Chapter 43: Chapter 42: Hippie Chics Can't Go Home Again

Time to see how Ash is doing in her role as Cam's caretaker.

The song, I Loved You First by Joan, is how Cam feels in this chapter, not so much Ashlynn...

Ashlynn

Within just a few hours, it's like my life has completely changed.

Once again.

Cameron is very sick and soon, I am holding my breath, dying with each of his heaves as I sit on the side of the bathtub. It seems I can only breathe in his moments of relief. He's stopped asking me to go away. I can't. He seems so urgently ill, I'm afraid he might pass out and choke on his own vomit. So I just abide with him across the room because I know from years of experiences—from football-related concussions and occasional hangovers and a bout of the flu I nursed him through his freshman year of college—that when Cam is sick like this, he can't bear to be touched.

Mostly I leave him alone, only intervening with a fresh cloth or some water to rinse his mouth when he seems like he has a few minutes of recovery. The heaving returns in spurts for hours. He's unwilling to move back to the bed, so my mom brings a couple of old quilts and I try to make him more comfortable as he alternately lies on the bathroom floor and grasps the toilet.

Occasionally, he lies quietly for ten, maybe fifteen minutes at a time. I've been receiving texts from Leed, Kat, Mac, and Trace all evening, and in these moments where I think Cam is sleeping, I read them and reply.

Leed's are sweet, funny, encouraging and inquiring, but not very serious, which I really appreciate. Leed is the most instinctual person I've ever met, and he knows perfectly how to act in this situation where no one could possibly know how to behave. He's supporting me and loving me with warm words, not complaining about our separation or over-worrying about my health or about the status of our relationship.

But apparently he's communicated with the whole gang about Cam's situation, and their responses are exactly the opposite.

Kat's paragraphs of texts are punctuated with emoji's of horror and disbelief and hearts and praying hands and warnings not to fall in pity-love with Cam because even though Cam is super nice and wonderful, Leed is both way sexier and much more fun. She warns me to think of her, because she can not handle dealing with Leed on the rebound. Plus, she really needs me to stay focused on our complete decimation of these two rock stars so that we can have a double wedding some day.

I reply to my sister than I'm glad she understands her needs and her wedding fantasies are paramount in this situation, and she responds:

STFU.

Tell Cam I love him.

But do not hug him for me.

Do not hug him at all.

Trace's texts demand that I call him as soon as I get a chance, but I'm planning to ignore that. I don't feel like giving Trace the opportunity to try to talk me out of taking care of Cam, which is exactly what I know he will do. Trace does not find forgiveness easily—not for his own father and not for Cam, whom he will tell me Cam abandoned me when I needed him most. But this is exactly why I don't want to talk to Trace. I don't want to start old fights, and I'm resolved in what I'm going to do anyway.

Adam sends a group text to Mac and I that is simple and straight to the point:

Adam:

All Heartley's are praying for Cam.

I text back:

Thank you for the prayers.

Mac:

Ash, if you break my brother's heart I will fucking kill you.

I respond with:

Ha-ha.

Mac responds immediately:

Not joking. Not at all.

Shortly after Mac texts, Cam begins to shiver uncontrollably. I abandon my post on the edge of the bathtub to find blankets to cover him with.

Eventually some time in the late evening, he collapses flat on his back on the bathroom floor, shivering, flinging a hand over his eyes to shield them from the bright vanity lights and falls asleep on the bathroom floor. After about thirty minutes, I have hope that his dry heaving is over for the night, and between my dad and I, we manage to get him back into bed. I run loads of laundry and nap on the sofa in the guest suite, which I'm already thinking of as Cam's room.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Cam rouses for water. I immediately go to his bedside.

"Go to bed," he croaks. "I mean it."

I ignore him. "You're burning up," I murmur.

"Fever is a symptom of lymphoma. I've had a low grade fever for weeks," he murmurs.

"This doesn't feel low-grade." I go to fetch the thermometer. His fever is borderline high.

