One and Only by Jenny Holiday (17)

Some guys had a thing about sleeping with a woman after sex. If it was just a hookup, they wanted out as soon as the main event was over. Cam never saw the big deal. After sex, he was tired. And if he was in a warm bed with a soft woman, the path of least resistance was to stay there. So he had done his share of sleepovers, in the era between Alicia and Christie. Guys were always like, “But, dude, you gotta manage her expectations. You gotta get out of there.”

Cam’s take was that he was going to get out of there—the next morning. You could communicate a lot with the way you left a situation, so what did it matter if you left in the middle of the night or waited until the sun came up? Women weren’t stupid—at least not any stupider than men—and when you left before breakfast, issuing a vague “I’ll text you,” everyone knew what it meant.

So, yeah, he was fine with the sleepover in theory. This particular sleepover, though, was giving him some trouble. Namely, he wasn’t actually sleeping. Usually he fell into a sated sleep after sex. The military shrink he’d seen after his first deployment had been forever asking him about nightmares, trouble sleeping, racing thoughts at night. No, no, and no. He’d always figured he was lucky that way. He was definitely fucked up from watching his brothers blown to bits, but it didn’t invade his daily life too much. It manifested itself only in particular surroundings—usually in wide-open spaces where he felt like the enemy could come from anywhere.

But tonight. Jane. With her gentle questioning, it was like she had opened a box that had been hidden deep inside his chest, one he had gotten so used to it had become like furniture, something to be walked around but not, fundamentally, of any concern. Mostly, he avoided talking about his tattoos. Or, when people pushed him, he gave some kind of bullshit answer. It was easy. People expected him to have tattoos. He was that kind of guy. They didn’t expect him to have a big emotional story behind them.

God. The idea that Mrs. Compton had planted all those years ago. That he was more than what he’d done. That maybe his fucked-up-ness could be temporary. That he could get back into heaven. He hadn’t done anything with it then. Had continued doing his thing—working just enough to not get fired, sleeping around, partying.

But then Jay had come back for a visit, a few years after Alicia’s family had left town and Cam had quit school, and suggested Cam consider the military. Cam hadn’t done anything with the advice just then—except reject it—but underneath Cam’s defensive dismissals that day, the idea lurked. The image of himself in another place, somewhere halfway around the world where nobody knew him. Where they might be able to teach him how to do something important. He owed Jay a lot. It had taken balls to come home and initiate “the chat.” Cam had been so angry then, so utterly unable to see beyond his own misery. “What are you waiting for?” Jay had asked, his tone not angry but also not kind. “Are you waiting for your father to come back?” When Cam had scoffed—perhaps a little too hard—at that, he’d followed with, “Are you waiting to die? Because that’s about all I can see that’s going on here.”

No, Cam had said, and he’d meant it. He wasn’t suicidal. But Jay’s words had staying power. They rattled around inside him over the next few years. They made him wonder about the difference between being actively suicidal and just sitting around taking up space, passing the time until death arrived.

What was he waiting for?

On his twenty-second birthday, while blowing out the candle on a cupcake his mom had brought over to his trailer—his trailer that had been such a falling-down disaster that it had embarrassed even him—the answer had come into his brain fully formed, and it had shocked the hell out of him. He wasn’t waiting to die; he was waiting for everyone to give up. His mom and Jay, specifically. Because they were the only ones who hadn’t. They were the only ones left who loved him—hell, who tolerated him at all. Even Mrs. Compton had died by then, and her kids had come over and cleaned out her trailer and sold it.

Once Jay and Mom stopped tolerating him—as he knew in his heart they would one day—he would be alone. So he was practicing. Or trying to encourage them to get on with it, like pulling off a Band-Aid quickly rather than drawing it out.

But what if Mrs. Compton, and later, Jay, had been right? What if he could reverse direction? Stop the free fall?

And so it had begun. His Hail Mary pass. And for a while, it seemed like it was working. Basic training kicked his ass, but he stuck it out. His first tour had been a success. Yes, it came with PTSD as a door prize, but he’d actually been good at being a soldier. Not that he had any particular skills, but he flattered himself that he was strong and loyal. A good grunt.

