Page 133 of The Good Girl Effect
“Because when I sleep over, they knock on her door, but she tells them they can’t sleep over because I’m there.”
Apparently, I’m going to have to have a serious talk with my sister. How many different women is she seeing?
Shaking away that thought, I focus on Camille instead. It’s not as simple as Bea is suggesting, obviously. She still puts her shoes on backward, so what does she know?
But I can’t stop thinking about my apology in that jewelry box. Was it enough? Should I have said those things to her face? I mean…she really didn’t let me talk, so it’s not like I had a choice. Ironically.
Am I really going to sit around here and waste away for the next two days when I could just tell her to her face how sorry I am and how much we love her? And maybe it would just be as simple as telling her that she can sleep in my bed again. And she can stop being a nanny.
I can prove that I’ve healed and grown in the last two months.
Feeling excited and a little wild, I glance down at my watch. Her train has already left.
But Giverny is only an hour away. Bea and I could be there this afternoon. I’ll tell Camille everything in person that I said in that letter, and we’ll beg her to come back, for real this time.
“Get your shoes on.” I stand from the stool and rush toward the stairs to get my wallet.
“What?” Bea shrieks. “Where are we going?”
“To the train station. We have to bring her back,” I call.
“Yay!” Bea cheers.
I hear sprinkles hit the wood floor, but I don’t care. I’ll clean it up later. Bea’s tiny feet stomp through the house as she gathers her shoes and coat. I’m calling the car as I button up her coat and pull a hat over her head.
The car pulls up five minutes later, and I quickly usher my daughter inside. She’s beaming with excitement, and I worry if I’m doing the right thing. Bringing Bea into this feels wrong, but she has as much fight in this game as I do. She loves Camille just as much, and she deserves a chance to chase after her too.
When we pull up to the station, we rush out of the car. Bea takes my hand as we run together toward the ticket booth.
She’s laughing excitedly as we weave in and out of the crowd. It’s infectious, so I find myself smiling along with her.
“Jack?”
When I hear my name, Bea and I come to a complete stop. Spinning around, I stare in shock at Camille standing near abench. Her eyes are swollen and wet, and there are blotches of red splattered across her nose and cheeks.
“Camille!” Bea shouts excitedly. Sprinting toward her, she leaps into the woman’s arms.
The look of relief and love on Camille’s face as she gathers my daughter in a tight embrace is palpable. Camille closes her eyes, love etched into her features as she presses her cheek to my daughter’s.
I take a step toward her, and I realize that if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.
“Je suis désolé.” I stammer my apology. My French is so rusty and was never very good to begin with, but I can do this for her.
She takes a step toward me.
“J’aurais dû…m’excuser plus tôt.”
I should have apologized sooner.
She winces, which probably means I'm butchering this. But she lets me continue. And I don’t know what else to say but the obvious.
“Je t’aime.”
Her eyes moisten again. I haven’t fucked it up yet, so I keep going.
“Je suis en thérapie. Et…j’essaie de m’améliorer.”
Maybe the most challenging words to say in any language—I’m trying to get better.
