Love and the Silver Lining

by Tammy L. Gray

  “It’s not too late,” I plead through my tears. “You two can still try to fix this. You can do all the things you didn’t do before. Marriage counseling, or you can finally take that second honeymoon you always talked about.”

  “Sweetheart.” He sighs again, and I know what he’s going to say well before he says it. “Your mom and I are never getting back together. There’s a point when the damage becomes irreparable, and we hit that milestone a long time ago. But I love you. And I really hope that one day we will find a way past all the hurt. Because I miss my little girl.”

  Overcome by emotion, I slide off the table and fall into the arms of my father. He holds me tight, just like he has every time I’ve been afraid or hurt or lonely. He’s my dad, good or bad. I can’t change his choices, but I can change mine.

  I ease away and wipe my tears with the heel of my palm. “I’m still really disappointed in you.”

  He swallows and nods. “I know you are.”

  “But I’m willing to try and forgive you. Because hanging on to this bitterness isn’t doing any of us any good.” I squeeze his hand in mine and try not to cry again when I see my father’s eyes fill.

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” He swallows again, working to get his emotions to settle. “We can start slow. Maybe a Sunday night once a month?”

  I consider it for only a second before shaking my head no, and not just because Sunday nights are Mom’s and she didn’t do anything to deserve them getting snatched away. My answer is driven more by what my dad and I seem to be suffering from—an inability to let go.

  “Why don’t we try a Saturday night instead,” I say when his chest deflates. “Maybe start some new traditions.”

  He blows out a long, relieved breath. “I’d like that very much.”

  thirty-two

  Cameron’s mom likes to scrapbook. She cuts out pictures, buys expensive, fancy stickers, and creates a chronicled record of each of her four children’s journey through life. Cameron claimed to hate it as a kid, but he’s fallen into the picture craze much like his mother. Only his snapshots and selfies aren’t on 24x24 pages. Instead, they’re kept in boxes, each one labeled by year and stuffed to the brim.

  I have both collections sitting in front of me. His mom’s beautiful book of memories she gave him last Christmas, and Cameron’s 4x6 printouts that are as artistic as the amazing music he produces. I carefully turn page after page and marvel at the fact that even though I’m not in his family, my presence is captured on almost every single sheet. Cameron and me playing Sorry when we were only seven. Cameron and me at Hawaiian Falls Waterpark, soaked to the bone, our arms locked around each other’s shoulders. Cameron and me in graduation gowns, both excited because we ended up choosing the same college.

  I close the book and slide the picture boxes closer. There’s less of me in here, but only because I quit letting him freely take my picture a long time ago. It’s the rest of his life that’s represented. Old bandmates, co-workers, past girlfriends. I pick up the one of him and January. It used to be framed and sitting on his dresser. Now that frame holds a picture of Cameron onstage. The one I took at his first Black Carousel concert.

  One by one, I take in the memories, too many to count, some good and some horrible, but ours nonetheless. Maybe that’s why I’m here. Why I’ve been sitting on Cameron’s bed for the past two hours, waiting for him to come home.

  It’s another hour before he does, and by the time I hear the front door open, I have a spread of every girlfriend he’s ever had across his blue-and-white-checkered comforter.

  Cameron barrels into his room, drops his violin case onto the desk, and kicks off his shoes. He doesn’t see me yet, and I don’t say a word until he goes to lift his shirt over his head.

  “You may not want to do that.”

  He freezes, his stomach exposed, and then slowly he lowers his shirt back down. “How did you get in here?”

  I shrug, only slightly surprised that his voice holds an edge of irritation. “You’re not the only one with a spare key.”

  He backs up until he hits the desk, then crosses his arms. He’s still mad. I guess that’s fair. I still am as well.

  I eye the violin case. “You guys had practice today?”

  “I’m not quitting, and he hasn’t fired me, so yeah, if he calls it, I’m there. We’re professionals, Darcy. There’s no law that says we have to be friends to put on a good show.” He glances at the door as if strongly weighing whether to bolt or not, and then back at me. “Why are you here?”

  “We promised to fight for each other. This is me fighting.” I pick up a picture from my last fundraiser. Cameron and I are posed in a high ten because I’d just hit my funding goal. “My dad said that there’s a point where the damage in a relationship becomes irreparable. I won’t let that be us.”

  We begin a game of silence we’ve only played one other time, and it was over something so stupid I don’t even remember what it was. Finally I cave, mostly because I came here to talk, or maybe to yell, but either way I came because I refuse to let one argument shake a lifetime together.

  “You hurt me. The things you said about my dad were cruel and unfair.” My voice is shaky, but I have to get that out.

  “I know.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry I said it the way I did. I was angry and confused.”

  I don’t miss that he doesn’t take back the words, only his harshness. His feelings weren’t contrived from shock; they were real, and for some reason, that fact makes them all the more painful.

  “You lied to me, and if I’d left my house even five minutes later, you’d probably still be lying to me.” He stares down at his feet. “There’s always been one absolute between the two of us; we tell each other the truth, even when it means hard conversations or disagreements.”

  I swallow down the guilt. “In my defense, I never actually lied. I told you I was seeing someone, just not who.”

