He’d carried me to his car like the damsel in distress I’d never allowed myself to be, and called me love. He’d somehow produced an ice pack and placed it on my ankle after I had to endure those big warm hands prodding and touching and massaging my leg. His touch had been so clinical, such a medical, expert touch, that I’d scolded myself when those tingles had spread all over my body. I’d been mad at the electricity crackling under my skin, when all he’d been doing was checking on me.
I blamed the four-letter word that had come out of his mouth.
The I’ve got you now, too.
I didn’t understand. I was perplexed, besides being in pain and embarrassed and mad and dazed and simply… tired. So tired I wanted to sleep all of this away. Close my eyes and forget about today, and last week, and the week prior to that. I wanted to hibernate until all the mess that was my life went away.
So when Cameron killed the engine, and parked in the exact same spot he always did, I jumped out of the car with all the dignity I had left and limped away.
And just like every time I’d indulged in a dramatic escape, Cameron was suddenly right there.
His hands came around my waist, and he said, “Let me—”
But I raised a finger, putting a stop to his unnecessary rescue mission with a simple, “No.”
“No?” he repeated, but to his credit, his hands fell to his sides.
My voice wobbled when I said, “I don’t need you to carry me inside like I’m…” Someone you care about. Someone you get hot drinks when they’re cold. Someone you call love. “Something.”
His expression tightened and somehow fell, all at the same time. Cameron looked… hurt, if I had to choose an emotion. And I felt like I’d just kicked a puppy. Or a baby goat.
With a shake of my head, I limped toward the porch, Cameron close behind, and found a small box on my doorstep. I craned my neck to inspect the label, recognizing Matthew’s handwriting. I leaned down, flexing my supporting leg so I could pick it up, but everyone on this porch knew flexibility wasn’t my thing and the task turned out to be, frankly, impossible.
In a swift motion, Cameron picked up the box with one hand and lifted me in the air with his other arm.
“I told you—” I started.
“Cut the bullshit, will you?” he interjected, and how infuriating was it that his scolding was delivered in the softest, most gentle tone? “Good. Now that you have stopped bitching for a minute, can you please unlock the door?”
I pulled out the key from the bag still hanging off my shoulder and did as I was asked.
Cameron kicked the unlocked door open with his foot and stomped inside the cabin, carrying me and the box in his arms.
“Box,” he barked. “Where?”
“Beside the bed,” I answered with a sigh. “Please.”
He moved in that direction. “Not a bed.”
“Yeah, I know,” I admitted with barely any energy left. “Who knows, maybe Matthew somehow managed to fit a mattress in that tiny box.”
My comment only seemed to spike Cameron’s frustration, because instead of putting the box down, he let it drop to the wooden floor with a thump.
“Hey. What if it’s something fragile?”
“I’ll replace it.” He shrugged, shifting my body and bringing me more securely into his chest. “Where?”
“Down on the bed, please.”
With more gentleness than I was able to process in that moment, he set me down. His eyes roamed around my body. Down, and up, and down again. His jaw clamped down tightly.
“I’ll be fine,” I murmured. “It’s just a sprained ankle.”
His brow arched, his eyes still not meeting mine. More words were barked. “Shower, ice, painkillers, and sleep.”
“Why are you enumerating things or barking out single words?” I fumbled with the buttons of my trench coat. “Why are you not talking or looking at me? I already apologized for earlier.”
That muscle in his jaw jumped. “It’s not an apology I want.”
“What do you want then?” A pause. No answer. “Fine, don’t talk to me then.”
His gaze finally met mine. “I’m not talking because I don’t trust myself,” he said, the storm that I could tell had been gathering inside of him breaking free in the green of his eyes. “Because if I say more than a few words, you’re going to find more reasons to hate me, Adalyn. You’re going to throw a fucking fit, and you’re going to make this extra hard for me. So, please,” he said, his voice turning rocky and strangely low. “Shower, ice, painkillers, and sleep.”
What, I wanted to ask. What exactly am I going to make extra hard for you?
But I knew the answer to that. Everything. Every single thing. Because that was what I did best. Complicate things. So I managed a nod and told him, “You can go now. Thanks.”
Cameron’s eyelids fluttered shut, and he muttered a “Good fucking riddance” before turning away and walking off.
I waited for the door to close behind him and when the sound reached me, I did exactly the opposite of what I’d just agreed to do. First, I limped to the kitchenette, grabbed a pair of scissors, and returned straight to the box. Inside, there was a note stuck to something that had been rolled in tissue paper. It read:
MAKE IT UP TO ME.
YOUR (ONLY) BFF,
M.
Make what up to him? I wondered while I tore apart the paper. If I’d been a little more lucid and a lot less in pain, perhaps I would have immediately known, but it wasn’t until I unwrapped it and turned it around that I understood.