He continues to insist it's a symptom of his cancer and not a concern. I am worried about it.

He works in a hospital. He just finished a rotation in infectious diseases, right before his own chemotherapy began, and his immune system hasn't been working properly for months, because he's got cancer of the immune system. Not to mention, he just had surgery to remove a lymph node under his arm. I haven't seen his incision yet—because he's insisting he dressed it himself earlier and it doesn't need to be changed, but it's possible it could be infected. Or the port installed at his clavicle for his chemo.He can't know for sure that he doesn't have a secondary illness.

"Who's the doctor, here?" he grumbles when I point all of these things out.

"Not you," I tell him and call his oncologist's answering service.

His doctor's office calls me back first thing in the morning and tells me to take him to the lab for bloodwork and then over to the office for wound and port care.

He's still nauseous, but his dry-heaving has subsided for now. He grimaces at me as I insist on staying in the bathroom during his shower. He steps into the large tiled stall in his boxers, ripping the curtain closed resentfully and tossing them over the top some seconds later.

"It's true what they say, about doctors making the worst patients," I sing song to him, as I hang up his button down shirt to steam.

When he doesn't answer me, I call out to him. "Cam?"

"Shit." There's no heat in the curse, only weariness.

I peak around the curtain to check on him. He's sitting on the seat at the back of the large shower, head bowed in hands.

"I just...I can't...I feel like I'm going to fall down."

Silently, I strip off my leggings and enter the shower in my long t-shirt and panties, gently taking the washcloth from him and soaping it. I bathe him, not super-thoroughly but good enough. I wash his hair. I pull the shower sprayer from its holster. As I tip his head back to rinse his hair,he sways a little, and his hands come to my hips to steady himself. He's only touching me through my dark wet t-shirt but I unconsciously twist my left side away, breaking the contact. I cover by making as if to rinse his back, but really, I couldn't bear his fingers so close to my scars.

With Leed, in the last few days, I haven't been self-conscious of my scars once. They just are, and there has been no need for Leed and I to even mention them. But now, the idea of Cam feeling them or god forbid, seeing them, makes my heart pound with severe anxiety. Cam is not like Leed. Even though it was hard for me to explain my scars to Leed, I never felt like he would judge me for becoming a submissive, or for completing the cutting test my dom gave me. I knew Leed would understand how desperate I was, and I knew Leed was strong enough to absorb the shock of the story. I could never explain to Cam the things I've been through—the ones I chose or the ones I didn't choose. He's too...good. He's never lived in the world I've been in. I'm not sure the horror or pity he would feel for me could ever fade.

Cam misreads my movement and holds his hands up. "Sorry, sorry." He grips the edge of the seat instead.

"No need to be sorry. It's just...old habits," I say softly.

"Yeah," he says, keeping his eyes closed as I rinse him.

———————

"I can't believe I let my own surgical incision get infected. Some doctor I am," he says, two hours later as I'm maneuvering his muscle car back toward our neighborhood. A white prescription bag with antibiotics sits in the console between us.

"You can't reach the surgical sight, Cam. Of course you can't clean it properly. I'll do it for you from now—" I stop talking, because I'm grinding his gears as I make a right turn.

"Shoot! Sorry." I wince, engaging the clutch and trying again for second gear.

"No worries. It's only an eighty thousand dollar high performance sports machine." I glance over at him. He's making no expression at the cringe-worthy sounds—his eyes are closed, and he's slightly reclined in the seat. His voice is dry, but that's just from how awful he feels.

I really don't think he gives a shit about the gears right now, but just in case, I apologize again. "I really am sorry. I have no business driving this car..." I'm coasting, losing momentum after the turn, still frantically trying to find second gear. I've never driven a manual transmission.

"I'm only teasing you, Laney," he places his hand over mine on the gear shifter. "You got the clutch in?"

"Yeah."

He helps me ease into gear. He keeps his hand on mine, as we wind up to third. And fourth. In our residential neighborhood, I don't need fifth gear, but his hands remains, his fingers laced in-between mine.

