"You can say it," I whispered. Part of me needed to hear him say it.
"Before we lost the boys." His own eyes flooded then, and that only made me cry harder. "I wanted to make it a place you loved again, a place you could go to find happiness."
I swallowed past the knot in my throat, and my eyes flicked to the closet - the one that hid thousands of dollars of baby gear.
"It's gone," Cameron said. "Not gone gone, but put away. This room is yours again, Charlie. Truly yours. I just … I hope you like it." He chuckled then. "When it's all done, of course."
I laughed a little, too, leaning into his chest to let him hold me.
I didn't know how to feel in that moment.
Happiness and thankfulness were the first two emotions I grasped. It was just like Cameron to do something so thoughtful, something so selfless, just to see me smile. He never missed work, and he'd planned a day off just so he could redo my library and make it a place I would love again.
I squeezed him harder.
There was another part of me, perhaps the largest part, that felt relieved. I hadn't found another woman in our bed or in our shower. It wasn't that I expected to, not before I walked in to the scene I had, but I realized in that moment that those scars still existed, too. The bruises were still tender.
Then, there was love and adoration. This was Cameron's MO, it was how he always showed his love. He didn't sit me down and tell me I was beautiful, or reminisce on times past. He used his hands to show me, he used his actions. It was so thoughtful, bringing my library back to life, so much so that I nearly collapsed in his arms at the emotions surging through me.
///
But underneath that happiness, underneath that appreciation, I was angry.
I would never tell him that, would never reveal that little part of me that flared red, and I hated that it was true. I wished I didn't feel it, that stab of betrayal and disappointment, but it was just as real as the love and thankfulness.
The truth was that I wished he would have asked me, first.
I didn't want to hide our son's furniture and clothes away. I didn't want to pretend like it never happened, like they never happened. And though the furniture had changed and the books sat on different shelves, it was still a room meant to be a nursery.
It was still a reminder of what we'd lost, what we'd never spoken of again.
I stamped that anger and sadness down with a firm foot, reminding myself that this was Cameron showing me his love. It was him coming back to me, slowly but surely. That was what mattered. I would sit right on top of that anger and sadness as I read my books in that hammock every weekend, just to show Cameron how much I appreciated the gesture - how much I appreciated him.
"Thank you," I whispered finally as he pressed a kiss to my forehead. I looked up at him then, my husband, the man I would spend forever with. "It's beautiful."
"I'm glad you like it."
He paused, his eyes searching mine. And I knew he wanted to ask me if I was okay, that he wanted to know why my brain went where it did when I opened our front door just minutes before. Why had I assumed there was someone here who shouldn't be? But we both knew the answer.
I saw apologies right beside those questions in his eyes, and I only smiled to answer them, leaning my head against his chest again.
Cameron held me for a moment as my eyes took in the new shelves and surroundings. Then, he patted my butt playfully, finally letting me go.
"I'm going to hop in the shower, if you want to get ready, too. Then I'll drop you off at your mom's on my way to the game?"
My eyes were stuck on the book that stood out among the classics Cameron had arranged for me. Anna Karenina. She was too worn next to my other classics, those spines so gently handled and perfectly kept. I'd have to move her again.
I blinked.
"Yes, I'd love that."
"Be right out."
Cameron kissed my hair once more before he disappeared, and a few seconds later, I heard the shower running in the other room. But I just stood and stared at the half-finished library, at all my familiar books shelved in a completely unfamiliar room.
I finally stepped inside, fingers reaching for Tolstoy first. I ran them over the spine, taking in the feel of the brown cloth before I pulled it from its place. I sat it on the table next to the hammock, deciding I would read it over the weekend. It would be my first read - an old book in a new library.
I was careful not to step on any tools or bolts as I made my way out of the room. Before I shut the door, I cast one last glance over my shoulder at the closet - the one that was empty now.
It would never be empty to me.
Later that night, I found myself surrounded by red and pink everything.
Each year, my parents hosted a Valentine's Day fundraiser. It was a formal dinner with dancing and a silent auction held at the country club in their development. Mom had been the host of it since before I was born, and every year she somehow seemed to outdo herself.
Really, it was Mom who took on most of it. Dad would just show up the night of the event, run the microphone for the welcome and the farewell, and cruise the room talking to all of the guests. But Mom was in charge of getting everything in order for the event - from the invitations to the auction items.
I still remembered when she used to plan the menu and cook with the other chefs for the event. Somewhere down the line, the fundraiser became too large, and she eventually had to start delegating.
Delegating, I had found over the years, was very difficult for my mother to do.
"Make sure the ribbon ties around this way," she said to me, demonstrating as she spoke. "And tucks in here, and then you'll want the flowers to sit exactly like this, okay? And for any of them that need cellophane, make sure it's not bunched up in a way that the guests won't be able to see what's inside."
"Mom."
"And if you have any questions, just flag me down. I'm serious. I have to make some phone calls but I'm around." She chewed her lip. "Oh gosh, should I just stay and help with this?"
"Mom," I said again, grabbing her upper arms with a smile. It was like grabbing a slightly older version of myself. She was practically a mirror. "I've got this, okay? I think I can handle wrapping up the donated items for the auction."
///
Her brows bent together before she finally released her lip with a sigh. "Oh, I know you're right. You've been my best little helper all your life."
"And I've been a part of this auction since I could walk," I reminded her. "I've got this. Go do whatever it is you need to do."
"Okay. But if you need me-"
"I won't. Go. And Mom?"
She was chewing her lip again.
"The fundraiser will be wonderful, just like it always is. Stop worrying. You're an amazing hostess."
At that, she smiled, rubbing my hand over her arm just as her cell phone rang. She answered it with a wink in my direction before flurrying off down the hall.
I shook my head, crossing my arms over my chest as I took in the two long tables piled high with donations that I needed to sort into baskets to be bid on.
"This thing just gets bigger every year, doesn't it?"
I wished there was a warning signal for when Reese was around me, wished my brain could somehow alert me before my body had the chance to react. But as it was, he'd just slid up right beside me, silently and without warning, and now all the hairs on my arms were standing tall. A chill swept through me, so quickly I wondered if I even really felt it.
That used to happen when we were younger, that buzz of electricity, especially when I'd hear the door open from his parents' kitchen late at night. I'd sit there, pretending that I was still reading my book, that I hadn't heard him come in. But then he'd be there, in the kitchen with me, messing up my braids with a rub of his hand and cracking open one of his dad's beers.
And then, just like I'd secretly hoped all night, we'd end up at his piano.
"It is my mother," I reminded him. "Can't imagine her ever not wanting to outdo herself."
"I remember when it was just ten items to bid on," Reese said, his eyes surveying the tables. I took a moment to look at him then, to take in his long hair, his tired eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks.
"Me, too."
Reese shook his head with a lazy smile, tucking his hands in his pockets. Then, he looked at me.
I never knew so much could be said with a look.
Sure, I was in tune with Cameron, or at least, I had been. We could share a look and communicate a hundred different things. But with Reese, there were no words behind the gaze. There were feelings. There was heat, and concern - want and denial. And I was like a moth drawn to that flame, wanting so badly to see inside it, to figure out how it burns, to live within its warmth.