  He jerks his head up. “That’s a technicality and you know it.” He moves again, getting close to the same spastic pacing he had outside of Bryson’s front door. “I’ve been racking my brain for two days now, trying to understand why you didn’t talk to me first, especially knowing the kind of impact it would have on the band. And then it hit me . . .” He looks at me and the hurt written on his face makes my stomach sink. “You already knew. That’s what bothers me the most. You walked into that relationship fully knowing I wouldn’t be okay with the two of you together, and you didn’t care.”

  I have no counterattack because, deep down, it’s true. It’s why I left Bryson out of stories I’d tell. Why I put off telling Cam the truth, even though Bryson warned me that time wouldn’t make a difference. “He’s not the terrible person you think he is.”

  “I don’t care if he’s a saint, he’s terrible for you. For any girl, for that matter, but especially for you.”

  “Is that why you got so mad? Because you were protecting me?”

  “Yes . . . but it’s more than that. He threatens us—what we have together. Bryson doesn’t just exist in someone’s life. He invades it. I mean, look what’s happened. You’ve only been together a little while and he’s already changing you.”

  I set down the picture I’ve been holding and pick up one of Cameron and Lydia. He wants to make this about Bryson’s flaws, but I won’t go there again. “Why haven’t any of your relationships lasted?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m not. I actually think it’s related to why you got so angry. Why this relationship—my first serious one—bothers you so much.” My heartbeat grows when Cameron’s face changes from frustration to the same tingling fear that’s coursing through me.

  “What are you asking me?” He takes a step closer, blowing out an unsteady breath as if he, too, can’t stop the pounding of his heart.

  We hold each other’s gaze. One second. Two. It goes into three. He knows what I’m asking. He can see the trepidation all over my face.

  Cameron takes
another unsteady step forward. “Once we go here, Darcy, there’s no going back.” It’s a warning that the territory we’re stepping into is riddled with land mines.

  “I don’t think we have a choice,” I squeak out, my voice catching in my throat. “Not after what happened.” Either Bryson is right, and I’ve been naïve and blind, or he’s wrong and our breakup was pointless. Regardless, I’m not leaving this room until I know exactly how Cameron feels.

  Without another word, Cam sits on the edge of the bed and examines my handiwork. There are nine girls, all ranging from a few dates to serious long-term possibilities. And in every single case, Cameron was the one who ended things. He pushes the photos into a pile and drops them in one of the boxes I’d emptied. He then takes the pictures of us and lays them out in the same order and formation. “They didn’t last because none of them was you.” He looks at me then, the truth in his eyes a sledgehammer to all the denial I’ve clung to since high school when he first told me we were soulmates. “You weren’t ready before, and I get it, we were only eighteen, and you had your dreams and I had mine.”

  I suck in a breath as years of innocent friendship are wiped away, replaced by the truth that between us the whole time, there’s been this secret hovering on the fringe. “That was forever ago. Why haven’t you said anything?”

  “Honestly, I’ve been too big of a coward to chance a second rejection.” He gingerly takes my hand. “I guess I’ve been waiting for you to feel what I do. And sometimes I think you do, and then other times it seems like you come up with excuses to put distance between us.” He scoots closer to me. “But I’ve always known, no matter how long it took for you to be ready, that it was okay, because one thing has never changed in all these years. You’ve always come back to me.”

  I stand because Cameron is too close, and I need to move. To process all he just told me. He watches me from the bed, tentative. I know the look. It is practically the same one Bryson gave me when he asked me to choose. And even though Cameron doesn’t say those words, I know I have to. And the choice is no longer between Cameron, my best friend, or Bryson, my boyfriend. Now it’s a forever decision, because you don’t just date your best friend. You marry him.

  Cam rises from the bed, slowly, as if he knows that every step toward me will shatter who we are now.

  I want to run, but I can’t leave, not after being the one to insist we talk. I press my back into the wall, the one next to his dresser that has only about five feet of space before the corner.

  He moves closer, never taking his eyes from mine. “Do you remember when we were twelve and we locked ourselves in the closet?”

  I nod, panic rising in my chest, a trapped feeling I haven’t had since I got an MRI my junior year closing in on me. We wanted to know what it would be like to kiss someone, and it just made sense that we’d practice on each other.

  “You were my first kiss, and I’ve always been so grateful we had that,” he says softly, delicately, his feet inching closer and closer. “I’ve thought of this moment so many times. Imagined it. Played it out in my head.” He’s right in front of me now, and I don’t know whether to bolt or to let us try and see if I feel even an ounce of what I do when Bryson’s near me.

  Cam touches my cheek, and it feels different from before. Just as I imagine every look or touch or conversation between us will now be changed. His other hand goes to my waist, and my heart beats more frantically than I ever thought it could without going into cardiac arrest.

  “Darcy,” he whispers, “I’ve waited a lifetime to do this again.” His head tilts and lowers.

  I feel his breath, but it’s not until he closes his eyes that I know I can’t. I press both palms to his chest. “Don’t.”

  He’s so close, he could ignore me and I’d have no way to stop the contact. But true to the man I know he is, he pulls away, though it seems to be the most painful thing I’ve ever asked him to do.