"Thanks, I think I've got it now."

It seems like he reluctantly moves his hand away.

Oh boy. This might be trickier than I thought.

"Cam..."

He swings his head and looks at me with a bleak smile. "I know. I'm sorry for touching you. I know you're with Lawson, and I respect that. I'm not exactly trying to start something," he laughs weakly. "I guess touching you just...makes your recovery real, to me. I can feel that you are really okay. It makes everything...even this...better."

I swallow heavily, because I don't exactly know what to say to that. It's pretty hard to deny a sick loved one the comfort of a held hand or a steadying embrace, but I don't want things to get confusing. As I come to a stop sign, the car splutters and dies and I realize I forgot to engage the clutch.

"Oh fuck," I say in exasperation.

He gives a raspy laugh. "Okay, you're not exactly the same old Ashlynn...but a potty mouth is really cute on you."

I manage to get the car started again but as I wind up, I can't find second gear. Again. "Need some help?" he says lightly, his eyes closed again.

Just then, my phone rings in the console. Leed's picture comes up. "You shift. I'll answer," I beam at Cameron and he chuckles wearily. I put Leed on speakerphone, because it's illegal in Georgia to use a handheld unit while driving.

"Hey, you," I purr to my obsession.

"Hey Hotness," Leed purrs right back. "Whatchya doin'?"

"Destroying Cam's transmission," I confess. "I had to take him to the doctor...he's here with me in the car..."

"Yeah?" Leed's voice takes on a slightly warier tone. "How ya feeling, man?"

"To be honest, about five time worse than I expected," Cam says stoically. "Thanks for being cool about Ashlynn sticking around. I'm pretty...busted, right now."

"Well, Ashlynn has amazing mom skills. She's great when my kid is sick. I'm sure she'll nurse you right up," Leed's voice is just a little too chipper. I can tell he's forcing it.

"Clutch in," Cam instructs and I dutifully press the pedal as he shifts to third. "Ease it out."

Leed harumphs at the way Cam is giving me instructions, but his voice is still casual. "Yeah, I figured you'd be driving around that hot-rod today. I don't like the idea of you driving a race car in rush hour Atlanta traffic. I've seen the way you drive around Calabasas, you've got a lead foot."

"More like a club foot, in this damn thing," I joke.

It's weird to hear Leed and Cam laugh in stereo—Leed all adorably sexy and Cam hoarse and pitiful.

"You can practice all you want on a stick when you come home."

"Leed!" I hiss. "Filter."

"Now, baby, that one's on you. I meant in the Ferrari."

"Ooooooohhhh!" I say, giggling in embarrassment. Cameron shakes his head and looks out the window.

"Right now...though...why don't you let me get you a driver?"

Ah. I get it. Leed is not concerned about my lead foot—that I don't have because I'm a pretty conservative driver. He's concerned about me driving on the fast-paced Atlanta interstates and blacking out. Like the wreck I had last summer. Like I blacked out that first night in Nashville at Mac's slumber party.

"Leed, I'm okay. I slept. I ate. I did yoga." Sort of. I slept maybe six hours. I ate a granola bar. I did do forty-five minutes of yoga this morning, though. "I'm okay," I repeat.

Silence. "Okay. I hear ya. But at least you should be driving something safer."

"It's safe," Cam objects. "It has a five star safety rating."

"Nothing that makes a quarter mile in nine seconds is safe. Besides, if she's not comfortable with the manual transmission, that's definitely a distraction."

"Yeah, I would rather have an automatic. I'll rent something tomorrow." I promise Leed.

"Cool," he says. "I'm on way to pick up Ollie. Facetime us later, if you have a chance. The little man will be missing you."

"I'll be missing him, too," I assure him.

"And his dad?" Leed prompts.

Ohhhh, Lion. He's so wonderful in so many ways, but so territorial. I don't mind his assertiveness between the two of us—in fact in turns me on—but I feel bad for Cam, Leed rubbing our relationship in his face like this.