And Christie. The unlikely girl he’d met a little before that first deployment. She’d written to him. He came to depend on those letters, to live for them. He loved being a soldier, but he also loved fantasizing about being normal. At home. What if I wrote her back? He thought to himself, amazed, after her first letter arrived, even though he had been the one who’d suggested they correspond. And then when he did and the second one came, he thought, what if I wrote her back again?

The army and Christie saved him. The army made his body and mind strong, and the deployment gave him space. A do-over.

A life where he could get back into heaven, or at least some reasonable facsimile of it.

But no. He’d done nothing but fall again, and landed squarely on his ass, embarrassed as hell that he’d ever been so naive as to think he could escape his destiny.

So, yeah, with all this shit from the past taking up residence in his brain, it had been a mostly sleepless night, and he was pissed. Not at Jane, though he did sort of feel like her questioning had been the impetus for his insomnia, but at himself. He’d had his balls thoroughly milked—several times. He had a warm, soft, naked woman who did not want to become his girlfriend curled up next to him in a comfy bed.

So what was wrong with him? He should have been sleeping the sleep of the dead.

The blaring of Jane’s phone on the nightstand cut short his existential crisis. She had insisted on setting it for the ass crack of dawn in case Jay came home before going to work.

She reached out, patting the edge of the bed as if searching around for an alarm clock that wasn’t there. When she didn’t find it, the pats became faster, more insistent, even a little frantic. A rush of tenderness toward her had him tightening his arms around her, reassuring her. “Shhh. We’re at Jay’s, remember?” She had been dead asleep—as any reasonable person would be, given that they’d gone at it until two in the morning.

“What?” She lifted her head from where it had been resting on his chest, squinted her eyes like she was looking into the blinding sun, and did her nose-scrunching thing. Her befuddlement was awfully cute. His dick took notice, pulsing a little as she opened her eyes all the way. “Oh,” she said. “Oh.”

Watching her remember where she was—and what she’d done—was funny. The befuddlement was replaced by a wash of pink. She was delicious—the perfect antidote to all his maudlin thoughts.

Where should he start? Letting a lazy hand slide between her legs, he planted a kiss on her forehead.

She reared back, not from surprise this time, though. It was more like she was…trying to get away from him? That couldn’t be right, not after the stuff they’d done last night. Maybe she was truly embarrassed. There was no call for that. He’d show her how not-embarrassed she should be. He moved back just enough to make room to burrow under the covers. His mouth started to water at the mere idea of her.

“I…ah, can’t,” she said, hopping off the bed and pulling the top sheet around her like a robe.

He narrowed his eyes. What was going on? Why was she hiding herself from him?

“I’ve got to get home,” she said, spinning around the room, probably looking for her clothes. “Last day of work before we hit the road for Prince Edward County.”

He wanted to tell her to drop the sheet, that he’d seen it all already. Tasted it all. But she seemed genuinely agitated.

“I think your clothes are still by the front door,” he said gently. When she nodded and started to turn, he added, “Although, remember, I can do fast. I can have you out of here in twenty minutes, ten if it comes to that.” He shook his head. Listen to him: he was bragging now about how fast he could be? Damn. She had him all turned around. But he couldn’t help it. He’d pretty much do anything to get his hands on Jane again.

Also, he just really didn’t want her to leave yet. He was about to suggest that they at least have a quick cuddle, but stopped himself in time, because a quick cuddle? What the hell?

She shook her head. “I can’t…sleep with you.”

Uh, what? Did she mean she couldn’t sleep with him right now? Or in general? Because the way she’d said it was weird. As if they hadn’t already slept together a bunch of times. He blinked, trying to think how to ask her to clarify without making himself look desperate. After a few awkward moments elapsed, she turned and opened the door, the sheet still wrapped around her. He hopped out of bed—what else could he do?—and said, “I’ll get your clothes for you.”

“Thanks,” she said, changing direction and heading down the hallway toward the bathroom. “If you can just shove them through the bathroom door, that would be great.”

Shove them through the bathroom door? What the hell? Something had happened, though he couldn’t say what. Well, that wasn’t true: he knew exactly what had happened. Jane had changed her mind about him.

He’d always known she was smart.

Panic.

Jane was not a panicker. All her life, she had made decisions about what she wanted to do, how she was going to be, and she had done and been those things. She’d never experienced any of the symptoms she’d read about as associated with panic attacks.

But that must have been what had happened to her earlier this morning, she decided, as she sat on the streetcar, on her way to meet the girls for a “last night in the city” drink.

