44
CAMILLE
So this is what empty nesters feel like: idle, in limbo, restless. Ally’s been gone for five days, and I miss her something fierce. I don’t know what to do with myself except turn on every light in the apartment and every device to mimic the constant noise she used to make. Her quilt now permanently resides on the couch, so I can slip my feet under it while watching TV.
Which is what I’m doing now. Binge watching Hart of Dixie, with chocolate chips and a glass of wine on the coffee table, while tucked under Ally’s quilt as if it’s winter.
But I would be lying if I didn’t say some of my unease is because of Drew. Even if I try to fool myself, make myself believe I’m watching the clock because of Ally and Jaz, who is now working full time teaching yoga and Pilates, every bone in my body has kept time.
Seven hours until Drew gets on the plane. Seven hours to figure out what to do.
But is it too late?
I let him walk away without an objection. Watched him as he strode away. His explanations and apology were enough. Once I had time to think, alone, I realized the challenges in the last month were not caused by him. That my deepest regrets were the secrets we kept, and I had a hand in that, too.
And, he made me happy.
I love him.
My phone glows with a notification. Turning down the volume of my phone is my new norm and it’s liberating. The quiet in between has allowed me to destress, to brainstorm, and to rest somewhat. While my eyes are peeled for Ally’s texts, the rest—the group messages, the random weather announcement or Words with Friends notification—can wait.
I’m on the plane tomorrow morning. Bus is leaving out of Fort Pershing at 6 a.m. Bye, Camille.
My heart squeezes; I can’t breathe. This is a sign, right? He wouldn’t have texted if there was zero chance to make this better. I mean, unless this was simply a good-bye, a note that wasn’t meant for me to respond to.
I toss back another swig of red wine for strength, for wisdom. When he gets on that plane, it’ll be that much harder to track him down. But if I text him now, will it cause drama when he’s supposed to be clearheaded, at his best? I’m sure he’s spending his last night with his family, with Chef Ritchie.
The thought of that man halts all of my what-ifs.
Drew said his only wish when he came home was to make up with his dad. If I fight for Drew, for us, will I be a source of conflict? Do I want to be what finally ruins what they have?
For good measure, I shake out a handful of chocolate chips and throw them into my mouth. Surely the answer will come when the sugar has fully entered my bloodstream.
The doorbell rings and I freeze. Even my mouth halts. It’s late, almost eleven, and my closest friends know to call before they show. I debate pretending I’m not home, but my apartment is brightly lit. There’s no hiding that someone is in here.
I shuffle to the door with Ally’s quilt wrapped around me like an invisibility cloak. The peephole only reveals a round, dark blob. Great. I pretend I’m not alone. “I’ll get it, honey, um . . . Steve.”
Ugh. I have no stealth.
Knocking ensues and a voice filters through the door. “Camille? I’m sorry to bother you. This is Bryn, Andrew’s cousin. I’m leaving something at the door.”
Bryn? What?
My fingers fumble with the dead bolt, the chain, and the upper door lock, and all the while I think I would be in major trouble if there was an emergency in here and I had to get out quickly. Finally, after the final click, I throw the door open as a woman sets something down.
Bryn looks up and her face halts me. She’s beautiful, the female version of Drew. High cheekbones, a bun coiled on top of her head. She’s wearing all black. Her polo shirt has a compass embroidered over her heart. A smile that can stop traffic spreads across her face. “You came out.”
“Hi,” is all I can say.
“This is for you.” She bends down and picks up her package, a small burlap bag, top tied in twine. “From my uncle Ritchie.”
Rough fabric scratches against my skin. What’s inside is solid, heavy. “Chef Ritchie?”
She nods. “Go ahead, open it.”
“Does Drew . . .” I falter in my question.
Bryn’s eyes light up. “Drew doesn’t know. This is a . . . covert operation.”
My fingers undo the knot. Flipping the bag over, something brass falls into my palm.
“You can open it this way,” Bryn says, showing me where on the lip to flip the top.
“A compass,” I say.
“My Tito Ritchie says it’s to help you find your true north.” She grins, though her eyes are sorrowful. “These Bautista men. Sometimes they’re so freaking dumb. I mean, I’ve dealt with them all of my life, and they drive me up the wall. They think they’re always right. And it takes them a while to come to their senses even if it’s obvious they’re not. But when they love, they love hard.”
The needle wiggles as I rotate the compass, my heart orienting itself to Bryn’s words. I aim the arrow so the needle points to the N. “True north?”
Bryn flips her right wrist over. A miniature version of Drew’s tattoo is inked below her palm. It’s another tug on my conscience, seeing this connection, the loyalty of this clan. So similar to mine.
“To your family.” Bryn leans in for a hug.
At that moment, I love this woman, too. I breathe in the newfound strength she brought, and as I watch Bryn as she stomps down the hallway in her shiny red kitchen clogs, all of my questions are answered.