all those times we had spent together when we should have been doing something else.
I nod past her at the painting, reveling in the coconut that wafts off her hair and across my nostrils like a summer breeze. “The first person you see in the painting, what do you think about?”
She considers my face for a beat before spinning around and moving back to the Monet. I edge a little closer, too, wanting to smell her perfume, taste it, memorize it because I know what today could mean for a thirty-year-old man who feels like life is almost over.
I watch her left hand rise, and she points to the largest figure in the impressionist painting. “That’s the first person I see.”
“He’s the closest,” I admit. “But what do you think when you see him?”
She takes a second or two before answering. “He’s alone.”
“And the next person you see?”
She motions to the second closest figure, a little to the left of the first one, the one I originally had in mind. “Alone.”
I reach down for her right hand and point to the right side of the painting. “Yet these people closer to the train, we see tons of them.” I bring my lips within inches of her ear. “Nobody wants to arrive at their destination only to be greeted by loneliness, do they?”
She says nothing. I trace my hand from her fingers, all the way up her arm, to her slender shoulder, then flip my hand around so the back of my fingers slide up her neck and circle around her ear.
“Cameron,” she breathes, tilting her neck so subtly that anyone else probably would not have even noticed. I see the vein that betrays all of her emotions and want to lick it, but I keep my mouth (and tongue) to myself. Not part of the plan.
“Look at me,” I tell her instead, swallowing a deep gulp to regain my composure. “My fucking eyes, Hope. Tell me what you see in my eyes.”
She refuses to turn around, even with the little nudge of encouragement from my hand that has fallen back down to her shoulder. Instead, Hope shakes her head.
“I believe…” I say, referring to her poem.
“Stop it, Cameron,” she whispers.
So I stop. I move my attention back to the painting, my eyes catching on the smoke rising from the train’s funnel. Each stroke points me to the next puff of smoke from another steam engine, the one pulling into the station. And this makes me think about something I have never considered before.
I take a step backward, reaching down to Hope’s hand to lure her away from the Monet. This was the only reason I wanted to bring her here—to see this painting. There is a reason for that, and she knows it.
“Who’s waiting for those people, the ones on that other train, Hope?” I ask. There is nobody waiting on that platform.
Abruptly, she spins around and walks past me, deeper into the museum. “I’m done here, Cameron.”
} i {
Three Years Ago…
Chapter 25
I woke Saturday morning to the softness of lips kissing my eyelids. And she whispered, “Wake up, sunflower.” More kisses, and then, “It’s Saturday.” And then reality slowly set in.
The voice didn’t belong to Hope, though; it belonged to Riley. Only Hope called me sunflower. But she wasn’t the first to kiss my eyelids as a way to wake me up, and she knew that.
Snapping awake, I scooted away from her kind and gentle lips, startling her. She stepped out of bed, wearing nothing but her white slip and flowing blonde hair.
“Cam, what’s wrong?” She wasn’t exactly glaring at me, but the look on her face suggested she was not impressed. At all.
Fuck. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and rolled onto my side. I patted the empty space in bed, inviting her back.
“How late were you out last night?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered, but I knew. Of course I knew. “Come lay with me.”
Riley considered it, but not for long. She shook her head. “I’m going to have a shower. I have to go back into the
I nod past her at the painting, reveling in the coconut that wafts off her hair and across my nostrils like a summer breeze. “The first person you see in the painting, what do you think about?”
She considers my face for a beat before spinning around and moving back to the Monet. I edge a little closer, too, wanting to smell her perfume, taste it, memorize it because I know what today could mean for a thirty-year-old man who feels like life is almost over.
I watch her left hand rise, and she points to the largest figure in the impressionist painting. “That’s the first person I see.”
“He’s the closest,” I admit. “But what do you think when you see him?”
She takes a second or two before answering. “He’s alone.”
“And the next person you see?”
She motions to the second closest figure, a little to the left of the first one, the one I originally had in mind. “Alone.”
I reach down for her right hand and point to the right side of the painting. “Yet these people closer to the train, we see tons of them.” I bring my lips within inches of her ear. “Nobody wants to arrive at their destination only to be greeted by loneliness, do they?”
She says nothing. I trace my hand from her fingers, all the way up her arm, to her slender shoulder, then flip my hand around so the back of my fingers slide up her neck and circle around her ear.
“Cameron,” she breathes, tilting her neck so subtly that anyone else probably would not have even noticed. I see the vein that betrays all of her emotions and want to lick it, but I keep my mouth (and tongue) to myself. Not part of the plan.
“Look at me,” I tell her instead, swallowing a deep gulp to regain my composure. “My fucking eyes, Hope. Tell me what you see in my eyes.”
She refuses to turn around, even with the little nudge of encouragement from my hand that has fallen back down to her shoulder. Instead, Hope shakes her head.
“I believe…” I say, referring to her poem.
“Stop it, Cameron,” she whispers.
So I stop. I move my attention back to the painting, my eyes catching on the smoke rising from the train’s funnel. Each stroke points me to the next puff of smoke from another steam engine, the one pulling into the station. And this makes me think about something I have never considered before.
I take a step backward, reaching down to Hope’s hand to lure her away from the Monet. This was the only reason I wanted to bring her here—to see this painting. There is a reason for that, and she knows it.
“Who’s waiting for those people, the ones on that other train, Hope?” I ask. There is nobody waiting on that platform.
Abruptly, she spins around and walks past me, deeper into the museum. “I’m done here, Cameron.”
} i {
Three Years Ago…
Chapter 25
I woke Saturday morning to the softness of lips kissing my eyelids. And she whispered, “Wake up, sunflower.” More kisses, and then, “It’s Saturday.” And then reality slowly set in.
The voice didn’t belong to Hope, though; it belonged to Riley. Only Hope called me sunflower. But she wasn’t the first to kiss my eyelids as a way to wake me up, and she knew that.
Snapping awake, I scooted away from her kind and gentle lips, startling her. She stepped out of bed, wearing nothing but her white slip and flowing blonde hair.
“Cam, what’s wrong?” She wasn’t exactly glaring at me, but the look on her face suggested she was not impressed. At all.
Fuck. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and rolled onto my side. I patted the empty space in bed, inviting her back.
“How late were you out last night?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered, but I knew. Of course I knew. “Come lay with me.”
Riley considered it, but not for long. She shook her head. “I’m going to have a shower. I have to go back into the
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