Page 12 of SALT

"Everett, Jesus. You scared the crap out of me." She rolls her eyes and climbs another step. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm stocking shelves."

"You're not about to stand on that box to reach the top shelf. Get down. I'll do it."

She laughs. "Is that why you stormed in here like I was robbing the place? You thought I was using this box for another six inches of height?" Reaching down, she flips open the top. "It's a box of hats, Ev. It wouldn't have held my weight. I set them here for easy access so I could put them away quicker," she says as if her intent was obvious.

"Why are you here, Cameron? It's the summer before you graduate. If you're serious about pursuing a degree in fashion, you should be looking for internships that align with your career goals." I meet her by the stool and steal the box of hats. "I can put all of this away, or better yet, the new shop attendant can put it away when they start training later this week. Go home. I'll let Connor know he doesn't need you to run errands for him this summer."

Her cheeks heat, and her blue eyes start to turn gray. "I won't be going anywhere, Everett. I work here."

"You most certainly do not. You don't need to work, but I'll talk to Holden if you insist on a summer hobby. I'm sure he'll let you work at Hayes Fields until school starts again. Go home. I've got this."

She steps off the stool and puts her hand on her hip, her attitude affecting me in ways it shouldn't. "I'll say it again, Everett, because apparently, you're determined to see and hear what you want instead of what's real. I work here, and I won't be leaving." She snatches the box of hats from my hands and adds, "As for getting a job that aligns with my degree, I got one. I designed this box of hats, along with every other team logo item in the shop, thank you very much. If you don't want me here because suddenly being around me is unbearable, then you can leave. You have no reason to come into this shop."

She turns on her heel and stomps off toward the cashier counter. "Cameron?—"

"Don't apologize. I'm done with all of them, Everett. Don't worry about the letter. I release you from whatever vow, oath, or pact you had with my father. I'm no longer your burden. As for being in your space, I'll leave, but I'm not quitting my job here. So you'll have to suffer through the summer knowing I'm down here."

"Cam—" I try again.

"Leave, Everett." Her back is still to me when her hands slam against the counter. "It's what you're good at, and we have nothing more to discuss."

I bite my tongue and resist the urge to walk up behind her, as I've done more times than I should. I can't help myself. I've always noticed Cameron Salt. However, I'm not sure that is saying much. Everyone notices her. It’s impossible not to. Just like the sun, she never stops shining. She loves to talk; she'll talk to anyone about anything, regardless of status. Cameron doesn't see those things even though she's always had it. She has a sense of humor and doesn't hold bitterness or resentment even when warranted. The woman is confident, and she goes after exactly what she wants. It's because I see all those things that I don't correct her. I want to tell her how very wrong she is, but I don't. What she's proposing is for the best. I need to let her go. Boston wasn't the answer. It didn't rid me of her in the way I'd hoped, and maybe that's because I knew she wasn't really gone. She was still in my life, still in my home, and therefore still in my head.

Unlike the last time we parted, I don't let her have the last word. Before I exit the shop, I stop and say, "Saying sorry isn't always an admission of guilt. Sometimes it's said just because the person cares."

I don't look back before I walk out. There's no point. I keep inserting my foot in my mouth when it comes to Cameron, which is something I never do. I wasn't going to apologize like she assumed. Tactfully backpedal? Yes. She wasn't wrong when she said I've already apologized too many times. Plus, I wasn't truly sorry. Nothing I said was untrue. It was my delivery that could have been better. Every interaction I have with her could be better. She's right. I shouldn't need to go into the team shop. However, her presence will be a nuisance. It's not unbearably horrible. In fact, it's the opposite, unbearably intoxicating. Knowing she's in the same vicinity as me and staying away will require strength I'm learning I no longer possess. I take the stairs two at a time, determined to get to my office and the bottle of gin that Connor left in a gift basket. I'm sure the basket was Mackenzie's idea, but the fact Connor allowed it means something. It's progress.

The tension that's riddled my body since I returned home barely gets a chance to ebb from the thought of all this madness when I open the door to my office and find long dark hair, slicked back and pulled into a high ponytail, with not a strand out of place. My ex-wife is standing at the window overlooking the field.

"Moira, what are you doing here?"

Moira has always been a beautiful woman, but somewhere along the line, that natural light, her inner beauty dimmed. For years, I tried to be everything she wanted. Her basic needs were always met. Every dream she had, I gave it to her. The problem was I wasn't the one she wanted to dream with. I knew our marriage wasn't conventional. We were forced together at a young age under duress. At the time, marrying her was the only way I could protect her. We were friends before our nuptials were the only answer, and I thought our friendship would grow into more with time. For a while, it seemed to, but as time passed, our love did not grow. I guess for that to happen, it would have needed to be there to begin with.

"Is that any way to greet me, Everett? What has got into you?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose and drop my head. Well, that's something. At least I know my crass responses aren't just reserved for Cameron. Apparently, they extend to Moira as well.

"It's been a long day." I head toward the desk and sit before reaching into the drawer where I stored the bottle of gin. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" I ask, gritting back the sarcasm as I search for a glass.

"I went to your office today when I heard you were home, but when I got there, Sheila said not only were you not in, but she didn't expect to see you all summer. When I walked down the hall to speak with your brother, he said I could find you here."

I find a sleeve of paper cups; not ideal for drinking gin, but they'll get the job done. Pulling a cup off the top, I raise it. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, I can't have carbs on my diet," She waves her hand dismissively.

"Gin doesn't have any carbs," I let my eyes rake down her body, one I know has zero flaws apart from her c-section scar from birthing our son, but even that doesn't count. That scar was an anchor for me in our marriage. Every time I saw it, I was reminded of the gift she gave me. I told myself she didn't have to love me. She gave me a son who did. Nothing about her figure has changed. I don't bother telling her she doesn't need to diet. She knows she doesn't, and the compliments I gave her only ended with her asking for a divorce. "You said you went to my office. You found me. What is it that you need?"

"Why do you assume I need something?"

I throw back the two fingers of gin I poured myself in one go. This is it. This must be the karma I earned myself speaking out of turn to Cameron all week.

"You don't?"

"I saw Cameron working in the team shop downstairs."

"So you came here to discuss Cameron?" I pour myself another drink.

She firmly presses her lips together, letting me know my responses are wearing on her, but her unannounced presence is doing the same for me.

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