Fuck

Cammie was living in Grapevine. I would go there. Talk to her. Maybe she’d tell me where Olivia was. She couldn’t shut me down if I was standing in front of her. I rubbed a hand across my face. Who was I kidding? This was Cammie. She made blonde look like a color of combat. I waited a month, wrestling with the fact that Olivia probably wanted to be left alone, and my need to convince her that she didn’t.

Finally, I asked Steve for the time off. He was reluctant to give it to me since I’d taken a four-month leave of absence during the amnesia stint. When I told him it was about Olivia, he relented.

I drove. One thousand, two hundred and ninety miles of Coldplay, Keane and Nine Inch Nails. I stopped at diners along the way. Places where the waitresses’ names were Judy and Nancy, and the bouffant had never gone out of style. I liked it. Florida needed a character makeover. It was wearing on me: the pretentiousness, the heat, the absence of Olivia. Maybe it only felt like home if she was there. I had a feeling she would have liked Nancy and Judy too. If she was in Grapevine and I could convince her to come home with me, I’d bring her back this way. Have her eat fried chicken and macaroni and cheese on a tabletop that was stained with so many coffee cup rings, it was starting to look like a design. We’d eat until we were in a grease coma and then we’d find a cheap motel and argue about where to have sex because she didn’t trust the cleanliness of the sheets. I’d kiss her until she forgot about the sheets, and we’d be happy. Finally happy.

I crossed over the Texas state line and decided to hit up a motel before I went to see Cammie. I needed to shave … shower. Look mildly presentable. Then I thought, Fuck it. Cammie could see me exactly how I was, dirty and miserable. I drove the rest of the way to her townhouse and pulled into her driveway just as the sun was coming up. The townhouse was cream with brick facing. There were flower boxes on the windows, overflowing with lavender. It was too charming for Cammie. I considered waiting a few hours, getting breakfast before I knocked. Cammie was a notorious late riser. In the end, I figured it was best to catch her off guard. She might tell me more that way.

I parked up the block and walked to her front door. I was about to ring the bell when a car turned the corner and headed down the street toward where I was standing. I stopped to look at it and had the eerie feeling that it was headed for Cammie’s. I had two options … I could walk back up the driveway and risk passing the car as it turned in, or I could slip around the side of the townhouse and wait. I chose the second option. Cammie had an end unit, and I stood with my back pressed to the side of her house, looking at the neighbors’ fence. The neighbors had a Yorkie. I could see it sniffing around the fence.

Yorkies were yappy dogs. If it caught sight of me, it would no doubt bark until someone came outside to see what was wrong.

The car turned into the driveway, just as I guessed. I heard a door slam and the shuffling of feet as they walked up to the door. It’s probably Cammie, I thought. Coming back from some guy’s house where she spent the night. It wasn’t Cammie. I heard two voices. One of them was Olivia’s; the other belonged to a man. I almost launched myself around the side of the house and toward her, when the front door opened and I heard Cammie squeal.

“You guys so had sex!” she said.

Olivia’s laugh was forced. The bastard — whoever he was — was laughing along with Cammie.

“It’s none of your goddamn business,” I heard Olivia snap. “Now, get out of my way. I have to get ready for class.”

Class! I felt myself slumping down the wall. Of course. She was in law school. She’d met a guy. Already. She wasn’t even thinking about me, and here I was driving thousands of miles to get her back.

What a f**king joke.

Cammie must have retreated back into the house, because I heard Olivia turn around at the door and thank him.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she said. “Thanks for last night. I needed it.”

I heard the distinct sound of kissing before he walked back to his car and drove away. I stayed there for five more minutes, partially seething, partially hurting, partially feeling like a pathetic f**king ass, before I knocked on the door.

Cammie opened the door wearing nothing but a t-shirt with a picture of John Wayne on the front of it. She was holding a coffee mug, but she almost dropped it when she saw me. I lifted it from her limp hand and took a sip.

“Oh. My. God.”

She stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her.

“I want to see her,” I said. “Now.”

“Are you crazy? Showing up here like this?”

“Go get her,” I said. I handed her coffee back, and she stared at me like I was asking her to give me an organ.

“No,” she said finally. “I’m not letting you do this to her again.”

“Do what?”

“Play games with her head,” she snapped. “She’s fine. She’s happy. She needs to be left alone.”

“She needs me, Cammie. She belongs with me.”

For a minute I thought she was going to slap me. She took a vicious sip of her coffee instead.

“Uh-uh.” She lifted one finger away from her cup and pointed it at me. “You’re a lying, cheating scumbag. She needs something better than you.”

I mentally backed up a step. That was true, mostly. But, I could be better for her. I could be what she needed, because I loved her.

“No one can love her like me,” I said. “Now, move aside, before I move you. Because I’m going in there-”

She considered this for a moment before stepping aside. “Fine,” she said.

I opened the door, took my first step into the foyer…

To my left was the kitchen and what looked like the living room, to my right was the stairs. I headed for the stairs. I was three up, when I heard Cammie call after me.

“She was pregnant, you know.”

I stopped.

“What?”

“After your little rendezvous under the moonlight.”

I looked back at her, my heart suddenly pounding wildly in my chest. My mind went to that night. I hadn’t used a condom. I hadn’t pulled out. I felt tingling all over my body. She was pregnant. Was … was … was …

“Was?”

Cammie pulled her lips tight and raised her eyebrows. What was she suggesting? I felt an ache start in my chest and spread outward. Why would she? How could she?

“It’s better that you leave her alone,” she said. “There isn’t just water under your bridge, there’s maggots and shit and dead bodies. Now, get the f**k out of my house before I call the police.”

She didn’t have to tell me twice. I was done. Done. Forever. Never again.