"Of course," I say quietly, but before I can say more, Cam sits up rigidly.

"Ash, stop the car," he says urgently.

I manage to get the clutch in and the car mostly stopped before Cam is puking out the open door in front of Old Man Donner's driveway. Old Man Donner is the meanest person in the whole neighborhood and suddenly I don't feel like a grown women caring for my friend in the midst of his serious medical crisis. I feel fifteen and panicky like Cam and I are cutting class and day drinking. I'm sure Donner is going to come out his door and yell at us.

I throw open my door, reaching for the trash bag I brought just for this. Plus a bottle of water so that I can splash the vomit off Donner's curb painted house numbers so the evil man won't complain to the HOA. Before I have two feet solid on the ground, the car starts to roll.

"Brake, brake, brake, " Cameron croaks as his leg drags and he vomits again.

"Shit, shit, shit," I yell, diving back in and pulling the emergency brake.

"What the hell is happening?" Leed is growling.

"Nothing, nothing! Cam is getting sick, I gotta go!" I say, punching the end button.

———————————

After Cam's late morning round of vomiting subsides, he spends the rest of the day in bed, sleeping, and I learn what it must have been like for him, living in my darkened world after my accident. I take a short nap on the couch in his room, but then I spend most of my afternoon "studying"—reading everything I can on Cam's specific kind of cancer, as well as reading the entire American Cancer Society's Caregiver Resource Guide. My mom lets me know that some of the clothes I ordered and had overnighted have arrived, but I don't bother to open the packages.

I sit in the darkened room, listening to Cam breathe. Not a small amount of fear begins to creep into my soul. Cam seems perfectly confident that he's going to recover from this, and that the only worry is coping with the chemo itself. But...what if the doctors are wrong about his prognosis? Or what if he is just unlucky? What if he's in the seven percent that don't survive?

Being in Cam's presence again for less than twenty-four hours, I'm already gripped by feelings that are very confusing to me. I love Leed more than I have loved anyone...but the thought of Cam not existing? The thought of Cam suffering? The thought of Cam not having the wonderful life he planned with Michaela? Not having a successful career, a happy marriage, a family—everything he always wanted? I can't stand it. I want him to have every happiness he deserves.

I wonder what happened between him and Michaela. It's probably something like he said in LA—that they were unlucky and didn't match to residency programs in the same city, and neither of them were willing to sacrifice their careers. I guess, if they weren't willing to make the long distance work, it was probably not the right situation anyway.

Thinking of the right situation makes miss Leed terribly. Nothing has ever felt so right as the last few weeks with him, but it's almost scary how much I hate being apart from him. How easily he trusts in our undefined future and how I'm beginning to feel the ache for him after just a day of being apart. I creep out Cam's room and walk out to the front porch, settling in the swing as I place a Facetime call to Leed. Both he and Ollie fill my screen.

"Look, Ollie, there she is," Leed says, pointing Ollie's finger to his screen. "There's Ashy. Say hi," he waggles Ollie's hand for him, and Ollie coos and makes a happy sound.

"There's my handsome guy," I beam at him.

Leed bounces Ollie. "She means me, but you're pretty cute too, kid."

"I meant Ollie. I miss you. I wish I were with you," I say softly.

"Still talking to him?"

"To both of you that time, but especially you," I assure him.

"We'll be together before you know it," Leed assures me. "How do you feel? Your energy okay?"

"I'm fine. I promise. I'm taking care of Cam, but my parents are totally pampering me. My dad brought home dinner, my mom is washing the clothes that I ordered. I took a nap. I have plenty of time for yoga."

"Did you find an acupuncturist?" Leed asks.

"Not yet, but I will."

"I know you will," he says lightly.

"Oh! How was Bodie?" I ask.

Leed gets a shit-eating grin on his face. "Bodie is...doing better than expected. I think Marley is going to be good for him."

I bite my lip. "Do you mean, good for him in a therapist kind of way, or in a s-e-x kind of way?"

