Camille

“Wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon, but I’ll sure take what I can get.” Mom throws her arms around my neck and hugs me close. “I hope you’re still coming home for Christmas.”

I breathe her in.

“What’s wrong? Something’s wrong. I can tell,” she says. “Is this about a boy?”

I squeeze her tight, refusing to let go if only for the fact that I don’t want her to see the tears in my eyes. I’m humiliated. Busy’s words replayed in my mind the entire flight home and then followed me during the drive here. They played on a loop. Stuck in repeat. Reducing me to tears and wearing my self-esteem down until there was nothing left.

“Just feeling homesick lately,” I say. “And I think it’s time for me to head west, finally pursue my dreams.”

She rubs my back. “Oh, sweetheart. I know it’s scary to chase your ambitions, but you only fail if you never try. You have no idea how happy this makes me.”

I blink away tears and breathe in her soft scent before letting go.

“What made you decide to make the jump?” she asks, brushing hair from my face. “Did something happen?”

“I just realized I was wasting precious time. If I stay in DC, I’ll never be more than Camille Buchanan . . . waitress.” I force a smile to thwart her from worrying too much. “I’m going to head upstairs for a bit. Mind if I borrow your laptop?”

“Go right ahead, sweetie. I’ll make us some supper. You’re probably famished. I hear they don’t feed you on airplanes anymore.”

She strides off, waving in the air and cursing the airlines under her breath.

I grab her computer from the coffee table and lug my bag up to my room. My head pounds, the pain pulsing behind my eyes. I’m dehydrated and exhausted. After boarding the flight to Nashville, we were forced to wait another hour while they investigated some burning smell coming from the cabin. When we finally left and landed in Tennessee, I waited in line for two hours for a rental car because apparently every flight heading to the Northeast was canceled thanks to Winter Storm Knox.

With the laptop in hand, I collapse on the familiar worn comforter, sprawling across my bed. Cracking the lid, I check my email before composing a quick note to an old friend from Georgetown currently residing in West Hollywood.

Hi, Nina!

Guess what? I’m finally moving west! Were you still looking for a roommate? I’m leaving DC sooner than anticipated. Let me know. I can be on the next flight out.

XOXO,

Camille

PS – Are you still working at that casting agency off Ocean Ave?

PPS – Miss you!

I grin, recalling the fun and mischief Nina and I used to get into back when I was some innocent freshman exploring newfound freedom in one of the most exciting cities in the world.

In a way, maybe what happened today is for the best. It’s forcing me to act on my dreams, taking away any choice I may have had to prolong it. And who knows what would’ve happened two months from now? Ronan may have wanted to keep me around longer and longer, and who knows if stupid me would’ve agreed. I’ve known women who’ve gone years as nothing more than glorified fuck buddies, kept under wraps by men who fill their heads with just enough hope to keep stringing them along.

Pulling my phone from my bag, I see a handful of missed calls; all with 202 area codes. One after another. Each call separated by a minute or so. I don’t have to second guess what I already know: they’re all from Ronan.

The bar across the top of my screen tells me my battery’s at one percent, and it may as well be because I’m not calling him. It’s pointless. He’s not my boyfriend. We weren’t romantically involved. And I don’t need another surprise visit from the FLOTUS when she finds out we’re still communicating.

Besides, I know what he’ll say. He’ll convince me to see him again, and he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. And I’ll cave in because, well, he’s Ronan Montgomery, and my ability to resist a handsome man who makes me feel light on my feet and dizzy with sweet reveries only goes so far.

I exhale, allowing myself to experience one last, vivid memory of his lips on mine, his hands in my hair, and his weight on my body before I release it for good. He was never mine to keep—none of them were. Our passionate nights were on borrowed time, and the meter just happened to expire earlier than expected.

An irrational, sharp pain fills my chest when I think about him moving on, if only because I selfishly wanted to keep him to myself just a little while longer. He’ll get over me eventually, and he’ll probably wind up married to Lydia Darlington. Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to, even if it pains me to think about it.

I let myself dwell just a little while longer before I plug my phone into the wall and head downstairs to spend more time with my sweet mother.

* * *

A blanket of snow coats our front yard. It’ll be gone by noon, but it makes for a beautiful view as I sit in the kitchen and lick a spoonful of cinnamon oatmeal. Mom left an hour ago to put in a few hours. Since retiring last year, she’s taken to volunteering at the library fifteen hours a week.

I’ve got the whole house to myself for the next couple of hours. Nowhere to go. No one to see.

I pull the familiar scent of my childhood home into my lungs. It’s like a fuzzy blanket, a hot cup of cocoa, and a big hug wrapped up in one. I’m not used to this much quiet, but I imagine it could be therapeutic.

A wooden birdfeeder attached to the kitchen window with plastic suction cups catches my eye. Inside, a tiny little brown bird perches on the edge, nibbling at the seed.

“What are you doing here? You should’ve flown south by now.” I smile and rinse my bowl in the sink, and the bird flies away.

Lucky little thing.

I skip down the steps to the lower level family room, fully content to veg out with the remote and a stack of my mom’s celebrity gossip magazines. She’s partially to blame with my obsession with all things glamour. Mom’s style is the epitome of understated, but she always appreciated a good red carpet gown.

Mindlessly turning pages and simultaneously flipping channels, I mute the TV when I hear knocking. It’s possible that it’s my imagination, but I cock my heard toward the stairs, waiting to see if I hear it again.

A few seconds pass, and the sound of three hard knocks echoes through the house. It’s the middle of the morning on a Monday. Unless it’s one of my mom’s crazy neighbors or a FedEx delivery, I’m not sure who else it would be.

I sit the magazine and remote aside and head upstairs, my heart pounding at the intense recollection of my surprise visitor at the hotel yesterday.

A break in the curtains on the front picture window shows a shiny black SUV in the driveway, and the pounding of my heart radiates through every extremity before traveling up my throat and pulsing in my ears.

Mustering all the courage I have left, I count to five and open the door.