Chapter Thirty-Two
I squeeze my eyes closed. “When is she coming?”
Amy throws the phone onto the couch. “She’s not. Laurie is. Tomorrow morning.”
I raise my head and hit it on the doorjamb. “I’m sorry you got that call. Right now, I mean. When you’re pissed at me and she was never your favorite person to start with.”
Her voice shakes. “Of course she wasn’t my favorite person, Paul. You were. And you were with her, all glossy lips and tits that weren’t just fat.” Her voice cracks and she presses the heels of her hands against her temples.
I step into the living room. “Am—”
“No!” Her eyes widen and her cheeks flush in patches. “Stop. Please.”
My feet root to the floor.
“I really don’t give two shits that you’re still friends. Really. You like everyone. Everyone likes you. That’s the way it’s always been. But I can’t do this. Not again. I can’t give myself over to you.”
The first-aid kit collapses in my grip. “That’s not—”
She grips her head and paces. “And I sure as hell can’t have you waiting around for me to fail. Waiting until I screw up, or hell, making sure I screw up, just so you can swoop in and make things right. Until you can convince me that I need you. That I can’t do anything without you.”
“I would never—”
“I had to put kids into the water with no lifeguard around, Paul. I had to risk their lives and my job because you kept Britt, my legally required staff member, from me. And you’re a fucking certified lifeguard! You know the laws. You knew she needed to be at the water, but you kept her back anyway. No. This can’t happen.” She spins to face me and pounds her fist against her chest. “This is my camp. My job. My life. And you don’t get to take pleasure in watching me fail.”
My forehead creases. “I don’t take pleasure in—”
“You laughed at me! Just like Dan used to. You and Justine. And you do not get to laugh at me. You don’t get to tell me I’m not good enough. You don’t.” She presses her palms into her eyes and her chest heaves.
My arms tense with the need to hug her, comfort her, press her against me and squeeze her back together. But she’s on edge like wildlife—likely to bolt at the slightest movement or loud noise. “I was laughing,” I say, “because I know full well that there’s no paddle up your ass. I was laughing because of how little Justine knows you—feeling pretty damned good that I do.” Amy’s breathing slows and I move closer. “So, please sit down. Let me fix your leg.”
“No.” She pulls her hands from her face. “I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.” Her jaw juts forward. “I can do this on my own.”
“I know you can. Just like you know that I’m not him, Amy. I’m not Dan.” I take a cautious step towards her. “I don’t want to control you, or isolate you, or make you think you’re any less amazing than you are.”
“I know.” She seals her hand against her mouth but it doesn’t quite smother the sob. “I know. But I can’t. I just can’t.”
I drop the first-aid kit onto the coffee table. “I love you, Amy. So fucking much.” My fingers beg to touch her, comfort her, smooth away her worries and warm her shaking body. But I feed them into my hair instead. “We’ve been living the dream I never thought I could have. I mean, I always hoped it could be like this—that life could be like this—but I didn’t really believe it. But it can—we can. We just have to—”
“No.” She lowers her hand from her mouth and smooths her palm over her stomach. “We can’t. The staff will never see me as their leader if you’re here.” Her voice shakes. “And I need them to. Because that’s your dream life you’re talking about. Not mine.”
I close the space between us and cup her chin in my hands. “Do you love me?”
Her eyes glisten and she turns her head from my grasp. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. It matters to me. To—”
“This isn’t about you!” She pulls her shoulders down and twists her hands together. “It’s about me. I didn’t take this job to fall in love with you. I took it so I could love me. To be more than a fucking doormat or corporate robot. To remember who I was before I shut myself away to make others happy. That’s my dream! And I thought I was doing it. I thought I could do it here, with you. Because I was happy. So happy.” She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. “But I know what happens if I love someone else before myself. And I can’t do that. Not again. Not when I’m all I have left to lose.”
The weight of her words sits on my chest. “Who else did you lose Amy?”
She keeps her eyes on the ceiling but can’t stop the tears from serpentining down her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter.”
I reach out slowly, cautiously wiping the rivers from her face. She squeezes her eyes closed but doesn’t pull away from my touch. “It does matter. It matters because it hurts you and it impacts your decisions and it makes up a part of who you are. And I love you, Amy. All of you—all the good and the bad and everything that’s gone into making you, you.”
“I don’t deserve that.”
My thumb strokes the length of her cheek. “You do.”
She pulls back and wrings her hands, eyes darting from my face to her shoes, to the sounds of campers playing outside. Her jaw trembles. “I wanted to believe that I could do this. Camp. You. But I can’t.”
“Do you love me?”
Her eyes—wild and red—hook on mine and they slice me open. She takes a shaky breath and her mouth opens, but it’s not her voice that moves—it’s her hand, creeping towards her hip—towards the protective veneer she’s spent years hiding behind.
My fingers are through her hair before she can put up her walls, her face tilted up beneath mine. “If you don’t love me, I’ll go to the rec hall right now. If you can tell me that you only care about my cock, I’ll leave tomorrow and you’ll never hear from me again. So I’m asking again. Amy, do you love me?”
Her throat lurches and cheeks quiver, but she doesn’t say no.
My thumb strokes her temple while my insides tie loops and hitches with my guts. “I promised I would give you everything. Whatever you need. So tell me, Amy, what do you need?”
She pulls away and backs down the hall. “I need...” Her index finger grazes her hip but falls limp to her side. She swallows hard. “I need you to give up. On me. On us. On whatever it is you thought I could be for you.”
The bathroom door closes behind her, shutting me out like before. But this time, I know it’s not because she doesn’t want me, but because she’s terrified that she does. So I press a palm into the door frame and lean my forehead on the plank of wood between us. Her muffled sobs rip into me and I grip the molding, swallowing what I want and doing what she needs. Against the protest of every muscle fiber in my being, I let go.
Turn around.
And leave.