He shrugs. "First, it's totally adorable that you are spelling the word sex in front of a four month old. But to answer your question...both, I think. It's not like the two are mutually exclusive, Sunshine."

I give him my school-marm stare. "Yes, Leed. The two are the very definition of mutually exclusive. Therapists don't sleep with their clients."

Leed looks at me with patience. "Well, she's not his therapist, she's just a therapist. She made him get a separate drug counselor, and right now she's his live-in companion. Just because you and Trace played that situation as platonic...doesn't mean most hotties in their sexual prime can live together and not seek...companionship in the sheets," he winks at me.

"Speaking of that, how's Ollie's new nanny?" I ask with a devilish squint.

His eyes go completely round, realizing he completely walked into that. "Miranda? Oh...she's...really old. Like grandma old. And she...smells weird. Like a...really...old...grandma," he finishes lamely.

"You are such a bad liar," I laugh. "Tam mentioned she's twenty and an aspiring actress." There's a really tiny but awful part of me that thinks Tamara hired Miranda because she's blond, boho, younger than me...and also Leed's fangirl type. Like Tam is making the point to me that I'm just one of hundreds like Miranda, and she is the exotic stand-out in his life.

"Oh? I guess she's a character actor. One that plays a particular type of part? She's definitely got a grandma vibe going," he picks Ollie up. "Right, Ollie? She's nowhere near as sunny and yummy as our Ashy, is she?" he zerberts Ollie's neck and Ollie squeals in delight. Leed's expression goes soft as I beam at Ollie.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," I flirt with him.

"My magic hands will do that too, but if you need to hear it one more time right now...I love you and I'm more wildly attracted to you than I have ever been to anyone. I will be faithful to you. I got no eyes for Miranda or any other girl. No matter how long you are there, wiping Dr. Puke-Face's chin..."

"I know, Leed. I'm just teasing," I tell him, and I do know.

A pearlescent white Mercedes SUV rolls into the driveway, followed by a Mercedes sedan that remains at the curb. A professional twenty-something guy in slacks gets out of the SUV.

"Hold on, someone's here," I say to Leed as the guy waves at me.

"I'm looking for Ms. Ballard?"

My eyes cut to the screen. Leed is lifting his eyes heavenward—very theatrically—like he's trying to play innocent.

"Yes, that's me--Ashlynn." I say with a shy smile.

"TJ Turner, sales manager at Peachtree Luxury Vehicles." He shakes my hand and pulls a large bouquet of sunflowers from the back seat of the Mercedes. They are decorated with a black and white checkered ribbon, around which is tied a keyless entry fob. He hands me the bouquet. "From Mr. Lawson. Congratulations on your new vehicle." He hands me his card. "Call me if you have any questions, if you need anything. It was a pleasure doing business with Mr. Lawson."

I flip the screen around so that the guy can see Leed on my phone and his professional demeanor relaxes. "Dawg! Didn't see you there!"

"Thanks for hooking this up so fast, man," Leed tells him. "Question...does my girl look happy or irritated about the ride?"

TJ looks at me, I'm smiling at the car, not because I wanted or expected it, but because Leed is so thoughtful. "She looks...real pleased."

"Excellent. Thanks again, man."

"No problem. I'll let y'all get back to it," TJ smiles and strolls away to the waiting sedan.

"Thank you," I say, grinning down at the flowers, then at Leed. "It's a very beautiful vehicle, and you are very thoughtful. But I absolutely don't expect you to buy me extravagant gifts, Leed. I have money."

"I know. I have money. You have money. It's not about that. I just wanted to save you the trouble of adding 'rent a car' to your to-do list. Plus, I'm sort of...protective...and I wanted you ensconced in safety of my choosing."

My dad, having seen the vehicles arrive, has come out onto the porch. He heard what Leed said and glances down at my phone. "He's right. That GLE is one of safest midsize SUV's going."

"Yep," He bounces Ollie with one hand. "I have one here for driving around the little guy. Ash has driven it a few times. She should be comfortable in it."

