Page 2 of My Sweetest Obsession
“You should be scared, Ivy.” I swallow thickly, forcing down the ball of emotion clogging my throat, but it refuses to budge. “Because I’m the reason Drew is dead. I killed him.”
Ivy recoils at my statement.
Her already pale skin goes ashen as she drops back on her haunches. What I wouldn’t give to know the true color of it or of those expressive eyes that hold so many emotions all the time. Drew’s description of her from before I went and blew everything up allow me to try to visualize it, but after so many years of only seeing black, white, and varying shades of gray, his description of peachy skin that darkens when she blushes and amber eyes that sparkle with flecks of gold doesn’t mean a whole lot to me.
The only color I really remember is red.
The color she made me see again.
“What?” Those perfect lips I’ve kissed and tasted and loved so much open and close a few times as she shakes her head. “What the hell are you talking about, Cam?”
I clench my jaw in a fight against another sob threatening to climb out of my throat.
I’ve known agonizing pain in my life.
Physical.
Emotional.
The kind of soul-crushing torment that leaves lasting scars.
Yet, having to look at Ivy and say all of this is ten thousand times worse than anything else I’ve suffered.
I knew I would eventually have to tell her, that I’d have to come clean, that I’d have to confess everything; I just thought I’d have more time. That there’d be a better way to do it, a less painful way for her, for both of us.
But I was wrong.
There is no way to explain that I killed Drew without crushing her completely. And watching her face crumple at my words, hearing her confusion over my admission, I know she won’t ever recover from this.
She was barely hanging on as it was after losing him, and any lifeline she thought I gave her was just cut, leaving her floating alone on that dark water where we spread his ashes.
And there’s no way for me to reel her back, to get her back on solid ground.
All I’m going to do is push her farther under the roiling waves.
Holding her gaze while I tell her this makes the alcohol threaten to come back up, but I swallow it back. “I told you I thought the wedding invitation was from him, that it was him gloating that you were his.” My hand tightens around the bottle at the memory of receiving it. “It pissed me the fuck off. It’s why I came back…”
Ivy narrows her eyes, so much uncertainty in them that they can’t seem to focus on me. “I…thought you came back because Drew died.”
I shake my head, refusing to look away from her, even if it would be so much easier if I did. “No, Ivy. I came back for you.” More tears slide down my cheeks. “It’s always been about you.”
Her entire body trembles, her skin taking on an unmissable deathly pallor that’s evident even without the benefit of seeing its true color.
“When my mom told me that Drew had proposed to you…” All those feelings rush back—the anger, the jealousy that gave me an irrational ire toward him simply because she loved him. “It made me realize I couldn’t live without you. It made me understand that I had to get my shit together if I had any hope of ever having a chance with you.” I give her a sad smile. “It’s why I went to rehab, Ivy. Because I knew I was a mess, and I wanted to be the person you met that night, not”—I wave my free hand over myself, the bottle, and the drugs lying beside me—“this.”
She buries her face in her hands. “I don’t understand, Cam. I?—”
“I didn’t come back because Drew died. I’ve been back in Philly for almost six months, Ivy.”
Her back stiffens, her hands falling away to reveal her wide eyes and trembling lips. “What?”
I motion toward the box. “The invitation came, I don’t know, a week or so after you mailed it, and I was so fucking pissed.” Shoving my free hand through my hair, I shake my head. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you and what had happened that night and how he was shoving it in my face that he got you. And I said ‘fuck it’ and flew home with every intention of fighting for you, of telling you that it was me in the garden before you could make a huge mistake and marry him.”
She presses her hands over her chest as I take another drink and let the bottle dangle from my fingertips. I stare at it. That familiar dark liquid that has always been my favorite now makes me want to vomit, but I can’t stop drinking it.
“But I had barely been clean for six months then, and one of the things they tell is in rehab and in NA is that getting into a relationship during that first year of sobriety isn’t a good idea.” I lift my gaze to meet hers. “Because people replace the high from drugs with that intense emotion and euphoria of a new relationship. So…I waited…”
“You’ve been here for six months?”
