Page 43 of The VIP Package

I click off and stare at my phone for a minute. I was a dick to Camille. That much I already knew. But I hadn’t considered the implications of letting her think her professional insights caused the riff between us.

We still can’t get involved. Feelings aren’t part of the equation, of course. But that doesn’t mean I should completely ignore hers.

I’m dialing her number before I have the good sense to think it through.

“Ashton, hello.” She answers on the second ring, sounding out of breath. “Any word on the pilots’ strike?”

“Nothing new.” I haven’t checked for an hour, and I still need to phone my airline contact. “I called to apologize.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence on the other end. “You’re apologizing tome?”

“For being curt with you.” Among other things, but that’s the easiest to address. “I understand that your habit of analyzing people is deeply engrained as a part of you. I’d just as soon tell you to stop breathing as order you not to tunnel into my psyche.”

“That’s still no excuse for voicing my thoughts. I know better than that, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Camille. Truly.” I hadn’t realized until just now how tired I sound. It’s good we’re sleeping in separate spaces tonight. If we were together, I’d need to explore every inch of her body. To bury my face in her neck just to feel her shiver. To slide into the sweet vise of her slick little?—

“Did you have dinner yet?” I try to divert blood back to my brain.

“I’ve been snacking on Pringles. Found a can in the bottom of my gym bag.”

“Quite the well-balanced dinner.”

She chuckles. “I just wrapped up a telehealth session and I still need to write up my notes.”

“You were able to reschedule with the patient from earlier?”

“Yes, thank God.”

“This is someone you’ve been treating a while?” I don’t know why I just asked that. “I apologize, you probably can’t answer that, can you?”

“This one’s a bit different, since she’s a patient I first counseled on a popular podcast. You’ve heard of Brooke Braham?”

“The name is familiar.”

“She’s America’s leading advice guru, and also an old friend. We did a three-part podcast series on grief. Several of our callers chose to continue with me in private therapy.”

“I see.” I suspect that’s the end of what she’s allowed to share with me. “You must not be terrible at your job, if you’re sought after like this.”

Camille scoffs. “It’s the Brooke Braham connection, more than anything.”

I doubt that’s true, but I know better than to dispute someone’s treasured personal narrative in which they star as the leading loser. “This patient is grieving?”

“Yes.” She seems to hesitate. “Again, I can’t share anything she didn’t share publicly on the podcast. She’s a young widow with lingering feelings of guilt about her husband’s passing.”

“I see.” I know from my own research that Camille is a sex therapist. Whatever she’s treating this woman for must lie in the intersection between grief and sexuality. “Do you feel you’re making progress with her?”

“It’s hard to tell sometimes.” Camille sighs. “So often it’s two steps forward, one step back, you know?”

“Yes.” I do know.

And maybe I need to share something more with Camille.

“Brigitte died in a car accident.” My voice sounds gravelly and I’m not honestly sure why I’m telling her this. “Grayson, our son, was in the backseat. He lingered in a coma for two weeks but ultimately passed on as well.”

“Oh, Ash.” There’s a small sound that might be a sob. “I’m so unbelievably sorry. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like for you.”

“It—wasn’t great.” Such a fucking master of emotion. “As you can tell by that unbearably inadequate response, you hit the nail on the head when you suggested I’m not in touch with my feelings. I’d prefer not to be, frankly.”

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