Chapter Twenty-Two

We go back to the hotel and get ready for dinner. She showers first and then puts on her makeup and does her hair while I take my turn. So far we haven’t kissed. The only contact we’ve had was when we held hands earlier. I wait on the balcony while she gets dressed. When she comes out to tell me she’s ready, my eyes glaze over.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“Yeah…”

“You’re making me feel awkward.”

“You’re making me hard.”

Her mouth gapes.

“Naked feelings, Duchess! You’re in a tight black dress, and I know how good it feels to be inside you.”

Her face looks even more startled than a second ago. She spins to walk away, but I catch her and pull her against me.

“You’re wearing that dress simply because you like it. You don’t dress to make men look at you — you hate men. But, your body is ridiculous and it happens anyway. You walk and your h*ps sway from side to side, but you don’t walk that way to get attention, it’s just the way you move — and everyone looks. Everyone. And when you listen to people speak, you unconsciously bite your lower lip and then let your teeth slide across it. And when you order wine at dinner, you play with the stem of your wine glass. You run your fingers up and down. You are sex and you don’t even know it. Which makes you even sexier. So, when I think dirty thoughts, forgive me. I’m just under your spell like everyone else.”

She’s breathing hard when she nods. I let her go and lead her out of the room and to our minivan.

She has not lost her childlike awe. When she sees something that has never crossed her vision before, she becomes entranced — parted lips, wide eyes.

We step into the large foyer of the restaurant holding pinkies, and her speaking stills. To our left is the hostess stand, and in front of us the room opens up to two stories of red wall, decorated in gilded gold mirrors. It’s a spacious receptacle into the restaurant doors leading off into different directions, and her head swivels around to take it all in. The bulbs they use to light the room are red. Everything glows in red luminescence. The room reminds me of old class and sex.

“Drake,” I say to a tall blonde standing behind the desk. She smiles, nods and looks for my reservation.

Olivia has let go of my pinkie and has grasped my whole hand. I wonder if she’s afraid — perhaps intimidated.

I bend down to her ear.

“Okay, love?”

She nods.

“This looks like the red room of pain,” she says.

My mouth drops open. My little prude has been expanding her reading horizons. I choke on my laugh, and a couple of people turn to look at us. I narrow my eyes.

“You read Fifty?” I ask quietly. She blushes. Amazing! — the woman is capable of blushing.

“Everyone was reading it,” she says, defensively. Then she looks up at me with big eyes.

“You?”

“I wanted to see what all the hype was about.”

She does that blink, blink, blink thing with her eyelashes.

“Did you pick up any new techniques?” she says, without looking at me.

I squeeze her hand. “Would you like to try me out and see?”

She turns her face away, pressing her lips together — horribly embarrassed.

“Caleb Drake,” the hostess says, interrupting our whispering. “Right this way.”

I lift my eyebrows at Olivia, and we follow the hostess through a door at the rear of the room. We are led through a series of dim hallways until we enter another decadently red room — red chairs, red walls, red carpet. The tablecloths are mercifully white, breaking the continuity of the color. Olivia takes a seat, I follow.

The server approaches our table moments later. I watch her face as he guides her through a wine menu that is the size of a dictionary. She is overwhelmed after a few seconds, and I speak up.

“A bottle of the Bertani Amarone della Valpolicella, two thousand and one.”

Olivia scans the menu. I know she’s trying to find the price tag. The server nods my way in approval.

“A rare choice,” he says. “Aged for a minimum of two years, the Bertani hails from Italy. The grapes are grown in soil that is composed of volcanic limestone. The grapes are then dried until they are raisins, which results in a wine that is dry and higher than most in alcohol content.”

When he retreats from our table, I smile at her.

“I’ve already slept with you, you don’t have to order the most expensive wine on the menu to impress me.”

I grin at her. “Duchess, the most expensive wine on this menu is six figures. I ordered what I enjoy.”

She bites her top lip and seems to shrink into her seat.

“What’s the matter?”

“I always wanted this — to come to restaurants that raise their own cows and mortgage bottles of wine. But, it makes me feel insecure — reminds me that I’m really just poor, white trash with a good job.”

I reach for her hand. “Aside from your notably filthy mouth, you are the single classiest woman I have ever met.”

She smiles weakly like she doesn’t believe me. That’s okay. I’ll spend the rest of forever convincing her of her worth.

I order her the New York Strip. She only ever eats the filet, because that’s what she thinks she’s supposed to do.

“It’s not as tender, but it is more flavorful. It’s the steak version of you,” I tell her.

“Why are you forever comparing me to animals and shoes and food?”

“Because, I see the world in different shades of Olivia. I’m comparing them to you — not the other way around.”

“Wow,” she says, taking a sip of her wine. “You’ve got it bad.”

I start singing a rendition of Usher’s “You Got it Bad” and she shushes me, looking around embarrassed.

“Singing is something you should never do,” she smiles, “but, maybe if you translated some of those lyrics into French…”

“Quand vous dites que vous les aimez, et vous savez vraiment tout ce qui sert à la matière n’ont pas d’importance pas plus.”

She sighs. “Everything sounds better in French — maybe even your singing.”

I laugh and play with her fingers.

The meal is unparalleled in the state of Florida. She reluctantly agrees that the New York Strip is better than the filet. After our meal is over, we receive a tour of the kitchen and wine cellar — which is custom at Bern’s.

Our tour guide stops in front of a locked cage, behind which resembles a library of wine bottles. Olivia’s eyes grow wide when our guide shows us a bottle of port that is two hundred dollars an ounce.

“It’s a delight in your mouth,” he says, comically.

I raise my eyebrows. I am standing behind her, so I wrap my arms around her waist and speak into her hair. “Do you want to try some, Duchess? A delight in your mouth… “