Page 88 of Best Part of Me

CHAPTER25

Maverick

It’s deadline day. All my hard work, photos, data, and articles need to be turned in by the end of the day today. I’ve compiled it all, and the only thing left is to schedule the next month of blog and Instagram posts. That alone will take me all night to finish. My boss wants the month of November unofficially labeled National Park Month. It was supposed to happen in October, but I’d pushed my trip back a few weeks to be able to attend Camille’s wedding.

My mind drifts back to that day. To the wedding. The one that never even took place.

It’s been two weeks since I last saw Camille. The image of her rushing out of the women’s restroom that night at the bar when we’d given each other everything without holding back. We begged for what we wanted, we screwed with the force of a wrecking ball, confessed our hearts’ desires.

Each day since then should get easier. But it doesn’t. Instead, it’s the opposite. I can’t remember the last time I shaved, ate a decent meal, or washed clothes. Which explains why I’m holed up in my apartment dressed in sweatpants but going commando.

I’ve been avoiding Jones too. He’s suspicious. But just looking at him makes me think of Cammie. And of what we did to him. It makes me hate myself. The last time he stopped by my apartment, I was home but didn’t answer the door. I think he knew.

I suppose eventually it will get better. But I keep wondering,when?Because it’s getting more difficult to crawl out of bed each day. Leaving my apartment for a cup of coffee from Brew Box is no longer an option. There’s too much of a chance I’ll run into Cammie there. And seeing Rosie was bad enough those last few times I went.

One of the worst parts of this whole thing is my work is also affected. Each article I wrote had the presence of Camille etched in it. Her footprints from each national park, campsite, and day, will forever be there. All the photos I sorted through, some with her smiling and posing for me, have haunted me each day I’ve worked on this project.

Jones

Dad wants to know if we should expect you for Thanksgiving dinner?

The holiday isn’t for three more weeks. But for a planner like Jack, it makes sense. Only, I can’t bring myself to answer. How am I supposed to go to Thanksgiving dinner at the Martin’s and face Jones? Or sit at a table across from Camille knowing we can’t be together?

But I’ve attended the Martin Thanksgiving dinner every year for almost as long as I can remember. If I don’t go, it will look suspicious. My thumb hovers over my phone screen, and I chew my lip, debating texting Cammie to ask her what she thinks. We quit each other cold turkey so texting her feels off-limits.

I go against my gut feeling and text her anyway.

Me

Jones is asking if I’ll be at your family’s Thanksgiving dinner. Not sure what to tell him.

To my surprise and relief, she responds.

Cammie

You should say yes. You come every year.

Me

If that’s what you want.

Cammie

You know I want so much more than that.

Me

Do I?

My head spins while I watch the bubbles dance across her text, and I wait for a reply.

Cammie

I want you.

Me

You had me.

---