My dad nods. His face softens as he watches Ollie, swatting at Leed as he makes funny faces at him. "That's a good-looking kid, Lawson. Congratulations, by the way."

"He's gonna be a heartbreaker," I tell my dad, beaming at Ollie.

He puts his arm around me and says softly into my hair, "That's what I'm afraid of."

——————

Three days later, Cameron is feeling somewhat better—lack of energy and lack of appetite are his main problems now. He's tired of sleeping all time and going stir-crazy. We are in the basement media room with pillows, blankets and a very light dinner, binging Downton Abbey, because it was a little before my time and I missed the original hoopla but always wanted to watch it.

"Cancer is better than this," Cameron jokes during the sixth episode, reaching across me for the remote.

"Shut-up, it's so good!" I squeal, holding the remote out of his reach. "I love Mary."

"The mean one?"

"She's not mean. She hides her vulnerability under a tough facade. Like Mac," then realizing Cam doesn't know Mac, I offer an alternative. "Like Trace."

"I don't want to talk about your ex-husband. I might get pissed off," Cam mumbles. "Dude spent his whole life giving you a hard time, then took you to Vegas and put a ring on it? Like that was ever gonna work? Let's just watch the show."

"Hey," I nudge his shoulder, as I press pause. "I don't know if you are clued into all the details, but...we weren't really married. I mean, not like that. It was strictly platonic. The only reason we got married is so that he would be my next of kin and my parents couldn't gain a conservatorship and put me in a facility against me will."

He gives me a sharp look. "I didn't know. I mean, I could tell from the times you showed up at Emory that things had gone bad between you, but I thought it started out...real. Your parents committing you, though? That doesn't sound right. They would never have done that."

I shrug. "I saw the paperwork. My dad was at least considering it."

Cam collapses against the couch and looks up at the ceiling. "Because I wasn't here to take care of you anymore. Because it was too much...your pain, your habit, and your mom's lupus and Kat's depression..."

"It was not your fault, Cam. You were twenty-two years old. You had a future. No one, including me, knew if I still had one. I don't blame you for leaving like you did."

The room is perfectly quiet, except for the quiet rustle of the leather as try to move away a little, because I realize suddenly that we are sitting a little too close after his remote grab. He puts a hand on my forearm, stilling me.

"I...I came back, you know." He's still looking at the ceiling.

A strange sensation percolates through my chest.

"What?"

"I couldn't think of anything but you, hurting, and how much I loved you, and how I had failed you. Leaving you like that...it was the biggest, most cowardly mistake I ever made. I was so messed up over it I was failing my first semester of med school. So I came back. With a plan. I was going to quit med school, go to work for my dad's company—something not that demanding, so that I had time to devote to your care—and...I was determined to get you out of bed, on your feet, even if it was high. I was gonna get you to choose a white dress,  a place to get married, and a home for us.  I was gonna get you house-hunting, wedding planning.  I was sure getting you out of this house, giving you something to do instead of focusing on your headaches, giving you hope for our future, was all you really needed to come back to yourself. Come back to me. I figured we could work on the addiction problem after the wedding, together, as husband and wife. Like you did with Trace."

I stare at him, not sure if I'm amazed or insulted.  It's taken a helluva lot more work than picking a white dress to resolve my pain, but still, Cameron's heart was in the right place, and the idea that he would have taken that leap of faith for me, when I was so sick...I don't know how to feel. "You're...you're kidding."

His eyes are warm, like liquid toffee. "I swear it's true. I came back...but..."

"I was already gone," I say softly.

He nods. After a long moment in which we stare at each other, he looks away. "Yeah. Your dad had private investigators looking for you. I told your dad what I was thinking, but he convinced me to go back to med school instead. He told me, if, one day you came back to yourself, came back to us, you wouldn't want me to have thrown away my med school career like that. He told me to go be a doctor, go become the man his daughter would need one day, and that he would find you and help you. And that when we got you back, and got you stable, he would be one hundred percent behind us getting married sooner than we had originally planned, if it was what you wanted, and that he would help us in anyway he could, but that I needed to stay in med school, or I would regret it, and resent you one day.