Last night, with Cameron, a niggling sense that something was wrong had kept dogging her. It was like trying to remember a dream after you woke up, even as it was sliding from your grasp. But in this case, waking up had brought clarity. Absolute, utter clarity.

She was falling for Cameron. She’d woken up in his bed—in his arms—and she’d known it with utter certainty.

Somewhere along the way, in a matter of mere days, the shit-talking, arrogant, testosterone-overdosed, bad-boy soldier had gotten under her skin. Look at her: she was riding roller coasters, dangling off buildings, and having sex with a human like it was no big deal. Hell, she wasn’t just having sex, she was sexting, which, somehow was a bigger deal than the actual deed.

But all of that was okay. Well, she could have made it okay.

But then she told him everything. What. The. Hell? Objectively, she could understand the circumstances that had led to her impulsive gut-spilling. He’d been surprisingly forthright about the stories behind his tattoos. He’d made her feel safe, not only with his own confession, but with his conduct all week. He’d made her feel wanted. Like she was a person worth having around, and listening to.

But she couldn’t let herself go there. Couldn’t get used to waking up in his arms. Couldn’t crave it…crave him.

Because the other amazing thing about Cameron? He had never lied to her. He made it clear he wasn’t looking for a relationship. Heck, so had she. Because she wasn’t. He had a return-to-civilian-life list, and she was merely an item on it.

“Hey, sweets!” As Jane disembarked the streetcar, there was Gia, strolling down the street. Damn. Jane had been aiming to get to the bar before everyone else. She’d been restless in her house, going a bit cuckoo, in fact, and had resigned herself to the fact that no writing was going to get done until after the wedding. Well, until after Cam was gone, if she was being honest with herself—and being honest with herself was absolutely what she was doing now, as painful as it was.

So she’d left her house early, thinking maybe a change of scenery—and a few Diet Cokes’ worth of caffeine to compensate for her late night—would do her some good.

Gia had obviously come armed with a similar plan because she looped her arm through Jane’s and said, “I thought I’d sneak in early and get a buzz on before Elise—God bless her—gets here.”

Jane smiled. She had to admit that one unforeseen benefit of the wedding was that she was spending more time with Gia, who was usually somewhere else in the world working. The four girls had been tight since university. But because the rest of them had only overlapped with Gia there for one year, Gia was like the plus-one that came with Elise to their friendship group. She and Jane hadn’t ever had an independent relationship, and Jane had to admit that she’d always been a little intimidated by the model’s beauty and jet-setting life.

So she let herself be led to the bar, where she ordered her Diet Coke.

“How come you hardly ever drink?” Gia asked after their drinks arrived.

“Because my dad was an alcoholic.”

What the hell? How had she let that slip again? She didn’t talk about that. Wendy knew, but only in general terms. It certainly wasn’t something she talked about with people she’d met later in life. Elise didn’t know, either.

“Ah.” Gia nodded. “I see.”

Jane was a little surprised at how mild Gia’s reaction was. She was sipping her vodka soda like what Jane had told her wasn’t a big deal.

“He died driving drunk,” Jane added, watching Gia out of the corner of her eye to see what a little more truth would do to her friend’s reaction.

“I’m sorry,” said Gia simply. “I’d known he died in a car accident, but not that it was related to drunk driving.”

“Yeah,” Jane said, her stupid heart pounding like she was back on one of the roller coasters at Canada’s Wonderland instead of telling a close friend about something that had happened twenty years ago.

“There’s a lot of drinking in the fashion world,” Gia said. “Too much, a lot of the time, I think. When you have to stay a size zero or two, you sometimes have to pick and choose what you consume. A lot of models choose to drink their calories.”

Wow. Jane had always imagined Gia’s life like one of the magazine spreads she posed in. “So there’s not, like, hot guys feeding you bonbons all the time?”

Gia scoffed. “Try creepy middle-aged art directors feeding you chocolate-flavored laxatives.”

“And here I am stressed about trying to fit into my dress this week.” Jane hated to think what it would be like to live with that shadow over her head all the time.

“It’s not a good way to live,” Gia said. “I’m lucky that gaining weight hasn’t been a problem for me.” She paused. “At least historically.”