  “This isn’t right. And it isn’t fair, not to any of us.” I take a deep breath, my pulse finally calming to a normal rhythm. “I need time to figure out what I’m feeling.”

  “You’ve had eleven years,” he snaps, his mouth tight, his eyes bright blue with both desire and frustration.

  Matching indignation roars inside me. “No. You’ve had eleven years. I’ve had about eleven seconds, so forgive me if I need a moment to catch up.”

  Cameron shoves his hands into his hair and turns his back to me. “What does he have that I don’t?”

  “That’s not a fair question.”

  He spins back around. “Sure it is. You kiss him. You lie to me to be with him. You ignore all the warning signs of an inevitably damaged relationship. And now, when we finally have a shot at something mind-blowing together, you choose him. So, what is it that makes Bryson so irresistible? I truly want to know.”

  “I didn’t choose him. I chose my best friend.” I don’t tell Cam about the ultimatum because he isn’t stupid, and he can figure out what I’m getting at. “But now you’re changing all of our history and asking me to promise more than I can. It’s just too much, too fast.” My lower lip quivers and tears burn my eyes. “I’m not good with change. You know that.”

  “I’m sorry.” He comes forward, not as a pursuer this time but as the friend I’ve always known, and pulls me into his arms. “I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. I didn’t realize you had . . . ended things.”

  “He didn’t exactly give me another option.”

  “They rarely ever do.” Cameron chuckles, and his chest vibrates against mine. “I know this has been hard for you, so it feels wrong to be this happy, but I am. Bryson will move on; he always does. And you and I can go back to being us.” He runs his hand down my back. “If being with you means I have wait a little longer, then I will. I’ll wait for you forever.”

  But as I stand there, in the middle of his room, hugging the man I assumed would be a part of every important event in my life, I realize that making him wait indefinitely is crueler than saying goodbye. Because either way, whether it’s Bryson or Cam or some other guy down the line making me choose, the truth is still vividly clear: I’ve been like my father, clinging to a memory that no longer exists. Cameron, my partner in crime, my childhood best friend, my safety net . . . is gone. And the real question looms over me like a phantom waiting to attack.

  Can I love him any other way?

  thirty-three

  Cameron has never been good at waiting, so it was no surprise when his patience wore out only twelve hours after our conversation. Monday, he was respectful, only texting a couple of times to say how happy he was we made up. Tuesday, he called twice and left messages. Wednesday, it was five calls and two texts asking me to confirm I’m not dead. I sent him a thumbs-up emoji.

  Needless to say, I wasn’t surprised when the phone calls started early today, nine o’clock to be exact, right when I was pulling into the farm. But since today is supposed to be all about Louie, I left the device in my truck, feeling only slightly guilty.

  “Do you think I’m a bad person for not wanting to talk to him?” I ask the massive Great Dane, who’s currently snuggling with me on a picnic blanket. Louie stretched out is way longer than I am, easily seven feet from toe to nose. His front paws push against my shoulders, and I turn him on his back, exposing his big white stomach.

  We’re working on trust today, and putting him in vulnerable situations is the first step in showing him that I’m not going to hurt him.

  “I know he’s going to want an answer and I don’t have one, so is it better to talk to him only to tell him I need more time, or just make him wait?” I rub the thin, sensitive skin on his torso, and Louie makes a loud rawh rawh sound. It’s his way of talking to me. “Yeah. You’re probably right. I already know what I’m going to say; I’m just avoiding the inevitable. But in my defense, Black Carousel plays tomorrow, and I’d never forgive myself if something I did ruined Cameron’s performance.”

  Louie makes another noise, and I swear
he calls me a scaredy-cat. His wet nose presses against mine. I move my face just in time to avoid a big lick of his tongue.

  I push his giant head away. “That’s sweet and all, but no licks on the face, okay?”

  It’s bad enough that I’m covered with Louie’s tiny dog hair, slobber, and dirt on my clothes, and my ponytail is lopsided and loose. The last thing I need is dried saliva on my face.

  I move to a kneeling position while fixing my wayward hair. “Up, Louie.” He hops up, nearly knocking me over. I steady us both and pull his collar until he’s in front of me. “Now sit.”

  Louie’s backside hits the blanket and he’s quickly rewarded with a treat. When he’s done chewing, I pick up his left paw and carefully slide my fingers between each one of his pads. It’s a very sensitive area for a dog and takes a great deal of trust to let me explore.

  Louie leans down and licks my fingers. A reminder that he’s a little nervous.

  “It’s okay. You’re doing so good.”

  A car door slams, and Louie jerks his paw away, the hair standing up on his neck. I scramble to my feet and frown when Louie backs up and barks. He wants to go to his doghouse. Wants to retreat to what’s safe versus facing the fear head on. “I guess I’m not the only one who’s a scaredy-cat,” I tease, holding his collar and trying to reassure him with long strokes down his back.

  I watch the trail from the driveway to Charlie’s back door, waiting to see who the intruder is, though part of me already suspects. My heart dances in my chest as I wait, anticipation as visible on me as it is on the dog to my left.