time to get used to this.”

“I really am sorry, Cam, but I can’t figure another way. We’d only end up back in this place right before Christmas, which would be even more miserable.”

“Right. I’m gonna go.”

It takes everything in me not to reach across to hold his wrist and ask him to stay. But for what, so we can sit and mourn what we had that I’m forcing to end? This sucks. I nod.

He glances at me. “Are you still coming to the game tomorrow?”

I hadn’t thought about that. It would be weird using his seats now, but I already asked Nicole to come. “Is that okay?”

“You mean to use my seats? Of course. They’re yours through the holidays like we discussed. It might seem strange after that, and”—he swallows and tilts his head, his next words thoughtful—“I might want them for Zoe.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Geez, we’re polite strangers now.

“Bye, Dancer. Um, thanks? Ping me when you want to do a final run-through.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I manage to blink through them until he’s several steps away, striding out of the café in giant, graceful steps. He stops to hold the door for a lady coming in, and her gaze spans up and down him as she thanks him.

And then he’s gone, invisible due to my tears.