Jane wondered if there was something more beneath that statement, but she didn’t know how to ask. Gia pre-empted her anyway, lifting her drink in a wry toast and shaking her head. “Gah. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay!” Jane said. That had been enough of True Confessions for her, anyway.

“Let’s talk about sex,” said Gia.

“What?” Jane laughed to cover her wariness. Could Gia tell? Was she some kind of sex bloodhound?

“I haven’t had any for a long time, and I would like to.”

“Ah.” She was safe. “Define ‘a long time.’”

Gia gazed at the ceiling as if she were doing math. “Uh, maybe five weeks?”

Jane laughed. “Well, what about someone from the wedding party?” But not Cameron. Because he’s mine. Even though I don’t want him. Or I don’t want to want him, anyway.

“Nah. No offense to Jay, but his friends are kind of…”

“Boring?”

Gia shrugged, but her eyes twinkled.

“You think five weeks is a dry spell,” Jane said, “but I hear that, and I’m like, whoa, your heart is getting a workout!”

“My heart has nothing to do with it.”

“Really?” said Jane, suddenly curious how Gia pulled it off.

“Really,” Gia said decisively.

“How do you do it?”

“What? Be a slut?” Gia laughed.

“No!” Jane cried. “I only mean, how do you separate sex from love?”

“It’s easy. I don’t do love. So no separation required.”

“But how? How does that work? You just decide?”

“It’s nothing so calculating. I just…don’t fall in love.” Jane was about to object again, because that didn’t make sense, but Gia must have anticipated her because she turned in her stool and said, “Look. The way I see it, some people are made to fall in love. Most people, probably. Or they have the capacity anyway. Me? Not so much. Maybe I don’t have the gene for love or something. It’s like we all have different ways of being. I come from skinny stock, and I have light brown eyes. I also can’t fall in love.”

“I see,” Jane said, but she didn’t.

“To be honest, I always thought maybe you and I were alike that way,” Gia said, cocking her head as she looked at Jane. “I mean, assuming all this Xena stuff isn’t sublimation and you’re not actually a closet case.” She winked.

Jane grinned. “Nope. Not a closet case.” She chose not to address the rest of what Gia had said. A week ago she would have agreed with Gia’s characterization of her as immune to love. She’d had the odd crush as a girl, and with Felix there had been…a kind of love. Until there wasn’t. And after that…nothing. For five years.

Now? She wasn’t sure. But she did know enough to know that she needed to back away from Cameron before she got burned. That no good could come of testing the waters with a guy who not only didn’t want to swim but had, in fact, chained himself to dry land.

“So you’re love-proof and calorie-proof,” Jane teased, hoping to get them on to more comfortable topics.

Gia smiled. “It would appear so.”

“Ahhhh! Team Elise is here already!”

Jane and Gia looked over their shoulders to see Elise waving at them from near the door. Gia started humming the wedding march but morphed it into the theme from Jaws as Elise approached the bar. Jane stifled a laugh.

“Okay, you guys,” Elise said, sliding onto a stool on the other side of Gia. “I should wait till Wendy gets here to tell you this, but I’m about to burst from how good this idea is!”

“Well by all means, let’s have it,” Gia said. “Wendy snoozes; Wendy loses.”

“Okay, so you know how the site is large?”

Jane nodded warily. The wedding was being held at a “farm,” which as far as she could tell was code for “expensive fancy rural event center.” They had visited a year ago when Elise was trying to decide on venues, and there hadn’t been an animal or a crop in sight on the “farm.”

“So I got this cute idea from Pinterest last night of making way-finding signs?”

“Way-finding signs?” Gia echoed, her voice full of skepticism that Jane shared.

“Yeah, you know, like cute signs pointing people to the reception, the ceremony, the bar, and so on. The only thing is should we do cute little chalkboards or should we get, like, pieces of wood and do some cute lettering on them?”

“As long as it’s cute, I don’t think it matters,” Jane said, relishing the fact that her comment caused Gia to press her lips together like she was trying not to laugh.

“Oh!” said Elise, throwing her hands heavenward like they were at a revival. “We can do the same kinds of signs on the bathrooms!”

“Won’t the bathrooms already have signs?” Gia asked. “I feel like bathrooms in public spaces are generally labeled.”

“But, Gia,” Jane said, “they’re not going to match. They’re not going to be cute.”

Elise pointed a finger at Jane. “Exactly.”