"So I went back to school and somehow managed to turn my grades around. Two months later he called me and told me that he had found you, but that everything was different. He told me...you were better. He said you were getting clean. He said that you and Trace were married. In love and happily married." He's watching my face carefully, trying to comprehend what is truth and what is not.

"It wasn't like that," I whisper. "Trace's ex-manager lied to my parents. He lied to Trace, too. We never knew he had misled my parents like that, not until last summer."

He makes a bitter, snorting sound. "I should have known. I actually didn't believe it at first—that you were in love with him," Cam says tolerantly. "Trace was always  a dick to you, and I thought you had way more self-respect than to fall for a douche who treated you like shit. But the more I thought about it...a lot of people have that love-hate thing that tips at some point. I could see it, you know? The energy finally spilling over into real...passion? I convinced myself he treated you like that because he wanted what he couldn't have, and that you always scolded him for the same reason. I got pretty pissed off thinking you two had been in love all along, and just fooling yourselves—and me."

"It wasn't like that," I say firmly. "It was all a lie perpetrated by Dawes. I mean, the marriage was legal, but fake in every other way. I had no romantic feelings like that for Trace. I was still..." I catch myself, stopping before I say something that's not really helpful in this situation.

"You were still in love with me back then?" he asks. When I don't answer, but look down at the remote, he lays his head back on the couch again. "But not anymore?" he probes gently. "You love him? You are in love with Leed?"

"Yes. I'm in love with Leed. Very much in love with him,"  I say softly, but firmly, still playing with the remote.

The room is so quiet, I can hear Cam breathing. It sounds...forced, harsh-- like he's reminding himself of the need of oxygen. Or like he's a wounded animal.

Finally, I feel like I have to say something, anything, to replace  my words that stabbed him. "I know this is a little confusing right now...you being in a very vulnerable place, us being together. But Cam...you found love again, too. Is there any chance maybe you and Michaela will work things out?"

He rubs a hand over his face, shakes his head. "I made a terrible mistake leaving you, but I really fucked up with Michaela, too. After your dad told me about you and Trace, I went through a very reckless phase. It didn't last very long, but for a few months  it was a different girl every night. I kept hitting the bars, bringing home the girls, even though it absolutely...hollowed me out. The sex was hot, I got a real technical education, but I felt like shit,  waking up with strangers. Or even worse, leaving right after. I guess I'm not cut out for the rock star lifestyle," he smiles bitterly. "Then I met Michaela in a study group and...well, it was easy with her. She was going through the exact same things as me in our program. We fell into a rhythm. Still, I shouldn't have—" he catches himself, blowing out an explosive breath, stopping himself in the same way I stopped my own words earlier.

"Shouldn't have taken her for granted?" I ask hopefully.

He stares into space. "That's not what I was going to say. I was going to say I should never have proposed to her in the first place. I broke it off  when I got back from LA.  It was a blindside. She's understandably very upset."

"Why did you break your engagement?" I whisper. I want him to say it was because of work pressures, or different goals, or maybe even because they realized they rushed in and they just weren't right.

His gaze turns on me, his warm brown full of tenderness. "Why do you think, Sweetheart?"

Tears spill down my cheeks. "Don't...okay? I want to be here for you, but I can't process that. Just...don't go there."

He nods agreeably, patting my leg, taking the remote from me. "Okay. Let's just watch this stupid show. Maybe I'll figure out how they do that whole British stiff-upper lip thing..."

My eyes slip tears through the rest of the show, and Cam just pats my leg now and then to let me know he doesn't mind.

This is a very hard situation for Ashlynn.  She has a loving, giving heart, and she does still love Cam though she madly in love with Leed, and she wants to be there for him. I think she's beginning to realize that Cam may not have been honest with himself when he said he respected the fact that she's with Leed. I wonder how much of Cam's "quiet play" for her affection she can take before something has to give?