Page 63 of Tipping Point

***

CAMILLE

I miss the Hungarian race because I’m still in London, on leave. Every minute of every day, I think back to the moment Finn’s warm mouth lowered down on me, the swirl of his tongue, and my heart skips a beat. My skin itches, I’m restless, I can’t sleep, I twist and turn. I dig my fingers into my thighs, and I run my fingertip over my clit, swirl it around, make myself come but it’s quick and harsh and when I’m done, I have that ache of not having finished completely, like there’s a core of pleasure I can’t rub out. It leaves me frustrated, uncomfortable, unsatisfied.

I want to find Finn and drag his face between my legs and make him suck me off like he did, soft and slow and hot and dragging it out so tentatively and so thoroughly that that unsatisfied core of me gets drawn out, smoothed over, pulled free.

I fucking hate him.

He doesn’t answer my messages or my calls. He left the Celestia collar behind. Two days later, the company that delivered it collects it again. Their van is unmarked, their clothes unbranded, and they travel in pairs. I wonder what other items they transport, the values of them.

He should have sent them in the first place.

After days of pure frustration, I want to scream.

I take a day to drive out to see Dixon in the countryside. He welcomes me with enthusiasm, and I join him in a small sunroom off the living room of the farmhouse they’re staying at. His parents join us for a short, friendly chat, and they engage me while Dixon slips away to check on his wife.

Shortly after, he pushes her into the room in a wheelchair. It’s shocking to see how much she has deteriorated. She lost her hair months ago and wears a cheerful bandana over her head. Her eyes are sunken deep into their sockets, her cheeks sharp and hollow. The corners of her mouth are downturned in pain. She reaches a frail hand that Dixon takes firmly, holding it to his chest. I can see her veins through her paper-thin skin. It’s obvious she is the glue holding them together. She soothes them with smiles and lies through her teeth when they ask her how she’s feeling. She won’t last much longer.

They’re pretending that everything is okay. She smiles at me and invites me to dinner.

I decline.

I cannot pretend that everything is fine. I leave shortly after.

Dixon catches up to me as I’m stomping over the gravel towards my car.

“Cam!” I stop and wait for him, but I don’t turn around. Tears are streaming down my face. He touches my shoulder but doesn’t turn me around.

“What do you see?” he asks. His voice is thick.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want to know what you see when you look at her?”

“Why?”

“Because you hear things people don’t say.”

I turn to him then. He’s also crying.

“She’s living for you. She doesn’t fear her own death, but she fears the pain it will cause you.”

With a sob, he rests his head on my shoulder. I wrap my arms around him and hug him tight. Dixon is a large man, quick to anger, faster to forgive. His emotions have always been reserved. To feel his shoulders shake with fear and despair breaks my heart.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“What will I do without her?”

Back at the flat, I’m stewing in my own frustration. I’ve been so caught up in that moment with Finn. I feel selfish and ashamed.

Dixon is trying to say goodbye to a lifetime spent with his wife. Trying to make every banal second count. What was between me and Finn except that moment on the couch, anyway?

Because you hear things people don’t say. That’s what Dixon said today.

The airplane, when he tugged at my hair when I was looking away. And then baited me to anger. When he put me to bed in Monaco, his thumbs skimming my waist when he pulled the dress up and over my head. And then ignored me for weeks. Until he happened to be in the cafe in Vienna. Then he took me dress shopping and let his fingers trail the bridge of my foot, resting on my ankle while he looked up at me with black eyes. Only to bait me again at the ball.

The fucking diamond collar. I frown.

---